The Boy Next Door (5 page)

“So are you going to blow out the candles?” Jason asks me. “In another two minutes, you’re going to have a wax cake.”

“Right,” I say, sliding into the chair next to the table.

“Don’t forget to make a wish,” he says.

A wish. I close my eyes and wish for the most clichéd thing a 32-year-old woman could possibly wish for, something I would never admit, even to Jason: I wish to get married by my next birthday.

Three

As promised, Larry calls me. I’d been half hoping he wouldn’t, but that would have made me feel totally awful about myself. If a guy like Larry won’t even call me back, what does that say about me? Anyway, he called me and sounded enthusiastic, and before I could stop myself, I was agreeing to a Friday night date.

I’m embarrassed to admit I kind of put a lot of thought into what to wear for the date. The thing is, I’ve always been pretty. I don’t mean that in a stuck-up way, it’s just a fact. And at 32, I think I still look good. I don’t look old. Okay, they don’t card me at bars anymore, but I think I could easily pass for mid-twenties. But when I went to my ten-year college reunion recently, there were lots of girls there from my class who looked like they were forty. The ones with three or four kids, who’d been married since age 22. Let me tell you, if you want to stay young looking, don’t get married, and don’t have kids.

A few years ago, I might have felt smug about my wrinkled classmates, but I don’t anymore. I was one of the prettiest girls in my class, and it just doesn’t make sense to me that practically everyone is married except me. I mean, there were girls that nobody would touch with a fifty-foot pole and even
 
those
 
girls got married. I don’t get it. Seriously. People think I’m picky, but it’s not like I’ve turned down any marriage proposals.

The only thing I can think of is that I’m picking the wrong guys. I’m picking the good-looking, successful guys who are commitment-phobes and jerks. I need to pick nice, boring guys. Like Larry.

So when Larry picks me up at my apartment on Friday night, I’m wearing an eye-popping, slinky red dress and red fuck-me pumps. Not that I intend to let Larry fuck me tonight, but I want him to want to.

I meet Larry downstairs because he says he’s got a cab waiting. When he sees me, his eyes widen. “Wow, Tasha,” he says. “You look amazing.”

“Thank you,” I say graciously. Larry doesn’t look too bad himself, and I can tell he made an effort. He’s wearing a nice, green silk shirt, brown tie, and pressed slacks. I’m big on noticing shoes because I think they say a lot about a guy, and I can’t help but be impressed by Larry’s shoes. If I’m not mistaken, they’re Louis Vuitton and look like they cost a bundle.

Not that I’m surprised, but Larry didn’t bring anything for me. I always think it’s a nice touch when a guy shows up with a single rose or something like that. It doesn’t cost much, but it’s just a sign that he’s trying to make an effort. I told Jason this tip and he says most girls love it when he hands them the single rose.

Larry herds me into the cab, which takes us to a small Italian restaurant in the village. Like every other place in the village, it’s warm and tiny, with most tables seating only two people. Each table has a candle in the middle, which provides most of the light in the restaurant. They must save a fortune on electricity, but when I see the prices on the menu, I see they haven’t passed on any of the savings to the customers.

“Do you want to get wine for the table?” Larry asks me, when we’re seated.

“Yes, please,” I say, a little too eagerly.

When the red wine arrives, Larry and I have barely exchanged two words and I can’t gulp down my glass fast enough. “Good wine,” I comment, trying to smile.

Larry nods. “Delicious.”

“It’s, um, fruity.”

“I suppose,” Larry says, pulling on his tie to straighten it.

I fiddle with a button on my dress. At that moment, I hear my purse chirp. My cell phone. I reach into my purse and pull out my phone: it’s a message from Jason.
 
How’s date?

Of course I told him about the date. How could I not? We have a full-disclosure policy when it comes to first dates.

Usually I don’t text people at dinner, especially on a date, but I can’t help myself. I say to Larry, “Hang on, this is important.” Then I quickly text,
 
Disaster.

A few seconds later, Jason writes back,
 
Need call?

During dates, we provide each other with rescue calls if needed. If things are going really awful, Jason will call me with an emergency situation. Everyone does it. And God, I kind of need it right now. But something tells me to try to see this date through to the end, so I write back,
 
Not yet
.

Jason instantly replies,
 
OK, standing by.

Of course, I can’t help but wonder what Melissa is doing while Jason is texting me. It’s Friday night, after all. Presumably they have a standing Friday night date. There’s no way he’s home alone.

“I’ve never met anyone named Tasha before,” Larry says as I stuff my phone back into my purse.

“It’s short for Natasha,” I say.

“Natasha Moran,” he muses. “That’s interesting.”

“My mother is Russian and my father is Irish,” I explain. “I know, it’s a ridiculous name.”

“It’s not ridiculous,” Larry says. “Natasha is very pretty.”

“It sounds like I’m some Russian cartoon spy or something,” I say.

Larry looks at me blankly.

“You know,” I say. “Like Boris and Natasha.” Jason laughed his ass off the first time I made that joke. But he was about ten.

Larry is still looking at me like he has no idea what I’m talking about, so I add, “From
Rocky and Bullwinkle
?”

“Oh, yes,” Larry says, although I’m not convinced he isn’t just pretending to know what I mean to end this painful exchange. He then adds, “I was named after my great-grandfather. He died when my mother was pregnant.”

“Oh,” I say, because what the hell else do you say to that?

Over the next hour or so, I discover that Larry doesn’t eat red meat, that he likes documentaries, except ones in English (“Americans just don’t know how to make proper documentaries”), he has an appointment with a podiatrist next week for a toenail clipping, he doesn’t like mushrooms (and thus had to remove about two dozen mushrooms from his dish. Tell me, why order a dish with mushrooms if you hate mushrooms?), and his apartment probably needs to be repainted in the next year or so. I also discover that I can drink three quarters of a bottle of wine in an hour. (Actually, I already knew that. I am a woman who can hold my alcohol.)

It was a bad date. The old Tasha would have never considered going out with Larry Gold ever again. But the new Tasha (who is coincidentally the older Tasha) just blew a birthday wish saying she wanted to get married. And Larry has some redeeming qualities.

For example, I’ve been out with plenty of hot guys who wanted to split the check when we went out to eat. But when the check arrives, I make a reach for it and Larry gives me a shocked look. “Tasha,” he says, “it’s my treat, of course.”

“I could pay the tip,” I offer.

“Absolutely not,” Larry says as he plunks down his credit card.

And that bill—well, I know what our food cost and what the wine costs, and that bill was nothing to sneeze it. Larry paid it without a second thought. I guess, much like Jason, who pays bills the same way, money isn’t such a big deal to him.

Larry also hails us a cab and takes us right to my building, then lets the cab go so he can walk me to my door. Even though I tell him it’s practically impossible to find cabs in my neighborhood at night.

“I had a really good time tonight,” Larry says to me at my door. He hasn’t asked to come inside. Yet.

“Me too,” I lie, but it feels like less of a lie than it would have fifteen minutes earlier.

“Can I call you again?” he asks.

“Um, yes, of course,” I hear myself saying.

“Wonderful,” Larry says. He looks down, then back at the elevator, as if debating something. Finally, he says, “Would it be all right if I kissed you goodnight?”

I don’t think any guy in my entire life has ever asked permission to kiss me. The kind of guys I tend to date don’t ask permission. They just stick their tongue down your throat. I’m oddly touched by Larry’s consideration.

“All right,” I say.

And then Larry kisses me. On the lips. There’s no tongue, but it’s not a peck either. It doesn’t make my knees go weak, but it’s not horrible either. It’s an entirely pleasant kiss.

When our lips separate, he looks at me for a minute, then smiles and says, “It was a pleasure, Tasha.”

“Likewise,” I say, feeling a bit like a tool.

Then I go into my apartment and Larry goes home, presumably spending the better part of the next hour searching for a cab.

***

“See,” Jason says, “the second one really bothers me because when Biff comes back to 2015, shouldn’t he return to the
 
new
 
2015, instead of the old one? I think if this movie has done one thing, it’s convince me that time travel isn’t really possible because it’s just too damn confusing.”

“None of this bothered you when you were twelve,” I say.

“When I was twelve, I thought
The ‘Burbs
was the greatest movie ever made,” he points out. “People grow. Mature. Realize inconsistencies in time-travel movies.”

We’re sitting in Jason’s living room, roughly halfway through the
Back to the Future
trilogy. He’s transferred out of his wheelchair onto the couch next to me and we’re sharing a giant bag of buttered popcorn I just popped in the microwave.

“All right,” Jason says, grabbing the remote and stopping the movie. “Break time. I need to hear the, um, L.D. on last night’s date.”

Jason thinks he’s being funny. I grab a handful of popcorn and throw it at him. “Hey!” Jason cries, picking up kernels from his black leather couch. I have no idea what this couch cost, but it’s the most comfortable thing I’ve ever sat on so I think it was a bundle. “Easy on the popcorn flinging. We can have a food fight when we’re at your apartment, okay?”

“Okay,” I say. “You were right about him. He’s boring.”

“But?”

“He’s a gentleman,” I say. “And that’s not such a bad thing.”

Jason nods. “He’s a good guy. I can vouch for that.”

“So I guess I’ll give him another chance.”

Jason smiles. “Good.”

“And how are things going with you and Melissa?” I can’t help but ask.

“Oh,” he says and scratches his head till his hair sticks up. “Uh, okay, I guess. More or less.”

“More or less?”

Jason gives me a half-smile. “Well, you know. Every relationship has ups and downs.”

“So this is a down?” I ask, perhaps a little bit too hopefully.

Jason studies my face. “You really don’t like Melissa, do you?”

“Hey, she’s the one who doesn’t like me,” I point out.

This is a point of contention between Jason and me. I know for a fact that Melissa hates me and Jason thinks I’m out of my mind. I have tons of evidence, though. For example, last year she threw a New Year’s Eve party at her huge apartment (she’s an i-banker, like Jason) and invited practically everyone in the city. I didn’t even know about the party until Jason mentioned it casually in conversation and was shocked I wasn’t invited. He said Melissa must have just forgotten, but that doesn’t explain the fact that she barely speaks to me when we’re together, and once, when I put on a little bit of weight, she actually had the nerve to point it out to everyone in the room. Loudly.

The thing is, I don’t know why she hates me. Melissa doesn’t seem like the kind of person who should be jealous of anyone, especially me. She’s got it over me in every way. She’s got a better job, she’s got tons more money, she’s skinnier, and she’s actually very pretty. Really, if anything, I should be jealous of her. The only thing I can think of is that she’s jealous of my relationship with Jason, but that’s totally crazy, because we are completely platonic friends. Nothing has ever even remotely happened between the two of us, and it never will.

I get worried though, because if things go to the next level between Melissa and Jason, which is beginning to seem inevitable, I think she’ll try to end our friendship. And I do rely on Jason a lot. He’s the closest friend I’ve got by a mile. I can’t stand the idea of losing him.

“Melissa likes you,” Jason insists. “Why are you so paranoid?”

“Please,” I say.

“You know what we should do?” Jason says. “We should double date. Me and Melissa, and you and Larry. I always just felt like you need to spend more time with Melissa to get to know her better.”

“Hmm,” I say.

“Come on, Tasha,” he says. “You’re my best friend and it kills me that you don’t get along with my girlfriend. It’s important to me.”

I hear myself agreeing to his request, because it’s honestly very hard to say no to anything Jason asks of me. Even though I know this is going to be one of the most painful dinners on record.