“Hello?” Jack yelled as she opened the door to her penthouse apartment Monday night. She’d just come from an afternoon ballet class across town, and she was sweaty, exhausted, and hungry. She was hoping J.P. was still at squash practice so she could take a long, hot shower, change into something sexy, and meet him at the door with a drink.
“Hey, gorgeous, I missed you!”
Jack smiled tightly. Sitting in the middle of the newspaper-strewn floor was J.P., clad in a pair of black Riverside Prep track pants and his dorky yellow Riverside Prep Squash polo shirt. The dog was yapping and jumping around him excitedly.
“Look, she can fetch!” J.P. exclaimed, taking a red rubber bone and throwing it toward Jack. It hit her hard in the knee.
“Great,” Jack said faintly. Couldn’t he forget about the dog for a second? It had been like that last night, too. Every time they left it in its organic cotton doggie bed in the kitchen, the puppy would start whining until finally they had to wedge it between them in bed to get it to fall asleep.
“I named her, too,” J.P. announced, picking up the dog and walking over to Jack. “I thought Magellan might be cute, even if she is a girl. Just because she’s so good at discovering things.” J.P. held up a pair of chewed-up black velvet Tory Burch flats like a trophy. “She found your shoes. She had to dig way into the closet to get them, too,” he added proudly.
“What the fuck?” Jack asked, snatching the shoes away. Thank goodness they were ancient. Still, the dog had fucking eaten her shoes and J.P. was rewarding it with a lame name?
“She didn’t know any better!” J.P. exclaimed, scooping up the puppy. He held out its paw, making it wave at Jack. “She says she’s sorry. Anyway, you know how my dad likes naming our dogs after explorers.” He shrugged. It was true. For some reason, Dick Cashman’s dogs—Nemo, Shackleton and Darwin—were all named after real or imaginary explorers, a fact he’d readily tell anyone who asked. “Are you and Magellan friends again?”
“Where are we going to dinner?” Jack asked, changing the subject. Her ballet class had been intense, and she was starving. “Maybe Gramercy Tavern?” she suggested. She couldn’t wait to share a bottle of wine, eat a huge steak, and cuddle in a cozy leather booth while other couples eyed them jealously.
“Oh.” J.P. frowned and placed Magellan near Jack’s feet. The dog let out a low-pitched whine and ran away from Jack. “I thought we could make dinner tonight. You know, to christen our kitchen.”
“Fine,” Jack sighed, trying to rein in her frustration. That was not the type of christening Jack had had in mind, but in a way, it was kind of sweet that J.P. loved being so domestic. Her mom was a histrionic French dancer who had subsisted on eight hundred calories a day for the past two decades, so Jack had learned how to order in by the time she was eight. Why make food if so many people were willing to do it for you?
“I printed out some recipes,” J.P. continued, pulling a sheaf of papers from the counter and handing them to her: lamb tagine, goat cheese bread pudding… Jack continued to riffle through the Epicurious.com printouts, a smile slowly curling her lips. They could actually make all this stuff? The recipes sounded like food she’d actually order.
“We can really do this?” Jack asked, glancing from the recipes up to J.P.’s face. She suddenly revised her evening fantasy. Instead, they’d be huddled together by the counter, their hips touching. J.P. would reach over her shoulder to add a dash of whatever spice you cooked with and then suddenly, he’d press her against the counter and…
“Sure,” J.P. replied confidently.
A little too confidently?
He began rummaging through the Sub-Zero refrigerator, pulling various ingredients out. Jack spotted several unopened bottles of organic wine on the counter, clearly another house-warming present. She eagerly picked one up, pulled a corkscrew from a drawer, and plunged it into the bottle.
“Wine?” she asked sweetly.
J.P. nodded absently, his brow furrowed in consternation as he squinted at the recipe. He dislodged ingredients from the cupboards, throwing them into the bright orange Le Creuset pot sitting on the six-burner range. He alternately mixed and added, every so often consulting the recipe like it held the secrets to life.
Jack tried to conceal her boredom. “Come over here,” she needled, setting the two glasses of wine at the opposite end of the counter. What was the point of preparing a romantic dinner if there was no romance involved?
“One second,” J.P. said, a little brusquely. “I mean, let me just finish,” he amended. Jack sulkily drained her glass of wine, then refilled it.
Finally, J.P. stopped whatever he was doing and sat down next to her. Jack realized she’d already downed her second glass of wine.
“So, we’re all alone…” Jack began, rubbing his ankle with her foot.
“Aren’t you glad we stayed in?” J.P. asked huskily. He leaned toward Jack, and she could smell his familiar, delicious scent of eucalyptus.
“Yes,” Jack said, kissing him. Suddenly, she forgot all her annoyances.
Just then Jack heard a splashing sound. She pulled away and glanced toward the stove. The pot was bubbling over, sending cascades of water onto the floor.
Magellan emitted a low-pitched whine, then crouched and began peeing on the floor, as if to add to the flood.
“Shit!” J.P. said as he hurried toward the stove and quickly turned off the burner. A faint burning smell hung in the air. He grabbed a roll of recycled paper towels and threw them on the floor. The scratchy brown paper slowly absorbed all the water. Next, J.P. moved over to the small puddle Magellan had left, adjacent to the counter. Jack looked away, not wanting to watch as her handsome boyfriend knelt to mop up dog pee.
When he was finished cleaning, J.P. offered a small smile. “You want to choose the recipe this time?”
“Let’s just order,” Jack sighed, completely forgetting about their kiss just a moment ago.
“Okay. You pick somewhere and I’ll take the dog for a walk.” J.P. was already clipping the Louis Vuitton leash around Magellan’s Swarovski crystal–bedecked collar, another gift courtesy of Tatyana.
“Sure,” Jack said, not even saying goodbye as she took another swig of her wine. She picked up a menu for a gross diner nearby. Right now, all she wanted was a greasy grilled cheese and fries, and she wanted them fast. She was happy to have the apartment to herself for a little bit.
And who said there was never such a thing as being too close?