In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(61)

The thing about Richard was that he didn’t take any effort. He was never uncertain or insecure. He never asked me where I wanted to go or what I wanted to do. He’d say something like, “Italian okay?” And when I said sure, he’d say, “I know you’re going to love this place,” but never asked me later if he was right. He made it clear, after that first embarrassing date, that he’d pay when we went out. It made me really uncomfortable, but he also made it clear that if I didn’t go where he wanted to go, he’d go without me. And he was never rude about it. On the contrary, he was always exceedingly gracious, explaining things logically and making it seem like it was strange that I cared, since money was no big deal. Of course it isn’t, if you have it.

And he’d make light of it when he paid, joke around about how he liked that he could be the first one to take me for sushi or to a Korean steak house, even as he laughed at the faces I made as I tried raw eel for the first time. Then we’d go back to his apartment and he’d tell me exactly how he wanted me to f*ck him. He liked it hard and fast and clean, and he’d come with me behind him, catching his own release in his hand so it wouldn’t get on the sheets. Something about the fact that he wanted me to f*ck him made it feel less like I was a charity case or a kept toy. Ginger said that was a f*cked-up way to think about it, but it made a difference. I’m not exactly sure why.

I never spent the night; Richard was always at the lab by 8:30 a.m. because he said any later than that and the best equipment was taken. He never came to my apartment, which he referred to as “the crack house,” even though he’d never been in my neighborhood, just heard things on the subway and read things in the online police blotter, which he checked religiously, as he did the weather. He was one of those people who truly believed that forewarned was forearmed—he taught me that proverb, along with “he who pays the piper calls the tune,” which he trotted out in response to my embarrassment when he sent his food back twice at a restaurant on a busy Saturday evening.

I saw Richard maybe twice a week, and honestly, I didn’t think about it that much. If I wasn’t at the library, I was at the bar, and if I had any found time I was hanging out with Ginger at the shop, reading behind the counter with the comforting buzz of tattoo machines inking the words into my memory. Ginger hated Richard. She only met him twice. It’s not that I was trying to keep them apart… exactly. More that I didn’t even think of them as existing in the same universe, much less as able to interact.

I brought her with me to meet Richard and some college friends of his for a drink. I was only stopping in for one drink because Richard had asked me to, and then I was on my way to work. Ginger was going to the show at the bar that night, so I convinced her to tag along. It was a mistake. Richard was running late and wasn’t there when we arrived and the bar—excuse me, cocktail lounge—had a ten-dollar cover. Ginger offended the bouncer and amused me by muttering about it being a pay-to-play, and when we walked in it was clear we were extremely underdressed. I was wearing black jeans and boots and a red T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off because I made more tips the more skin I flashed, and though Ginger was wearing a tight black tube dress, the tattoos that cover every inch of her arms, legs, chest, and back made her the center of attention.

We got drinks (twelve-dollar martinis flavored with herbs and served in tiny glasses) and stood at a table, waiting for Richard. The place was crowded, so I didn’t think much when Ginger’s shoulders tensed. She was constantly getting people coming up to her to touch her tattoos and ask her what they meant—or, less flatteringly, tell her that she’d be so pretty if she didn’t have them—so I’d grown accustomed to running interference. I swung around to sit next to her, but she waved me back across the table and started talking about a tattoo she’d done that afternoon.

Later on she told me she’d sat down just in time to hear a man with an upper crust-y New York accent say, “I can’t wait to clap eyes on Richie’s rough-trade trailer trash. Richie says he’s like a jackhammer.” The table behind us had been, of course, Richard’s college friends. Needless to say, we didn’t have much to talk about and I was relieved when it was time for us to leave so I could get to work.

Richard walked us out and kissed me. “Thanks for putting up with those guys,” he said. “You know how it is. They were probably nervous around you because you’re so hot.” He winked at Ginger and she just walked away.

After a year and a half or so of dinners and f*cking that I thought of as dating, though I guess I never used the word to Richard, I stopped by Richard’s apartment on my way to work because I’d left a book there the night before. I stepped out of the elevator—Richard lived in one of those posh buildings in Center City with a doorman and everything—and jogged down the hallway. I don’t remember why I didn’t call first. As I turned the corner to knock on Richard’s door, I saw him standing in front of it. At first, I thought I was catching him just getting home and had a moment of being thankful for my good timing. Then I saw the arms wrapped around his neck.

Richard was making out with another guy right in his doorway. I must’ve made a sound—coughed, or gasped, or said his name—because Richard turned around. What I remember most about the moment his eyes met mine is that there wasn’t any surprise in them. Not even a microsecond of shock, or guilt, or shame. His hair was mussed and the collar of his shirt askew, and he just smiled at me.