If You Only Knew(100)

Jenny

Despite Leo’s “recreation only” warnings—a phrase I’m becoming heartily sick of—this feels an awful lot like a relationship. He’s been wonderful since the fight in the street. We drove upriver to the Vanderbilt estate and strolled around, held hands, even, then ate at a diner where the cheesecake was apparently made by God. Last night, we went to an utterly terrifying movie about demonic possession, which made Leo laugh and me cower (though that may have been because he put his arm around me when I did). When we came home, we ended up making out on the couch, then the floor, then my bedroom, where several home runs were scored.

So I’m pretty sure I was right about him. The recreation-only thing... That’s temporary. That’s what men always say. This particular man just needs to relax a little, to trust again. How special and meaningful those words sound! Once we’ve spent a little more time together, he’ll see. I’m very trustworthy.

And he’s getting there. Just the other night, I woke up in the middle of the night, and Leo was looking at me, his head propped on his hand. Just looking. I started to say something, but he put his finger over my lips and kissed me, soft and hot, and pulled me on top of him, and he smiled at me. You know who does that? Men who are in serious relationships, that’s who.

This is driven home when I come home on Tuesday night. It’s pouring, a lovely, soaking rain tap-dancing on my Monet–print umbrella as I walk down the street from where I parked to dear #11, my favorite house on the street.

There’s a bizarre sight—Leo Killian on a ladder in front of my door, cleaning out a gutter. It’s bizarre, because I can’t imagine that Leo knew gutters needed to be cleaned. But there he is, soaking wet, his hair plastered to his forehead, his T-shirt—More Cowbell—clinging to his lean frame, jeans soaked.

My ovaries twitch as I walk up the steps.

“Hello, tenant,” he says, scooping out a handful of leaves. “The gutter is clogged, and I didn’t want you to get wet, fair maiden that you are with all those expensive clothes and cruel shoes.”

“So you’re actually taking care of this building,” I say. “Let me document this historic moment with a photo.” I pull out my phone and snap a shot, and there he is, smiling down at me, that wide, cheeky grin, his blue eyes crinkling. I’ll be keeping this one, that’s for sure.

Leo throws down another handful of wet leaves, then waits a second, assessing his work. “There. That wasn’t so hard after all.”

“You sound surprised. Scooping leaves out of gutters is hardly Rachmaninoff’s Third Piano Concerto.”

He jumps off the ladder and pulls off his work gloves. “My God. You know who Rachmaninoff is! I’m so turned on right now.” He cups my face in his big hands and kisses me.

“Don’t get too excited,” I murmur against his mouth. “I just looked up ‘hardest piano pieces’ so I could work it into the conversation and impress you.”

“I’m impressed.” He kisses me again, right there on the front steps, for everyone in the neighborhood to see, and I drop my umbrella and kiss him back, not caring one bit about the rain.

“Jenny?” comes a voice from the sidewalk. “Jenny? What— Is that— What’s going on here? Do you even know this man?”

And there goes my happy.

“Hi, Mom,” I say. “No. He’s just some homeless guy who was sitting here, but I was lonely, so I asked him if we could make out.”

“And I said yes,” Leo adds. “She said she’d feed me afterward and give me ten bucks for booze, so why not?”

Mom looks at us both, frowning. Like a cat, she hates being wet, so she’s wearing a huge black rain poncho, rain boots, a clear plastic rain hat and has a doorman-size umbrella. Her expression says Not Amused.

“Mom, this is Leo Killian,” I say. “He’s my...” Crap. He’s my what? Landlord? Boyfriend? Fuck buddy?

“Her lover,” Leo says, grinning. My heart melts a little more. Not just at the word, but because he’s tweaking Mom. Solidarity, you see.

Mom flinches. “Oh, Jenny,” she says in a voice leaden with disappointment. “I told you a rebound was a bad idea. You’re still hung up on Owen.”

“I’m only interested in her from a physical point of view,” Leo says. “Still, maybe we can talk about it over dinner. I cooked.”

He cooked.

“Lasagna,” he murmurs. “Salad. Garlic bread. Red wine. Don’t read into it.”

“I’m totally reading into it.” I turn to my mother. “Come on in, Mom. Want to stay for dinner?”

Fifteen minutes later, Leo has brought up the food, we’ve both changed into dry clothes, Mom has been convinced that he’s not actually a homeless man, and we’re sitting around my kitchen table, Loki snoring at our feet. Leo’s charm offensive isn’t working on my mother—he’s not a pediatric plastic surgeon, after all—but it sure is working on me.

“You can make a living, teaching piano?” she asks dubiously.

“No. That’s why I mooch off Jenny.”

It had occurred to me that this town house is a fairly pricey piece of real estate. And that, while Leo has a steady stream of students, it’s a little hard to imagine that he bought a town house in Westchester County with that income alone. Then again, he also composes a little, he said once. I guess that pays a lot.