“TOBIAS, THIS IS JESSICA. JESSICA, TOBIAS.”
“The famous man,” Jessica said.
Tobias cocked his head at her. “I hope that’s a good thing.”
“The best.” Jessica was sitting on the dirty white couch in our living room, her legs curled up under her and an oversized shawl over her shoulders. She’d bought it in New Mexico on a meditation retreat she’d gone on the summer before. I wanted to go but didn’t have the cash. For a week of camping and silence, five hundred dollars seemed like a lot of money. She’d sold her bedroom air-conditioning unit to help pay for it. The following summer she spent nearly entirely at Sumir’s.
“Well, that’s a relief,” Tobias said. He looked from Jessica to me and back. “Sabrina is pretty famous in my world, too.”
My stomach flipped.
“I feel like I already know you,” Jessica said. “I’ve been the captain of your search party.”
Tobias smiled, although if he was amused or confused I couldn’t necessarily say. I shot Jessica a cool-it look. He didn’t know about the UCLA endeavor.
“I like it here,” he said instead. He started looking around. I peered at our apartment through his eyes. The hanging stained-glass pendant in the window, the pile of Moroccan meditation cushions, the mismatched curtains—like stepping into a crystal shop, without the incense. We had a lot of stuff.
“We like it, too,” I said.
Tobias shifted onto his left foot beside me. We had left his apartment because we wanted time to be alone together, and Matty was in a talkative mood, which meant shutting the door was impossible. Sex with Tobias was something I could not get enough of. With old boyfriends it had felt like this separate thing—something different in tone and resonance from the rest of our relationship. Time out of time. But with Tobias it was an extension. He made love the way he lived—close, intense, on the edge. Maybe that’s why it was impactful. Every time we were in bed I had the sense, even underlying, that it might be the last.
Right then I just wanted to lock him in my bedroom. Usually on the weekends Jessica was at Sumir’s. It hadn’t occurred to me she would be home.
“What are you guys up to?” Jessica asked.
“Just hanging out,” I said. “Where’s Sumir?”
Jessica looked around like she was surprised he wasn’t there. “He had to work,” she said. “Hey, do you guys want to get brunch?”
Tobias didn’t say anything. “We ate,” I answered.
Jessica hopped off the couch, tucking her shawl around her. “Is it cold out?”
I couldn’t answer. I had no idea what the temperature was. We had spent the entire subway ride like two teenagers who had no place to go. Cold? For us it was July in November.
“A little,” Tobias said. “Jacket, no hat.”
Jessica beamed at him. “Thanks.” To me: “He’s taller than I thought he’d be.”
I rolled my eyes and laughed; so did Tobias.
She went into her bedroom. “Nice to meet you!” she called over her shoulder.
Tobias’s hands found my hips. He pushed me back against the living room wall. “Not here,” I breathed.
“Show me where.”
I led him into my bedroom. The windows were open and it was cold and loud. Tenth Avenue was a riot of noise. I shut one. I pulled the other down until there was a gap of half a foot.
I turned around to find Tobias sitting on my bed. He was looking up at the wall separating my two windows. My stomach instantly turned in on itself, because I knew what he was seeing.
“The photo,” he said.
The one. A man, eyes closed, covered in a cloud of smoke. His own work. The photo I’d bought and carried with me through two campus apartments and finally here, to New York, where I had, after two years, taken it out from under my bed, had it framed, and hung it up. It read like a map, kind a symbol, like a prophecy. And Tobias knew it.
“How did you…” But it wasn’t a question, not exactly.
I froze. I could not physically move. I didn’t know if that was good, or the end. What if he was freaked out? Didn’t this make me worse than a stalker?
“I think I’ve been looking for you, too,” he said. He didn’t say it to me. He said it to the photograph. I went to him then. We made love for the first time in my bed. It felt like we were making up for lost time. But afterward, and for years later, I couldn’t help but think of the way he said it, what had his attention. I’ve been looking for you.
Maybe he meant the man. Maybe he meant the photo. Maybe it wasn’t me after all.