“Wait . . . wait, it’s stuck—”
“You’re stuck?”
“It’s stuck— Ow!” Cooper yelps. “My thumb. My beautiful thumb.”
“Put it down,” I say. “I’m putting it down. One, two . . .”
The brown leather La-Z-Boy thumps into the stairwell, jammed ungracefully in the first-floor landing. Cooper and I exhale, red-faced and sweaty. I’d found him struggling with the chair on the street, on my way to see Steph. There was no way he was getting it inside on his own.
“She’s heavier than she looks.” He says it almost admiringly, as if the chair has impressed him with its hidden substance.
“The La-Z-Boy’s a she?” I ask. “I don’t think so.”
“Gender’s a construct,” Cooper says. He readjusts his glasses: black-rimmed today, which make him look like a hipster Clark Kent. Not entirely unappealing. “Wow, you’re so close-minded.”
“If I recall, I was the one who said we could get it inside, and that sounds like the talk of a revolutionary to me.”
“Astoria’s answer to Che Guevara?”
“Try Katniss Everdeen.” I mime shooting an arrow.
He laughs, once. He is completely engaged, leaning forward on the side of the La-Z-Boy, ready to play along. Someone clears their throat. Mrs. Karpinski, the grouchy upstairs neighbor who never leaves the apartment without a hairnet and a frown, is standing above us on the stairs. We quickly resume our positions.
“One, two, three.” I haul my end up.
“It’s heavy!” Cooper staggers up a step.
“You’re such a weakling,” I puff.
“No, you’re unnaturally strong.”
We shove the elephantine chair foot by foot into the loft, until finally, finally, it’s inside. We are doubled over and panting.
“That was a workout,” Cooper says.
I massage my arms. “Who needs the gym when you can haul furniture from the street?”
“Are you sure it’s okay?” Cooper rubs his jaw. “It’s not going to have bedbugs, is it?”
“Dude. No. No one puts out one piece of furniture if they have bedbugs. And they don’t put a ‘works fine’ sign on it either,” I add, pointing to the folded-up piece of paper in his pocket. “People aren’t dicks.”
“You’re right.” He inhales, puffing out his chest. “My throne has arrived.”
“Technically we are coparents of this throne,” I say.
We glance at each other and simultaneously launch ourselves at the chair. I manage to get half my butt in, but so does he. Scrabbling for control, I find the lever and shoot us backward as the footrest jerks up. I end up half on his lap, half on the armrest, one hand around his neck. Which is probably where we both wanted to end up. Steph’s not here: she would’ve come out of her room by now. We’re alone in the loft, which makes it feel unfamiliar in an interesting sort of way. I can feel Cooper’s chest rising and falling through my thigh. Even when relaxed, neutral, the corners of his mouth lift slightly upward. His glasses are askew. Gold flecks in each iris: I’ve never been close enough to tell before now. His lashes are surprisingly long, his jaw surprisingly strong—adding to the delicate/manly dichotomy of his face. I realize I’m staring, and he grins, as if to say, Like what you see, huh? I make a Don’t flatter yourself face in return. He says, “I can stay here all night.”
“Me too,” I counter.
“Great.” He shifts. I wobble and have to grab his arm. Muscle beneath my fingers. His hand presses into my back. We’re basically holding each other. We’re certainly touching each other. He cocks an eyebrow, voice a teasing murmur. “Tell me more about your list.”
He says it as if he expects me to leap off him, girlishly offended. What happens if I don’t? Watch out, Sheryl Sandberg, your girl’s about to lean in.
“Tonight,” I say, “I’m going on a threesome. Having a threesome?” I straighten his glasses. “I’m having sex with two people from the internet.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. No doubt he’s wondering where that boner cushion’s at. We are inches from each other’s mouths. I could kiss him right now and he’d kiss me back. But then I think about Elan. His apartment and his confidence and the fact he is Elan Behzadi. His six-thousand-dollar commission floating above me like a specter. The way his dark eyes bring me into being, casting me older, mysterious. Even sexy. Suddenly scruffy-haired Cooper in his secondhand chair and shared messy loft doesn’t seem as attractive. My body loses interest, wanting instead to replay the way Elan’s warm hand felt on mine, the way his closeness picked up my heart rate.
Cooper murmurs, “You are something else.”
But really, I am somewhere else.
Cooper is a boy. Elan is a man.
Footsteps coming up the stairs. Steph. I slip out of the La-Z-Boy, and am well on the other side of the room when she comes in.
“Greetings and salutations,” I say. “Look what we found.”
* * * *
I regale the tale of my six-thousand-dollar commission to Steph with the theatrics of an alien abductee. I’m expecting salacious excitement. But her brow is furrowed, expression doubtful. “He paid you,” she clarifies. “Like a prozzie?”
I bristle. “Putting aside that sex work is a legitimate form of employment: he didn’t buy me; he bought the books.”
“That he won’t use.”
“I thought you’d be excited,” I exclaim. “We were flirting. He was into me. It must be all the bucket-list stuff. It’s really upping my game.” As I say it, it rings true. I bet my skin is rolling with pheromones. “I’m like catnip right now.”
“Sure.” Steph is wincing. “It’s just . . .”
“What?”
“Isn’t he one of those different-girl-for-every-day-of-the-week guys?”
There is some truth to this: Elan’s no Leonardo DiCaprio, but he’s not a monk. “I didn’t realize you were such an expert on him.”
“Lace,” she sighs. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
“God, I’m not that naive, Steph! I know we’re not going to get married and have a bunch of little Persian babies. But don’t you think two grown-ass people can enter into something mutually beneficial as long as there’s reasonable expectations and clear communication?”
“Did you have that? Clear communication?”
I exhale harshly. “Don’t you think I’m hot enough for him?”
“What?”
“You don’t think he’d be into me because I’m not, what, worldly enough? Sophisticated enough?”
“Lace, no! No! You’re a hottie with the lottie. He’d be lucky to have you, any guy would. I just think you should be careful. Particularly if he’s the type to throw around commissions for six bloody grand. That’s confusing, especially if you need it. Which you do, right?” Her voice softens a little. “Did you find out how much your copay on the surgery might be?”
Between five and eight thousand dollars. Plus the cost of not working while I recover, and all the stuff I’d have to buy for that. I’m living on my credit card right now, and, oh, did I mention student debt? So, yes. I need the money. But there is a distinct and slightly annoying irony in she-who-falls-for-unavailable-women giving me advice on sexual boundaries. “Fine. I won’t cash the check when I get it.”
“Don’t you get paid automatically?”
I huff out some air. “He made the initial check out to me, not Hoffman House. It’s an accounting thing; I’ll get a check now. Which I won’t cash. Besides he’s away for a month. He’ll probably screw a million French groupies and forget all about me.”
My gaze falls to her nightstand. On top of dog-eared copies of Tipping the Velvet and a few awful true-crime things is a brand-new book. Coping with Cancer: Getting Through Life’s Biggest Challenge. The author, fiftysomething, never met a tea cozy she didn’t like, stares from the front cover with a How are you really? look of compassion. I click my eyes away. I know it’s a just-trying-to-help purchase, but I feel weirdly embarrassed for my ex-roommate, like I’d just caught her doing something odd and private.
Then a flicker of anger. I don’t have cancer, Steph. I might never get it.
She hasn’t noticed. “How’s everything else going?” she asks. “Did you make an appointment with the plastic surgeon Vivian suggested?”
“I left a message,” I lie. How did Steph know about that?
She regards me with the disappointment of a favored student caught cheating on a test. “You’re still doing self checks, right?” She mimes rubbing her breasts in small circles.
“I just got a clear scan. It’d take ages for something to develop to the point that I could feel it.” I unearth her only pair of heels: black stiletto Manolos, bought online while very inebriated. “Can I borrow these? For my ménage à trois?”
Steph stares at me, chewing lipstick off her bottom lip in concern. “Lace.”
“Steph.”
Her tone is as gentle as baby shampoo. “Do you want to talk about it?”
My chest tightens. For a terrifying moment, I think I might cry. I press my lips together until it passes. “What I really need are these shoes.” I smile, too big, too breezy. “So can I borrow them or what?”