Good Riddance(22)

Why should I have been surprised by an Architectural Digest–worthy kitchen? State-of-the-art appliances! A dishwasher and—what was that?—a coffeemaker built into a wall! Not just the counters but the floor tiles were marble, or was it something else black and polished? Before I’d said more than wow a few times, Jeremy volunteered, “Thank the previous owner. I got this far on the tour, and I said, ‘I’ll take it.’”

No counteroffer? No mortgage calculation? Who walks into an apartment like this, and says, “I’ll take it”?

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jeremy said, bringing forth bottles and ice from the freezer, a jar of olives from the refrigerator, then tools from a narrow drawer that appeared to house only martiniware.

“What was I thinking?”

“That I’m too young to have a place like this.”

“More like you must make a nice living playing Timmy on TV.”

“My parents helped. A lot. Like they own it. They’ll sell it when I move to California to become a movie star.”

“Is that your plan—California?”

“I was joking. Now watch. I’ll show you how to make a dry martini.”

“I’ve made plenty of martinis in my day. Even chocolate ones.”

Faking a truffle-induced cough, he murmured, “Delicious, I’m sure.”

Next came the mixing, the icing, the agitating, the garnishing, the presentation in beautiful glasses. I followed him back to the living room to the tufted gray flannel couch where I asked again, “So California’s not in the ten-year plan?”

Frowning, Jeremy pointed. “Is this the face of a movie star?”

“Could be. You won’t always have braces. Do they hurt? Mine did.”

“They’re fake. I was wired up just for the show. The metal doesn’t do anything.”

I asked—innocently, not flirtatiously, but in friendly, big-sister fashion, exhibiting interest in a possibly inexperienced young man’s social life—“Do they get in the way when you kiss?”

I expected a wry answer. Or, perhaps, for the first time since we’d met, an uncharming, self-conscious one. Or maybe I’d get a casual confirmation of what his Warhol shoe art suggested, that he was gay. I certainly didn’t expect nor was I inviting that which followed: He put his martini glass down on the coffee table, relieved me of mine, and kissed me on the lips.

In the past, in this same situation, I’d said things like “I think we got our signals crossed.” Or “I’m flattered, but . . .”

I said none of those things. It wasn’t complicated. He’d kissed me and I liked it.



He served cheese and crackers when we resumed drinking. “You’re fine with this?” I asked.

“With what?”

“Kissing your across-the-hall neighbor. It won’t get messy?”

“Not with me it won’t.”

“How old are you again?”

“Almost twenty-six.”

“A baby.”

Of course, that made him kiss me again to show exactly what kind of baby I was dealing with. Shouldn’t I be saying something mature like “We shouldn’t. Bad idea.” I didn’t.

After a few more minutes—it could’ve been longer—I stood up, and I said I’d get the plate I brought the truffles on. Then, really . . . I should go.

“Why?”

Trying not to sound like a bumpkin who thought kissing meant anything more than a pleasant way to pass the time, I said, “More homework.”

“More truffles?”

“Bark. Or turtles. I forget.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” he said.

“Okay, here’s what I’m thinking: Did you ever make out with someone who lived on your floor in college or was in your eight o’clock class, and you had to avoid each other afterward because, by the light of day, you realized it was a mistake?”

“A. I never took an eight o’clock class. And B. I’m not expecting regrets.”

He’d taken my hand by now. “I didn’t get the impression that you’d be sorry in the morning, either,” he said.

That was true. If any signal was conveyed by me, it was Yes means yes.

“How about this as a guideline?” Jeremy continued. “Whatever works. No drama. No avoiding each other in the hall. No buyer’s regret. Just enjoying the moment. And the next one.”

“Friends with benefits,” I said.

Since my unfortunate whirlwind marriage and divorce, I’d considered finding that kind of friend but hadn’t acted on it—had not even come close to broaching the subject, let alone kissing anyone. As I was thinking all of this over and considering how Jeremy might fit the bill, he asked, “Weren’t you going to tell me what big thing happened at the reunion?”

He patted the couch cushion next to him. I sat down again, closer than the space I’d previously occupied. “I wasn’t exaggerating when I said it was life changing.”

“Not in a good way, I take it.”

“Would you believe that a man asked me to dance, then took me into the bathroom and claimed to be my real father?”

“Wait. You went into the bathroom with a man? Did you know him?”