Jon
WHEN THE PLANE touched down at JFK, he sighed in relief. Home.
He’d had a wonderful trip; great food, amazing music, and great people. He’d even liked the office space that the Nashville group had found for the fledgling label. But Nashville wasn’t New York, and he was tired.
He barely made it through the car ride awake.
“Mr. Adelman,” the driver said. “You’re here.”
He shook himself partly awake, shoved the door open and stepped out of the car. For once in his life he was grateful for the winter chill. “Thanks.”
He hefted his bag, signed the driver’s sheet, and took his suitcase from the open trunk.
“Mr. Adelman,” the doorman greeted. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks, Rocky,” he replied
“Hope you like it.”
He raised an eyebrow as he headed toward the open elevator door, somewhat surprised at the reaction. “What?”
“You’ll see,” Rocky said, shaking his head. “You’ll see.”
But the list of things he wanted to see was small. Two different items on it.
The first was his bed. No matter how well he slept when he was away, it was almost like he had to sleep on that horrible futon. He knew he needed a new one, but part of the reason he kept that thing was because he knew where he was when he got up with a crick in his neck and a slight backache. Those pains meant he’d made it back to New York, whether his trip was successful or not.
The second was Molly, he reflected as the elevator door opened. He’d bought her presents when he was away; a hockey jersey, some kind of food delicacy that he was told he wasn’t allowed to leave without, and her Chanukah present. He’d had it shipped, very well aware that it wouldn’t have survived his suitcase (or even his carry-on). They’d talked a few times, texted and e-mailed. He’d even called her from the airport that morning and made plans to see her that evening, once he got up from his desperately needed nap.
Something he saw out of the corner of his eye broke through his thoughts and brought him back down to earth. It was a bow, in the red, white, and blue of many things he loved. He liked the colors, of course, but the bow and the tiny Jewish star he saw hanging from the bow confused him. It wasn’t yet Chanukah or a birthday, so why would someone put a bow his door?
He shook his head, deciding he was too tired to think about the bow on his door. He’d deal with it later. He reached into his pocket, took out his keys and unlocked the door. He opened it and discovered he couldn’t breathe.
He’d left a bare, unfinished, neutral smelling apartment with a futon he’d had since his second year of college and a coffee table he’d purchased with one of his best friends for his very first New York apartment. He saw neither of those things, and . . . this space smelled.
He didn’t have the words to describe the colors, the mess, the furniture, and the apple-scented assault on his senses. This was horribly, unquestionably wrong. It might possibly be what would happen if his dream of making this apartment a home turned into a nightmare.
Jon tried to breathe and failed. He desperately wanted comfort, ease, relaxation, familiarity. He wanted his own possessions, his own space after traveling.
This wasn’t it.
He tried to think of who might have done this, who might have invaded his privacy this way. And then his heart clenched. Because the only person who had this kind of access, the only person he’d told about his desire to do something with the place at some point, was Molly. Molly also had the resources to do this. Molly had the contacts. Molly was good at her job; he’d Googled her at one point.
But it felt like a betrayal. He’d given her his keys, and she’d taken over his apartment. Without his permission. She’d made his safe space unrecognizable.
He put his bags down, and closed his eyes. Tried to find some degree of calm and failed. He was angry and disappointed and upset and all of those horrible things at the same time. So he left the apartment, closed the door and locked it. Then he went upstairs.
Molly
MOLLY HAD BOUGHT a few candles from her favorite candle shop, and couldn’t wait to light the first one. So she’d chosen a custom scent meant to symbolize Chanukah, and lit it before lying down on her couch with a cup of tea. As the candle’s strong cinnamon scent filled the air, she began to contemplate when she’d make latkes. The party was in less than a week, on the first night of Chanukah. Life had been going well; she had decorated a few spaces and finally finished as much as she could do with Jon’s place without his involvement. She lay back against her couch, closed her eyes
She couldn’t believe she’d been able to do it. He hadn’t given her much, but she did her best with the material he’d given her. Designing and organizing a space for him had been a way of giving him the sense of home that he clearly seemed to miss. He was homesick for something he’d never had, or at least that was what it seemed like. And that made decorating and designing his space, in his apartment, the perfect first Chanukah present.
She couldn’t wait to see him.
Yet she had started to drift off when she heard the knock on the door.
Stretching, she got up off the couch and put her teacup on a coaster. “Coming,” she said as she headed toward the door. She wondered who it could be. After opening it wide enough to see who it was, she was startled.
“Jon?”
“I need you to come with me. Now.”
She swallowed. There was no expression on his face, no hint of emotion. She wanted to say something, anything . . . but there was nothing she could say in the face of the blizzard in his eyes.
“Just come with me.”
He didn’t offer his hand, just waited with the barest hint of patience.
The tears began to gather inside of her, and she did her best to focus. She blew out her candle, grabbed her keys, closed and locked the door. Then she followed him down the hall toward the hidden staircase that separated their floors. Along the way, she hoped he would soften, maybe even speak to her, but nothing.
He yanked open the metal door to the stairway, still silent, and she followed. His posture made him look like he’d been cut from winter’s ice.
“I—”
“No.”
She sniffed, and wiped her eyes sloppily with the back of her sleeve. Her heart pounded with every step she took. She tried to keep up with him but knew it wasn’t going to be easy. Especially when they arrived at his apartment.
It was as if he was about to place her head in the guillotine. She held her breath as he opened the door, not even pausing to see if she’d follow him. He stormed inside and gestured wildly, angrily.
“What is this?”
The tone of his voice made her shiver. She couldn’t think. The words were stuck. “I—”
“No.”
He stepped farther into the apartment and she followed him.
“This,” he gestured widely, “is an invasion of my privacy. I realize that I discussed things with you and said that I’d work on getting this done, but this . . .”
She watched the expression on his face go from frozen to hurt.
“I trusted you,” he said, as the sadness crept into his voice. “I left you in my apartment with my keys. And this is what you did.”
“I—”
He put his hand up to keep her from speaking, and the words that wanted to jump off her tongue stopped. Completely.
“Yes,” he said, sounding tired now. “Your intentions were good. I understand that. But . . . no. It was an invasion of my privacy. My trust. I want all of it gone. By the time I get back next week, I don’t want any evidence this ever happened. We’re done. I can’t deal with this. You didn’t have any right whatsoever to decorate my apartment without my help or approval.”
She couldn’t say anything, still didn’t have any words she could use to make this okay. “I—”
“No. You did it. You get it undone.”
Then he gestured toward the door, and even though he didn’t say a word, she knew with every fiber of her being that he meant her to leave. Only when she got to her own apartment one floor above did she let herself break down.