Roomies by Christina Lauren
fifteen
“For the love of God, who do I have to blow to get a fucking electrician over here?”
It’s nearing the end of rehearsal and there’s barely a hiccup when Brian screeches this into the backstage abyss. Coming from anyone else, this rhetorical would be met with an array of saucily raised hands, but none of us can even get it up to joke about getting sexual where Brian is concerned.
I click a surreptitious photo of his rage face and then show it to Calvin, who’s standing beside me, waiting for Robert to finish up auditioning a new percussionist.
“Wow,” Calvin whispers. “That one’s sour as vinegar.”
“Don’t even get me—”
“Holland.” Brian materializes like a dementor in front of me, and I lower my camera as inconspicuously as I can. “You think this is the time for photos? You have seventeen boxes of merch up front to unpack, and two hours until tonight’s show.”
Mortified, I glance quickly to Calvin.
“Don’t look at him,” Brian growls, and snaps crisply in front of my face. “He’s not going to touch a box with those hands. Get up front, and get unpacking.”
I feel so belittled; I can’t even meet Calvin’s eyes right now. With a tight “Sounds good,” I turn and head toward the front of the house.
I hate Brian.
I hate Brian.
This is why no one corrects you when you say expresso, or ex cetera,I think, all the way down the aisle. This is why even Robert didn’t tell you when you had toilet paper on your shoe.
Is it time for me to start looking for another job? The thought makes me laugh, because that time came and went about two years ago. If I haven’t started my novel by summer—a lofty goal, considering I don’t even have an idea—maybe I can find something as an intern at a magazine? I think of the connections I have and wonder if it’s time to send out more feeler résumés.
Turns out Brian was exaggerating slightly about the loads of boxes to unpack: there are four, and they’re tiny. I’m guessing they’re full of key chains and embroidered knit caps. Even with only one arm it will take me, at most, ten minutes to put this stuff away.
A low whistle comes from the other side of the counter and I look up to see Calvin surveying the span of merch beneath the glass case. “I forgot how much of this stuff there was.”
I look up, humiliated all over again for him to see me standing out here unpacking overpriced crap with my comparably untalented hands. “Hey.”
He picks up a key chain and spins it on an index finger. “Do you ever think of taking some of this stuff and selling it on eBay?”
I look around wildly, making sure no one heard him. To even joke about something like that is a huge no-no. “God, no.”
“I was kidding. I mean, I’d only encourage that sort of thing if you set it up under Brian’s name.” He leans his folded arms on the glass case, bending so he’s level with me. He never rushes to speak, this one. Green eyes search mine before he quietly asks, “You okay?”
I busy myself with unpacking the box. “Sure, why?”
“You seem a little tense.”
Ripping at a stubborn piece of packing tape, I growl, “Why would I be tense?”
Calvin reaches out, bracing a hand on each side of the cardboard to steady it. “Because your boss is a twat?”
Embarrassment and gratitude flush through me and I look up at him. “He’s pretty abhorrent.”
“D’you like your job, though?” he asks, and looks away, back down at the contents of the display case.
The reprieve from eye contact allows me to answer honestly: “I like hearing the music. I like taking the photographs, but out here . . . I feel like I’m wasting my brain.”
“You know, that night, what Jeff said . . .”
Jeff’s words come running back to me, and they ache: She sees herself as a supporting character, even in her own life story.
Calvin continues, “I mean, in all the time we’ve talked about who we are, we’ve never talked about what you studied, what you want to do with your life.”
This makes me pause in surprise. “Yes, we have.”
But when he looks back at me, eyes narrowed, I realize he’s right.
“I have an MFA in creative writing.” I bite my lip and pull a strand of hair away from my face while he gazes at me intently. “I want to be a novelist.”
“Wow,” he says, looking slightly taken aback. “I always assumed you wanted to do something with music.”
“Why?”
He looks at me like I’m dense.
“I promise,” I tell him, “I’m not a musician.”
“Well, a novelist is amazing all the same. And an MFA. That’s really impressive, Holland.”
I rarely admit this ambition anymore because it seems to always garner this exact reaction: an odd combination of surprised and impressed. And I can’t tell whether people respond this way because they like the idea that I want to do something difficult and creative, or because nobody looks at me and immediately thinks She’s got stories buried inside her.
When I graduated, I had dreams of writing something fun, commercial, entertaining. Now I’m a twenty-five-year-old glorified concession worker who hasn’t finished a short story or poem or, hell, a sentence in months. If I had a quarter for each time someone told me The only way to write the novel is to just sit down and do it, I’d be able to afford a penthouse overlooking Central Park. Sometimes well-intended advice is so supremely unhelpful.
“It’s only impressive if you do something with it,” I say.
“So do something.”
“Easier said than done.” I let out a little growl. “I want to write, but it’s like my brain is empty when I try to think of a story. Lately I feel like I’m not qualified to do anything, not like you, or Robert.”
Instead of responding to the unmasked vulnerability here, he—thankfully—laughs. “Don’t ask me to write an essay, or solve any maths. I’d embarrass you.” He sobers. “We’re all good at different things, mo stóirín. I think you undervalue your own gifts.” He looks back down at the case but reaches across the glass, twisting his pinkie with mine. “You’re doing all this stuff for me, and Robert—not for yourself. There’s enormous generosity in that. And it seems to me that you know music better than a lot of people around here”—he tilts his head back, indicating the theater—“so obviously your brain is creatively driven. Trust your muse.”
He’s just poked at the tender spot in my emotions.
“But what if I don’t have one? There’s a part of me that worries I don’t love to write enough to do it all day, my entire life.” I’ve never said those words to anyone, and the clawing honesty of them leaves me feeling untethered and bare. “I think part of what’s keeping me from starting is the fear that I won’t actually love it, and then I’ll be left with a degree I won’t use, and no other prospects.”
The problem is I know he can’t relate to this. He picked up a guitar when he was four, and has played out of sheer love for it ever since. I love to read, but whenever I pick up a novel that blows me away, I think, There’s no way I have something like that inside me. Is Jeff right? Am I unable to create anything because I see myself in a supporting role? Doomed to always be the friend, the daughter, the linchpin in everyone else’s story?
As if he realizes he can’t say anything to this, Calvin points to a glossy collector’s-edition program that shows Luis and Seth standing onstage, grinning at each other after the performance that earned them their first, thunderous round of applause.
“Did you take this photo?”
I did, actually, but I’m surprised this is his question. It’s like it hasn’t occurred to him yet that he’s going to be the new sweetheart of Broadway. That there’s going to be a photo of him and Ramón jubilantly grinning at each other on these commemorative programs, selling for twenty-five dollars a pop.
“Yeah, I did.”
He smiles down at me, proud. “It’s a great shot. You’ve got all these gifts you don’t even realize.”
Rehearsal done, and with the crowd thickening outside, Calvin holds open the door, and we take a right down Forty-Seventh. Robert is handing the reins over to the assistant musical director tonight because he’s been working ridiculous hours getting Calvin and Ramón ready for their start while still running every performance.
I suspect Jeff jumped in and put his foot down, insisting his husband take the next few nights off to breathe.
It’s freezing out. I wrap my scarf a little tighter around my neck, pushing my hands into a pair of gloves. Calvin—who seems to still be running on adrenaline from rehearsal—doesn’t seem to notice the chill at all.
“How was the rest of your afternoon?” he asks, glancing over at me as we wait to cross the street.
A puff of condensation escapes with my laugh. “I plotted Brian’s murder—”
“An excellent idea for a book,” he cuts in.
“Unpacked some merchandise—”
“And may I say the display looks exquisite.”
I watch him out of the corner of my eye. “You’re being awfully complimentary.”
His gloved hand comes up to his chest. “I’m simply impressed with how much you do around the theater, that’s all. It’s like you’re born to be here.”
I tuck my arm through his, huddling against the wind. “One of Robert’s favorite stories to tell is about the day I was born.” I glance up at him and see how riveted his attention is on my face even as we walk. “According to Robert, and Jeff, and Mom, and anyone else who was there that day, Dad brought my five siblings into the room to meet me, and it was like a pile of puppies all over Mom, who looked so exhausted she could barely speak. Robert took me from her arms and told her she could rest. Apparently he said, ‘How about you let me take care of this one?’ ”
Calvin laughs.
I grin up at him. “I’m being serious.”
“I’m laughing because I can absolutely believe this.”
“Whenever I wanted to do anything big,” I say, “like summer camp, volleyball, a weekend trip with a friend and her family—I’d ask my parents, but they’d usually tell me to check with my uncles, too. I spent every day after school at their house in Des Moines. I was there most weekends. I went to work with Robert at night, and did my homework in my favorite seat—row H, seat twenty-three—while he conducted the symphony rehearsal.”
“Did it bother your parents?” he asks. “Mam was so protective; I think this would have killed her.”
He’s not the first person to ask me that. My entire life, friends wondered whether there was some rift between me and my parents, and there never was. I just gravitated to my uncles, and they were family, so it never bothered my mom. “When I came around, Mom had so much less time to baby me. Thomas was thirteen when I was born. By the time I was only three, Dad was coaching Thomas in varsity football and they went to state, so that became the biggest part of our family life. Thomas got a full scholarship to the University of Iowa and Dad was there all the time. Olivia was seven years older, and always a handful for Mom. Davis was Mom’s little cuddler and—”
“You got lost in the shuffle?”
I shake my head. “Maybe a little. I don’t know. I guess it’s easier to see it as an arrangement that worked out for everyone. Mom seemed happy to see me thriving with them.”
“It must have been amazing, growing up in the symphony hall.”
I nod. “I could probably name any classical piece within a few opening notes, but I wonder sometimes if it’s devastating to Robert that I’m not more musical.”
“That is musical, Holland.”
“No, I meant talented.”
I can feel him looking at me a bit longer before tucking my arm more tightly in his.
A car horn wails as it passes, and we move with the crowd like a school of fish down the sidewalk and to the restaurant where we’re meeting Robert, Jeff, and Lulu. I’m mildly anxious to be together with my uncles and Calvin in the same place, only because the four of us haven’t all been together since we dropped the news of our nuptials. I also hope Lulu has worked through whatever’s been bothering her. I love Lulu, but I’m not sure how much more of her drama I can take.
Calvin motions for me to lead the way and we descend the small set of stairs that lead to Sushi of Gari. Restaurants in New York come in every imaginable size, molded to fit the space available. Here, the hum of voices is a monotonous buzz as we’re led through a Tetris game of tables and past a narrow sushi bar to a booth of sorts where Lulu, Robert, and Jeff wait, sipping their sake.
Robert and Jeff both stand, each pressing a kiss to my cheek before we slip into the empty bench waiting for us.
“Sorry we’re late,” I say.
Robert waves us off. “We just got here.”
Lulu raises her sake cup. “I didn’t. I’ve been here for twenty minutes.”
Answering my mental question, Jeff adds, “Lulu has been entertaining us,” and gives me a little wink.
“You don’t say.” I slip out of my coat and toss a warning glance to her across the table.
She grins smugly back at me and holds out her phone. “Behold, I am technology.”
Warily, I take it from her. “Oh my God.” I stare down at the screen. It’s a photograph of a couple on the beach, their toes in the sand and a fire crackling behind them. But it’s no ordinary couple. It’s us, Calvin and me.
Lulu smacks a hand on the table. “I knew that Photoshop class would be useful for more than just digitally enlarging my boobs.”
In my peripheral vision, I see Robert and Jeff exchange a look. At best, they tolerate Lulu. But I’m actually relieved she’s here; she’s providing some social buffer from the elephant in the room—Me, Calvin, the Uncles: all of us here together as family.
“Christ,” Calvin says, looking over my shoulder. His cheek is nearly pressed to mine and I can still feel the chill of the air outside on his skin. “This is pretty good.”
“Your honeymoon,” Lulu says. “To Florida, obviously, since you can’t fly out of the country without getting busted.”
Jeff gently shushes her and I swipe to the next image—a photo of Calvin and me together at an outdoor concert. He’s standing behind me, arms wrapped around my waist, with his jaw pressed to my temple. In another we’re on a bench in the park looking at each other, not the camera. “You did this? You can barely figure out how to record The Daily Show.”
She ignores the insult. “I was inspired by this guy who inserts himself into Kendall Kardashian’s Instagram pictures.” Robert and Jeff appear to listen to her, but I can see from their glassy stares that with the combined utterance of Instagramand Kardashian, she’s immediately lost them. “I used a bunch of pictures from your wedding day, and then a few of you I had on my phone. And that one you took and sent me of him at the bar.”
I flash my eyes to her in warning, but Calvin doesn’t seem to have heard, he’s still studying the doctored photo.
“I’ll tell you what,” Lulu continues, pointing at the phone, “I’ll never believe anything I see on the cover of a magazine again, but I’m excited as hell for my Christmas card photo with Prince Harry and Ed Sheeran.”
We swipe one more time to the right and then freeze in unison at the pair of naked boobs on the screen before swiping back to the photo of us on the bench.
“Don’t go too far,” she says after quickly swallowing a sip of her rice wine. “There are pictures of my boobs on there, and then Gene sent some back.”
Calvin grabs the phone—presumably before we get an inadvertent eyeful of dick—and returns it to Lulu. “Can you send them to Holland? The Photoshopped ones, not the boobs.” He looks down to me. “We look like a real couple.”
“A hot couple,” Lulu adds, and my pulse does a tap dance across the room. Lulu is immediately forgiven. I know the photos have been helped by filters and a little computer magic, but I look like I actually belong next to him.
Across the table, Robert pours more sake into his cup—already. He’s not usually a big drinker and I catch Jeff’s eye. We both do a curious little eyebrow flicker.
“They’re certainly convincing,” Robert says distractedly, taking his glasses off and rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Is it weird to see them?” I ask.
He looks up at me, eyes tight. “There’s a lot about this that is weird to me.” He pauses and then reaches for my hand. “I know I didn’t want you to do this, but I can’t pretend that having Ramón and Calvin together, playing the pieces I wrote . . . it’s a bit of a dream.”
Calvin makes a tiny sound of agreement in the back of his throat.
Letting go of my hand, Robert says more quietly, “But, God, I hope this works.”
“Listen,” Jeff says, and lifts Robert’s hand to kiss it. “I might not be completely on board with how all this came together, but even I’m confident it will be fine.”
I look between them, worried. Jeff isn’t the PDA type. He’s unflappable—yes. Calm and steady—yes. But he’s never very outwardly affectionate in front of people. So seeing him reassure Robert like this gets my antennae up. “Is something wrong?”
The two share a quiet look before Robert squeezes Jeff’s hand and replaces his glasses. “I worry it’s going to be tight. Calvin should start officially next week, but who knows if we can swing it.”
“We filed everything a day and a half after the wedding,” I say, glancing at Calvin, who nods.
“I know you did, Buttercup, it isn’t you. Work permits can take months, and we’re asking for it to move through in two weeks, total. It’s unlikely, and I’m not sure once Luis is gone that I can pair Ramón with Lisa until Calvin is officially hired. Ramón won’t go for it.”
One look at Calvin’s face—affronted, possessive—and I know Robert is right.
Jeff turns to Calvin and me. “I talked to Sam down at immigration and he assured me they’ve got what they need for now. He can’t guarantee approval, but he can give things a little nudge and make sure those forms go through in time.”
My shoulders drop with relief. “Oh. That’s good, at least.”
“I know I’ve said it,” Calvin says to Robert, “but thank you for everything you’ve done. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”
“None of that,” Robert says, shaking off the tension. “I’m just having some pre-show jitters. Always happens. Circumstances are just a little different this time.”
The waitress stops at the edge of the table and asks if we’re ready to order appetizers. With little discussion Jeff and Robert order their usual, and during Lulu’s turn, Calvin moves closer, pointing to my menu. “If I get the eggplant, do you want to split? Or even get a few appetizers and share?”
It’s such a coupley thing to do, it catches me off guard.
“Holls?” Beneath his patient smile, there’s an amused glint in his eye.
“Sure,” I say. “What else did you want?”
He opens his mouth to answer, right as his phone vibrates in his pocket. He’s so close, I actually feel it move through the cushioned bench. “Sorry,” he says, pulling away and looking down to the screen.
I catch the name Natalie.
Calvin stares down at the screen in confusion for another ring, and then his smile slips as he seems to realize something. “Ah, bollocks.”
My throat goes tight. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes. I . . .” He stops, seeming to have changed his mind, and turns to address the table. “Would you all excuse me for a minute? I need to take this.” Back to me again. “Just order us whatever.”
Calvin stands and I twist in my seat. “You’re sure you’re fine?”
“Of course.” With a squeeze of my shoulder, he steps away and heads out of the restaurant. Through the glass doors I watch him climb the stairs—phone already pressed to his ear—before he’s out of sight.
I drop my keys on the counter and watch Calvin wordlessly duck in to use the bathroom before bed. I had this strange sense of a Plexiglas barrier between us the entire walk home and am trying to figure out what’s bothering him. Other than the obvious, of course: the looming pressure of his first performance, the stress over our paperwork getting filed in time. Maybe that’s all it is and he just needs some time to process it all. Keeping our sanity intact while we wait for the work authorization to come through is like watching someone hammer a nail through my hand one tiny blow at a time. It’s excruciating, and I have no control. Imagine how it feels for him.
But Calvin finds so much joy in music, and he’s so optimistic about all this, it seems hard to believe that he’s quiet because he’s worried about that. And what was the urgent phone call tonight? Is there another opportunity he’s keeping on the back burner? Am I the only one who’s planning to be faithful?
The prospect makes me want to vomit.
Calvin emerges, and does a double take when he sees me standing exactly where he left me, just inside the door.
“You feel all right?” he asks.
I attempt a smile. “Yeah. Dinner was fun.”
Nodding, he moves to the couch, sitting down, untucking his dress shirt, and putting his head in his hands.
It’s so weird to live with someone I don’t know that well. He didn’t drink very much, so I know he’s not suffering any ill effects from alcohol. We just ate a half hour ago, so I doubt he’s suffering from something he ate . . .
“Are you all right?” I ask.
He nods, and then looks up at me, eyes red and unfocused from exhaustion. “I know it’s only been a little over a week, but seeing Robert nervous tonight made me nervous. What if we did all this for nothing? I feel like the waiting to start is killing me. I just want to perform. I just want to get in there.”
I nod in understanding, but I get a weird twist of guilt, like I should be speeding this up somehow. And doing all this for nothing doesn’t land entirely without impact, either. I realize we aren’t actually together, but it’s been nice to be with him, even platonically. It doesn’t feel like nothing.
The name Natalie floats into my memory, paired with the way he dashed off . . . it leaves me feeling uneasy for a different reason entirely. “I hope that the phone call wasn’t anything bad.”
It seems to take him a few seconds to remember, and then he looks up, sheepish. “Oh.” He grimaces. “I was supposed to be on a date, and completely forgot.”
This leaves me momentarily speechless.
“Hold on,” he corrects, holding up a hand, “that came out wrong. It was a date I made a few days before we had that first lunch. I forgot to cancel it. I’m sorry.”
Well, this is awkward. I sit down next to him on the couch, picking at a tiny hangnail.
“I guess, if you wanted—but, yeah, I don’t know—we probably shouldn’t—” I trip over my words and can feel him turn to look at me. “Date. Shouldn’t. I mean, just for appearances.”
“Bloody hell, Holland,” he finally says, incredulous. “I’m not apologizing because I’m feeling regret that I wasn’t with her tonight. I’m apologizing because another woman called me when I was out to dinner with you and your lot.”
“Oh.”
He bursts out laughing. “Do you think I’m an absolute gobshite?”
“No?” I say, and can’t help smiling back at him because I have no idea what a gobshite is. The unease slowly dissolves. “But it’s true that our situation is a little unprecedented.”
“It is, but I’m not going to be unfaithful . . . even if we’re pretending.”
Although he’s used the word unfaithful, it’s the pretending that sends a tiny hot poker through my side. I’m not pretending—or, I am; I’m pretending that I don’t have feelings for him.
“How did you meet her?”
“Through a friend,” he says easily. “There wasn’t some long story building up to this. I’ve seen her once. That reminds me,” he begins, and waits for me to look up at him.
Finally, the burn eases, and I can. “What’s that?”
“We never discussed what to say when someone asks us how we met.”
I nod, looking back at the coffee table. I remember the intimacy of our texts the other night, how it felt to curl up against him on the couch, the heat of his skin, the firm press of him next to me, and have to remind myself that we’re pretending. “I guess we should keep it as simple as we can. We met at the subway station. It doesn’t have to be more complicated than that.”
