Jon
THERE WAS A loud, incessant knocking at the front door of Jon Adelman’s apartment.
Unfortunately, he’d gotten home at an insane hour, he was tired, and all he wanted to do was sleep.
But the knocking wouldn’t stop.
Sighing, he pulled off the cover, stretched and rolled off the futon, barely giving himself enough time to get his feet under him.
And then his feet met the cold, wooden floor. He recoiled, shuddering, trying to keep his balance as he adjusted to the job the winter had done.
“Coming,” he managed, his voice sounding rough even to his own ears. He was living the dream, but dreams required sleep.
“Sorry,” a small nervous voice proclaimed from the other side of the apartment door. “I . . . didn’t realize.”
He checked the clock on the microwave as he passed the kitchen. Twelve-thirty. “Fine,” he shouted. His left hand gripped the doorknob and unlocked the locks. Then he dropped the chain with his right. As he opened the door, he found himself staring back at a pair of bright green eyes.
He liked the freckles on her nose, the way her red hair hung down just below her ears. He wanted to run his fingers through it.
“Hi. I’m Molly Baker-Stein. I live in the apartment just above yours. We’re having a . . .”
Jon rubbed his eyes and stared. Hard. He could barely manage to decipher the red-haired woman’s rapid words. “Hi?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. She looked embarrassed, nervous and he could see the flush rising up her cheeks. “You . . . I should let you go back to bed.”
Thoughts of her in his bed ran through his head. He’d ask “Would you join me?”
“I’m sure you didn’t mean that.”
And apparently the necessary connection hadn’t been made between his brain and his mouth, because he’d spoken instead of just thinking about having Molly join him in bed. “No filter,” he said, by way of explanation. Then, because he really wasn’t thinking, he gestured into his apartment. “Coffee?”
He wondered if she’d come into his apartment, and he also wondered what he’d do if she did.
All the same, he watched her as she stared into the hallway. He followed her changing expression as she seemed to debate whether she’d be better off coming into the apartment or having whatever conversation she’d want to have with him while standing in the hallway.
Not that he could actually read her thoughts, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d been around the block; he also had sisters. He’d also already demonstrated his inability to think before he spoke, and the fact he was attracted to her. No wonder she was having doubts. She had common sense.
But she looked over his shoulder and he saw her mouth drop.
“You have no furniture! You have . . .”
She barreled past him into the apartment, which did, he’d admit, look bare and empty.
She looked like a biblical warrior with her green eyes blazing as she stood in the middle of his living room. “Why do you not have any furniture in this apartment?”
He wanted to point out his futon, or the bookcases, or his stereo; even the kitchen table and his collection of coffeemakers. But even he knew the pizza boxes he’d forgotten to bring down to recycling helped make his apartment look like the frat house he’d lived in during his last two years of college.
“You’re living in this beautiful apartment and it looks like . . . empty, cold. Horrible.”
“I have decorated,” he said, grinning, “in the fraternal mode.”
She raised an eyebrow and shook her head; his horrible joke had clearly fallen flat.
“As I said. Horrible. Why?”
“Are you one of those ‘house should look like a museum’ people?”
“I’m one of those ‘house should look like a home’ people. Your sanctuary. Your safe space. Not, I don’t know, a . . .”
“A fraternity house. I get it.” He shook his head. “So coffee?”
He watched as she looked at him, at the open doorway behind both of them, and sighed. Heavily.
“Yes.”
Molly
MOLLY’D BARRELED INTO 6B with a sense of authority she didn’t deserve, and had managed to act just like those horrible biddies that ran the building’s coop board in the process. It was probably why instead of refusing his invitation for coffee, she took him up on it.
No. Not the guilt. Most likely she’d accepted because her sense of self-preservation had gone AWOL. Jon, 6B, had come to the door in only a pair of boxers, a ratty T-shirt, and early morning scruff. She couldn’t stop staring.
“Any particular requirements on the coffee front?”
The words popped her thoughts like a balloon, forcing her to focus on his mouth, as opposed to his body. She came out of her daze, only to realize he stood in front of a long granite countertop that had been taken over by an elaborate array of coffee preparing machines. There was a grinder, a huge espresso machine, a drip pot, and then one of those machines that produced individual cups of coffee.
She couldn’t help herself. “So that’s what you focused on?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I travel constantly and need a consistent supply of caffeine,” he explained, before pausing. “I’m Jon, by the way.”
“Molly,” she said as he took her hand in hers, before realizing she’d introduced herself already. “That is . . .”
“I got it,” he replied, smiling. “I’m tired but not hungover.”
She laughed, wondering why he felt the need to clarify the reason for his semi-awake state.
Aaah. Yes.
She’d definitely made him think she was one of those horrible biddies. “Sorry,” she said, attempting to fill her voice with as much sympathy and understanding as she could manage. “I’m energetic.”
“Decaf?”
She glared at him this time. Only a fool would drink decaf. He was trying to be helpful; she could see the warmth in his brown eyes. Which meant he didn’t deserve to have his head bitten off for what he obviously perceived as a helpful suggestion. “No. Not really. It doesn’t taste the same, so I never drink the decaf.”
“Good to know,” he answered. “So what do you want?”
“Surprise me,” she said. “Give me something good.”
He nodded, and the smile on his face was a joy to behold. “Your wish is my command.”
She found herself transfixed as he gracefully maneuvered around the coffee machines. He managed to work a coffee grinder, the espresso machine and a milk frother like musical instruments, in a crazy dance that had her mixing her metaphors and getting the wildest thoughts in her head. Namely, she wondered what those hands and that agile body could do to her.
“See something you like?”
She couldn’t be offended because he’d caught her staring. Especially considering she was thinking below the board thoughts about him, his coffee and his body. Embarrassment was apparently the emotional order of the day. “I . . .” she managed, despite the fact it felt like her tongue had inflated to twice its normal size. “I guess . . . I . . .”
“It’s okay,” he said in a voice that was genuinely charming. “I know I have a collection.”
“And a tuchus . . .”
Now she could see the blush rising up on the back of his neck, just below the end of his coffee brown hair. But why?
Oh right. She’d actually spoken the words as opposed to just thinking about them. Again. “Apparently I have diarrhea of the mouth,” she said, trying not to focus on him. At least, any more than she already had.
“You have a lot more than that,” he replied.
Jon
JON FOUND IT weird to be sitting at the crappy card table he’d bought for twenty dollars in the middle of the architecturally awe-inspiring apartment he’d purchased for way too much money. Even weirder, the ancient specimen now served as his dining table. Yet there he sat, drinking the last of his cold brew in a mug that extolled the virtues of sarcasm while freezing his butt off despite the thin robe he’d managed to excavate from his closet.
But Molly? His cute upstairs neighbor? She, too, was sitting in a folding chair, in front of the horrid coffee table. Except she sat there like this was normal. At least she was drinking a latte he’d made out of his Ethiopian blend in his CHAI LIFE coffee mug. Of course she’d cupped the mug between her hands, as if she was trying to wrest as much heat out of it as she could.
Yep. His neighbor was trying to hide how cold she was. He’d better get this started and get her out of his apartment and back to, presumably, the warmth, of hers. “So?”
She looked from her mug back up to him, her bright green eyes punching him in the gut. He’d managed to startle her.
“Do you like it?” Her lack of response made him nervous before he remembered she was the nervous one. “I mean,” he clarified, “The coffee.”
She nodded. “The smell, at least.” She blushed, and he couldn’t help smiling. “I can’t stop smelling it.”
“It’s comforting, at least to me,” he confided in an attempt to make her feel better. “I’m glad.” Which he actually was, but for different reasons. He enjoyed sitting with this cute girl who carried a sense of home on her shoulders. “So, aside from my good fortune and even better caffeine, what brought you to my doorstep this morning?”
Now she put the mug down and sat up a bit straighter. He found himself wondering if she was afraid.
“So the building,” she began tentatively, as she grabbed the mug again, “has a party every year for the holidays, and I’m . . . organizing it this year.”
“Okay,”
She swallowed, then took a healthy sip of the latte. “It’s good,” she managed. “Thank you . . .”
“You’re welcome.” He was glad she liked the latte he’d made her, but she was getting off track, and it became more obvious she was having trouble telling him about this party. “It’s fine,” he said. “Drink and be caffeinated.”
She laughed. “Thank you. But anyway,” she managed. “It’s policy that we invite the new tenants personally.”
He nodded. “If I’m in town for it, absolutely. Sure. When is it?”
She named a random date in December, a middle of the week date that seemed strangely familiar. “Sounds familiar, think I’m in town, and actually off that whole week, so that works.”
“Good. Good.”
The relief in her voice was mixed with a tinge of something else. It was a tone he recognized from conversations with his sisters, mother, grandmothers, and female cousins. Molly sounded exactly like a person who desperately wanted something but was afraid to ask him for it. He tried his best to be a mensch—a good guy—so he was going to smooth the waters and broach the subject.
“What’s up?” He asked it casually, calmly, like it was nothing. ’Cause it needed to be. She had absolutely no reason whatsoever to confide in him, but he wanted her to.
“Do you have a car?”
He nodded. He did. It was the kind of car that made the uniformed guys who worked in the building’s garage look at him sideways; it was old but functional. He’d promised his family that he’d replace it once he no longer felt like a fraud. But for now the ancient automobile still sat in his brand new, way too expensive but horribly convenient parking space, waiting to be used once again. “Yep.”
“Oh fabulous! Because I need help.”
Without even knowing what she needed, he nodded again. He wanted her to like him. “Sure.”
She laughed, and he loved the sound of her laugh.
“Are you positive? Really?”
He raised an eyebrow, and the caffeine seemed to move his brain forward. “You’re planning a party, a holiday party, in an apartment building, and you need a car. I’m thinking you need to go shopping?”
She nodded. “Yep. That’s the gist of it. A few different stops, a few different places. I’m guessing your schedule is a mess . . . you mentioned you’re out of town . . . a lot?”
He nodded, before getting up and grabbing his cell phone from the charger. He could access his calendar even if the phone hadn’t fully charged. “I’m heading out tomorrow night for a few days but I’ll be back on Thursday. Is that okay?”
She smiled, and the relief on her face made him want to pat himself on the back. That or kiss her.
“Yep,” she said. “That works for the first trip.”
“Good. Can I have your phone number, so we can figure it out?”
She nodded, then gave him the number, staring with the 917 area code he recognized as the cell phone number of someone who lived in Manhattan.
“So,” she said once she finished giving him her number. “Thanks for the coffee and I’ll see you on Thursday?”
“Thursday it is.”
He stood up, followed her to the front door. Then he reached around her and unlocked it. In the moment before she left, she turned toward him and simply watched. The space between them crackled with excitement, tension, and something undefinable.
He watched her chest rise and fall beneath her sweater. He held his breath, waiting, wondering, knowing he could break the tension with one move. Except that was when he remembered he was still mostly half naked, and she was standing in his apartment. He wanted to kiss her; but here, now, it had to be her decision.
And as she wasn’t making it, he put his arms around her. Drawing her close and hugging her like he’d hug his sister, or a friend. Slowly and carefully, making sure she wasn’t pulling away. But there was no sign at all of that.
“Thursday,” he said, kissing her cheek. She rested in his arms a while, letting her head fall on his shoulder.
“Thanks,” she said before breaking his loose hold and stepping into the hallway. “Really.”
“Not a problem,” he said to her retreating back. “No problem whatever.”