Elliot’s building is narrow, a faded turquoise stucco, and must have once been a beautiful Victorian before it was sloppily chopped up into four cramped apartments.
The front door opens to a narrow hall on the right and a steep flight of steps leading to the upstairs apartments. Elliot lives in number four. Upstairs and to the right, he said. Each stair squeaks beneath my boots.
His front door is flat brown, and before it is a thin doormat with the Dickinson quote The soul should always stand ajar.
I lift my fist and knock.
Is it possible I recognize the weight of his footsteps and the rhythm of his walk? Or is it that I know he’s the only one inside—because I’m early? Either way, my pulse accelerates so that by the time he turns the knob and swings the door open, I feel light-headed.
Sometime in the past decade, Elliot figured out how to manage his hair and dress himself. He wears black jeans and a well-loved—either honestly or artificially—dark denim shirt rolled to his elbows. His feet are bare.
Bare feet. Elliot’s apartment. Inside there somewhere is Elliot’s bed.
If I’m not careful, I won’t even go home tonight.
Holy shit, I’m a mess.
“Macy,” he says, pulling me into a hug and drawing me inside with one arm around my shoulders. When he moves away, shutting the door behind me, the smile I see on his face could power a small city. “You’re here. You’re in my apartment!”
Bending, he kisses my cheek, chastely. “Your face is so cold!”
“I walked from BART. It’s chilly outside.” Heat radiates from the point where his lips pressed against my skin, and I put down the pie I brought so I can shrug out of my jacket.
He pulls back a little, surprised. “You didn’t drive?”
“I’m not a fan of cars,” I say, smiling.
He takes my coat, quiet at this. “I could have picked you up.”
Pressing a palm to his chest, I whisper, “You live six blocks from the station. I’m fine.”
“I’m sorry, I’m nervous.” He shakes his shoulders a little, as if loosening up. “I’m going to try to be cool about this—about tonight. I will probably fail.”
I laugh, handing him the pecan pie I bought this morning. “It’s not your mom’s recipe, sadly. Are they coming down?”
He shakes his head and then tilts it, beckoning me deeper inside. I follow him through a tiny living room into an even tinier kitchen. “They’re going over to Andreas’s future in-laws’ place up in Mendocino. We didn’t want the entire Petropoulos clan to descend on them; his fiancée, Else, is an only child and I don’t think they’d know what to do with all of us. It’s just Mom, Dad, Andreas, and Alex headed up there.”
“Who’s coming today?” I ask, watching him slide the pie onto the counter. He’s managed to set up everything he needs in the small space, and it’s meticulous despite the size.
Elliot turns, leaning back against the counter, gripping it gently. The shirt stretches across his chest, spreading open at the collar, revealing the edge of his collarbone, the hint of chest hair. My heart punches me from the inside.
“My friend Desmond,” he says, and reaches one hand to scratch his chin. “And Rachel.”
I freeze, staring wide-eyed at him. Instinctively I look down to what I’m wearing and then back up at him.
“Rachel is coming?”
He nods, watching me carefully. “Will that make you uncomfortable?”
I’m trying not to react too much outwardly, but I feel my brows pulling down, setting a frown on my forehead. “I don’t think so?”
“That sounds an awful lot like a question,” he says quietly. Pushing off the counter, he takes two steps over to me. “I should have mentioned that. She doesn’t have local family. Or . . . very many local friends.”
I look around the room we’re standing in. “Did she live here with you?”
“No,” he says. “But she stayed here a fair amount.”
Oh. I look at the stove and see images of this unknown Rachel standing there, scrambling eggs in her underwear while Elliot showered. I picture him pouring coffee for her after, kissing her bare, pale shoulder. I wonder if this burning jealousy is how he felt seeing me with Sean and knowing I slept in the same bed as he did, let him touch me in ways Elliot had only started to.
Looking up at him, I say, “I’m trying not to have a fit about your ex-girlfriend coming over today.”
Elliot lifts one shoulder. “I understand. I might not have planned this so well.”
“It wasn’t intentional to have us both here to make me feel . . . jealous? Not even a little?”
“I swear it wasn’t.”
One look at his face, and I believe him. Elliot has occasionally been oblivious about how other girls in his life affected me, but he’s not cruel. Nodding, I look down at the floor. “Does she know who I am?”
“Yes.”
Another thought occurs to me. “Does she know I’ll be here?”
He hesitates, and guilt spreads in a flush up his neck. “Yes.”
“So she knew, but I didn’t? Elliot, seriously?”
He lifts a hand, scratching the top of his head. “I wanted you to come.” His eyes go warm and soft, the way they do when he feels urgent about something. “I really, really wanted you to come. And I didn’t want her to be alone today. But I worried if I told you that you’d back out.”
I probably would have. Nothing sounds more awkward than a holiday meal with Elliot’s ex-girlfriend.
“Does she think we’re . . . back together?”
“I don’t know what she thinks,” he says. “But it’s sort of moot, isn’t it?” He watches me carefully. “You’re engaged.”
Guilt slices sharply through me, sending a jolt of pain to my ribs. I’m not ready to tell Elliot that I’m single, but I’m not okay letting him think I’m being chronically emotionally unfaithful, either. “Things there are . . . complicated.”
He seems to marinate in these words for a few beats before reaching for my hand, tugging it. “Come on. Let me give you the tour.”
The living room is longer than it is wide, and at the narrow end is a tall leaded-glass window looking out onto a surprisingly beautiful backyard. There are fig trees, plum trees, and a tiny, lush lawn—a rarity in the Bay Area.
“The lawn is fake,” he explains. “The owner is insistent that we keep this outdoor space.”
I look around the living room, at the bookcases that span from the floor to the ceiling, with a sliding ladder connected to the upper lip. His couch is a vibrant blue, and clean, with bright multicolored throw pillows. On the other end of the room, closer to the front door, he has placed a folding card table and set it with a linen tablecloth, placemats, and a tiny centerpiece of gourds and cranberries. I must have walked right past it when I came in, so excited and nervous I didn’t even notice.
“Your place is so nice,” I whisper, tucking my hair behind my ear. Elliot watches it slide forward again anyway, and swallows. He probably knows I wore it down for him. “Tell me about your novel.”
“High fantasy,” he says, looking around at his bookshelves. Then he looks back at me and his eyes shine with restrained amusement. “There are dragons.”
“So you’re writing porn?” I joke, and he bursts out laughing.
“Not exactly.”
“That’s really all you’ll give me?”
Smiling, he takes my hand again. “Let’s finish the tour.”
Through a door on the other side of the living room from the kitchen is a tiny hallway. To the left is his bedroom. To the right is his bathroom.
The bathroom has a small tub and no shower, just a smooth hose attached to the faucet and hanging limply downward, a neck bent in defeat.
“You don’t have a shower,” I say, walking back out and feeling the sudden intimacy of being in his space. It’s all so quintessentially him: sparse furniture other than floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with books.
Elliot watches me as I lean against the hallway wall. The space is tiny, and he seems to fill it with his height and the solid width of his chest.
“I don’t know if I could handle only having a bathtub,” I babble.
“I call it a shath,” he says.
“That sounds dirty.”
I’m staring at his chest but hear the smile in his voice: “I think that’s why I call it that.”
He takes another step closer. “It still feels surreal to have my own place. Like it’s some small miracle that I live here alone. It’s so different from how I grew up.”
“Do you like living alone?” I ask.
He hesitates for the duration of three pounding heartbeats in my ear. “How honest do you want me to be here?”
I look up at him. Oh. I think what’s coming will probably wreck me, but I ask for it anyway: “I always want you to be honest.”
“Okay,” he says. “In that case, I like living alone, but would rather live with you. I like sleeping alone, but would rather have you in my bed.” He reaches up, running a finger over his lip, thinking about his next words, and his voice comes out lower, and quieter. “I like having friends over for Thanksgiving, but would rather it just be the two of us, doing our first Thanksgiving as a couple, eating turkey off the bone, cuddling on the floor together.”
“In our underwear,” I say without thinking.
His first reaction to this is quiet shock, but it slowly melts into a smile that heats my blood, sets something simmering beneath my skin. “You said things are ‘complicated,’ huh?”
I’m saved from my crumbling resolve to keep quiet about Sean when there’s a knock on the door behind him. Elliot stares at me, some urgent light in his eyes, as if he knows I’m about to tell him something important.
I lift my chin to the door after we’ve stood there staring at each other for nearly ten silent seconds. “You should probably get that.”
With a small growl of defeat, he turns and opens the door to let the other two guests in.
Desmond enters first. He’s shorter than Elliot but thick with muscle, with smooth dark skin and a smile that seems permanently fixed in his eyes. He hands Elliot a bowl with a colorful salad inside and claps him on the back, thanking him for inviting him.
Rachel steps in next, but I’m distracted from her entrance by Desmond coming over to me, introducing himself in a thick Aussie accent. “I’m Des. Nice to meet you.”
“Macy,” I say, shaking his hand and adding awkwardly, “Yes, so glad we’re finally meeting.”
In truth, I have no idea how long Elliot’s known him. My mouth feels dry, hands clammy.
I look up and find Rachel staring at me. She blinks away, smiling tightly at Elliot as she waits for an introduction.
“Rachel,” Elliot says, guiding her forward. “This is Macy.”
She has short dark hair, bright blue eyes, and a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. When she smiles this time, it looks at least partly genuine, and reveals a set of bright, even teeth. She’s completely lovely.
“Hi, Rachel.” I reach out and she returns the handshake, limply.
“It’s really nice to meet you,” she says, and smiles again.
The words are out before I realize what I’m doing: “Thanks for coming.”
As if I’ve been here a million times. As if I live here, as if I’m hosting.
She turns to Elliot, her eyes tight again. He ducks, giving her a little reassuring smile.
My chest twists in jealousy and possessiveness. I don’t like their silent exchange. I don’t like the feeling that they have a past, a rhythm, an unspoken language.
“Where should I put this?” she asks, lifting a canvas grocery bag with a few bottles of wine inside.
“Fridge,” Elliot says, squeezing her shoulder and giving her another lingering, encouraging look before releasing her and returning to my side.
Rachel disappears and Elliot glances at Des, who shakes his head a little when she’s gone.
“She’s all right, mate,” Des says quietly. “Onward.” And then he turns to me, unleashing the grin. “And you. Here you are. In the flesh.”
I deflect this possible conversation with a question: “How do you two know each other?”
“Rugby,” Des says.
My laugh comes out louder than I expect it to, and Des’s eyes widen with thrill. “I don’t know you, Macy, but I think we’re going to be best friends.”
“Hey!” Elliot protests, laughing.
Returning his attention to me, Des adds, “Actually, he’s really quite good.”
“No way,” I say, biting back a grin as I look up at Elliot in all his bookish glory. “This guy? Rugby?”
“Come on,” Elliot says, giving me a playfully wounded look.
“I just remember watching you learn to skate,” I say.
Desmond’s eyes narrow. “Ice skate?”
A loud cackle bursts from me, and Elliot pulls me into a gentle headlock, growling, “Skateboard, you menace,” into my hair.
We wrestle for a second and then stop in unison, looking up at the sound of still silence. Rachel is standing just inside the door from the kitchen, holding an open bottle of wine. Des’s eyes flicker between her and Elliot.
“Does anyone want some wine?” she asks. “Or . . . just me?”
Des lets out a delighted laugh at this, thinking she’s being funny, but Rachel remains unsmiling, tilting the bottle to her lips and taking a few deep swallows. She pulls the bottle up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
Elliot slowly releases me from the headlock, straightening his shirt while I smooth down my hair. I feel like we’ve just been busted for some mildly criminal behavior. Here we are, standing in his spartan living room with this stark truth laid out before us: We’ve never dealt with fallout before. The messiest parts of our lives have always been compartmentalized to the school week, or kept private for a decade. I have no idea how he’ll react.
“Rach,” he says quietly. “Come on.”
It’s a gentle chastisement I can’t imagine him ever delivering to me, but still, there’s a seduction there, a reassurance that feels a little slippery, too intimate.
“Come on what?” she says.
“I thought you wanted to do this,” he says.
“Turns out, it’s not as easy as I expected.”
Why on earth would she think this would be easy?
“I don’t need to stay,” I start to say, but both Des and Elliot quickly jump in.
“No, no, no,” Elliot says, turning to me.
“Don’t be silly,” Des says. “It’s fine.”
I look at Rachel, who is looking at me with such a flat fury, I know exactly what she’s thinking: I’m not fine at all.
“You did such a number on him,” she says quietly.
“Rachel,” Elliot says, voice low in warning, “don’t.”
“Don’t what?” Her eyes turn to his face. “Have you guys talked yet? Does she have any idea?”
Des seems to find a reason he needs to jog to the bathroom at this precise moment, and I’m immediately jealous that he can just split and I have to stand here while the awkward shrapnel rains down on us.
But at the same time, I want to know what she thinks I need to hear.
“Any idea about what?” I ask him.
Elliot shakes his head. “We aren’t doing this now.”
She answers, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen: “How much you fucked him up. How no one—”
“Rachel.” Elliot’s voice is a blade, cutting through the room. I’ve never, ever heard him use that tone before, and it sends goose bumps down my arms.
I continue to look at him, and it takes monumental effort to not fall apart thinking about what I’m missing here. I know what my life looked like after we split, but I couldn’t bear to think about his, too.
“I’m pretty sure we fucked each other up,” I say. “I think that’s what we’re trying to fix, isn’t it?” I look back to Rachel. “None of this is your business, though.”
“It was my business for five years,” she says. Five years. That’s how long I had, too. “And it was really my business for at least one.”
What the fuck does that mean?
Elliot reaches up, scrubbing his face. “Do we have to do this?”
“No.” Rachel looks at him, and then at me, and then moves across the room to pick up her purse, and walks out the door.
