Roomies by Christina Lauren

twenty-two

The next few weeks are a blur of sex and takeout, of roaring applause and winter turning into spring, of quiet conversations in the rain on our way home. And every single time we walk in the front door, it feels like a warp back to surreal: Calvin isn’t just staying in my apartment anymore, he lives there.

I’ve never had a sexual relationship like this: sex everywhere, every day, almost like we can’t get enough. Instead of taking turns in the shower, we shower together. There’s barely enough room for one, but as Calvin correctly points out, that’s the best reason to do it. Some afternoons we have lunch with Robert and Jeff, but more often than not we’re at home—preferring the quiet comfort of home pre-performance—reading, talking, watching a movie on the couch. Or tangled together in bed.

Calvin is a nearly insatiable lover, and his appetite for it calms the fever mirrored in me, makes me less self-conscious about the way it seems I want him again nearly as soon as we’ve finished. He kisses me constantly and brings me tiny gifts: bookmarks with quotes from books I adore, my favorite chocolate-covered oranges from the candy store around the corner, and tiny pink treasures—earrings, a woven bracelet from a street vendor, zany fuschia-rimmed sunglasses. He eats like a ravenous teenager and prefers to be completely naked when we’re home—Just for the craic of it—insisting there’s nothing like airing out after an intense day of rehearsal. Ah, Holland, he says, putting on a thick accent, it feels amazen. T’ere’s nothin’ like going bollocks bare when yer sweatin’ in yer trousers like da’.

And then he tackles me on the couch and tickles me until I’m hysterically laughing . . . and naked, too.

I try to remind myself that this isn’t real—and it certainly isn’t forever—but every time he rolls over in the middle of the night and wakes me up with his hands and his weight over me, it feels more real. Every time he brings me a cup of coffee with his crazy bed head and pillow lines on his face, it feels more real. Every time he holds my jacket for me to slip into before we leave the apartment, and kisses my cheek, it feels more real.

Whether he’s enthralling hundreds, or moving above me staring unfocused at my lips, or quietly plucking away at his guitar on the sofa at noon, I wonder how I lived such a solitary, mediocre life before him. Even then, watching him so briefly create magic as he played at the station was the highlight of my week. But now he’s become this consuming force of nature in my world. How could I possibly not fall in love with that?

I reply to his sister, and despite Calvin’s insistence that she’s not much of a texter, she writes me again. Back and forth like this every day—at first with little innocuous tidbits and then with photos and stories—we get to know each other. Each little bit of him in my life is another nail building the home our hearts can inhabit, and with a hunger that is nearly aching, I want to bring his mother and sister out here to visit. I know he misses them. I don’t have a lot of extra, but together Brigid and I scrounge it together and buy two tickets to surprise him.

One night, it’s the climax of the second act and Ramón is singing near the lip of the stage as his character watches his daughters move farther into the forest. Calvin accompanies him in the orchestra pit just a few feet away. This is the moment everyone waits for, where the attention of an entire audience is held by a single set of spotlights focused on Ramón. I can barely breathe during this song, and make a point each night of finding my way to the door to listen, to watch, to wait for that single note that—

“Mama, is it going to be over soon? They’re only singing for hours.”

A ripple of laughter moves through the auditorium at the sound of this boisterous kid voice, but Ramón plays into the entire thing, nodding in sympathy as the sheepish mother waves and carries the little girl away. The audience erupts into applause.

Live theater is unpredictable, and most performers will say that’s partly what they love about it. Whether it’s an unruly child or a missed lighting cue or a wardrobe malfunction, the energy of the audience and these tiny uncertainties are exactly what makes it addicting.

For Calvin, performing seems to be an intoxicating aphrodisiac. He finds me that night after his final bow and can hardly contain himself, trapping me against the iron frame of the forest set. His eyes are bright with the mischievous joy I’ve grown addicted to. Dropping his arms to my waist, he lifts me just high enough for my feet to come off the ground.

By now, the theater is practically empty, but he walks us both deeper backstage, dropping sucking kisses up my neck.

“You were fantastic tonight,” I tell him just before he puts his lips on mine.

He speaks into the kiss. “I dropped a few notes on ‘I Didn’t Expect You.’ ”

“Yeah, but only two,” I say, pulling back a little, “and Ramón was really belting it out tonight, so I think only you and Robert noticed.”

“And you,” he whispers.

I nod toward the side exit. “Are you doing the stage door?”

Fans of the show wait outside behind the theater, hoping for a glimpse or a photo of one of the cast as they leave for the night. Ramón almost always stops by, and lately Calvin has had quite a fan club gathering there, too.

He places me back on my feet and the front of my body drags along the front of his. He’s half-hard for me beneath his dress pants, and it’s almost impossible not to wrap my legs around him and shimmy myself back up.

Just over his shoulder, I catch Brian as he looks away from where we’re tucked into the shadows. I see the tail end of his disgusted sneer, and the expression communicates so much that I feel, for a second, like I’ve been punched.

I can practically hear his voice: You are such a fucking fool, Holland.

I close my eyes, press my face into Calvin’s neck.

This is real. It is.

“I’ll go for a few minutes.” He looks down when my phone buzzes in my back pocket.

“It’s Lulu,” I tell him, “asking ‘where the fucking hell’ we are.”

“She’s so demure,” he says, deadpan. “I can’t wait for her to come out of her shell and be more assertive.”

This makes me laugh. “Go sign some autographs and I’ll meet you out front in ten.”

“I don’t want to stay out too long.” He brushes his lips over mine, lingering meaningfully. He shaved this morning but his chin is already rough, and I’m strung like one of his guitar strings—tight and vibrating—knowing how that stubble feels between my thighs.

We’re meeting Lulu only about a block from the theater, at Dutch Fred’s for burgers and drinks, but when I slip out the side door to grab Calvin twenty minutes later, he’s still surrounded by fans, and looks up at me with wild, helpless eyes.

I’ve never seen him look overwhelmed before.

“Sorry, everyone! Five more!” I yell, pretending I have the authority.

But sometimes pretending is all it takes. Calvin signs the last one, and apologizes to the twenty or more people holding their programs. We duck down the alley, escaping via a secret route I use all the time when I don’t want to run into Brian on my way out at the end of the day.

“This way.” I tug his sleeve, and he follows. There are a few puddles we avoid, and the smell down here isn’t exactly fresh, but it will be a quick walk to the bar, and easy to avoid the crowds.

After only a few steps, though, we hear footsteps and I realize . . . people are following us.

I turn to look over my shoulder, and Calvin does the same; it’s a mistake. Cell phone lights flicker blindingly as soon as he shows his face. At least a dozen iPhones are tracking our every move.

I hear him mumble a bewildered “What the fuck?”

“Where did Ramón go?” I ask.

“He left in a car a few minutes before me!”

There’s nowhere for us to go but straight ahead or back into the mob. The alley narrows toward the end, where it makes a ninety-degree turn behind a Chinese restaurant, and from the right side of that building you can shimmy out onto Ninth. Are they going to follow us the entire way?

We start to jog.

“Calvin!” someone cries out, and a few teenage girls scream, and within an instant the moment crumbles into mayhem. The group begins to run after us, and I feel a few bodies pressing up on our heels.

He leads, and I follow, both of us sprinting as fast as we can, shimmying along the grimy wall between the theater and the restaurant before pressing into the narrow space between Ying’s Dumplings and a launderette. A girl reaches past me, catching Calvin’s sleeve and jerking him out of my grasp so she can snap a selfie. I get a glimpse of it—she looks maniacal and he looks terrified; I have no doubt she’ll still post it on every social media account she has.

“Easy,” he says, trying to smile. “I always hit the side door. Every night. Please just come another time.”

They press forward, their hands all over him, and he’s trying to be polite but sweet Jesus I am suddenly furious.

I pull the closest hand off his jacket. “Don’t grab him. Don’t chase us. Come back another night and my husband will sign your program—if you’re calmer.”

The girl apologizes, staring wide-eyed at Calvin’s face. It’s like looking at someone in the height of Beatlemania. I know she isn’t herself. She has that saucer-eyed, on-the-verge-of-tears air about her. But Calvin appears genuinely disturbed; and of course he is. There are at least fifteen girls standing not ten feet away from us, taking pictures of him every few seconds. A few are already crying.

I slide my hand into his and he looks down at me, anchoring.

“Ready?” I ask.

He nods.

“Don’t follow us.” I don’t even recognize my voice. Never in my life have I been this firm.

We walk alone for half a block; at least it seems the mob has turned back the other way, or decided to be decent humans and not chase him anymore. Calvin isn’t letting go of my hand, and I swear I can feel his heart pounding through his skin.

“That was insane,” he says.

I stop, pulling him into a little alcove of a closed clothing store. He stares down at me, pulse hammering in his neck.

“You okay?” I ask.

He bends, hovering just in front of my lips before making contact. It isn’t a morning kiss where we’re sleepy and giggly, or a tipsy kiss where we’re all teeth and filth. This feels like the way he would kiss me if he loved me: with both hands cupping my face, soft kisses all over my mouth with no need to go farther in. He pulls back, and in the light, his eyes seem to be the same exact color as his hair—a light brown, amber.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says.

“I was a bitch.”

“No.” He kisses me again. “I was literally terrified, and . . . you weren’t.”

By the time we get to Dutch Fred’s it is packed. Calvin and I cut a path through the crowd, ducking between diners in wicker chairs and people cluttered around the tiki-themed bar to a table in the back where Lulu is already seated.

“Fucking finally.” She stands, giving each of us a hard, tight hug. When she drops back into her seat, the chair skids backward a little, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Sorry. The crowd was huge tonight.” I nod to Calvin as he takes my jacket with still-shaking hands. “He was mobbed outside.”

“Ooooh, fancy-pants.” Lulu turns to the waitress, who has appeared to replace an empty wineglass with a full one, and mumbles her thanks. I’m tempted to tell her what happened, but it’s obvious she doesn’t care about anyone but herself tonight.

The waitress turns to us. “What can I get you guys?”

I nod to Lulu’s drink as I settle into my chair. “I’ll have what she’s having, and . . .” I lift my brows to Calvin in question.

“I’ll have the Left Hand Milk Stout, please.” He unwinds a charcoal scarf from around his neck and gives her a shaky smile. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Lulu repeats. “God. You are so adorable,” she says, but she sounds faintly disgusted.

“How long have you been here?” I ask, covertly checking my watch. We’re only about twenty minutes late, but it looks like Lulu is already a few rounds in.

She picks up her glass and brings it to her lips. “Awhile. I had an audition earlier and they interrupted me halfway into my first line to tell me they’d seen enough.”

I slide my hand over hers. “Ugh, Lu, I’m sorry.”

With a sneering eye roll, she pulls her hand away to cup it around her wineglass. “I figured since there’s nothing else going on in my life, I might as well head over and get drunk.”

I’m caught like a snag on her tone. Lulu is clearly in A Mood. Again. And after what just happened outside the theater with Calvin, I’m going to have to work to put on a convincingly sympathetic voice. “I’m sorry, sweetie, I don’t remember you mentioning an audition. I would have helped you with—”

“Of course you don’t.”

I sit back in my seat like I’ve been shoved, looking to Calvin for confirmation. Am I misreading this? His small shrug tells me he’s as baffled as I am.

I’m cut off from asking what the hell her problem is when the waitress returns with our drinks. Before she leaves, Lulu orders another glass of wine.

“And maybe some food,” I suggest. “Have you eaten anything tonight?”

She regards me blankly over the top of her glass. “Is this your not-so-subtle way of suggesting I’ve had too much to drink?”

“It’s my way of saying that it’s nearly eleven, and you might be in a better mood if you ate something.”

Lulu blinks pointedly down to the bar menu and orders a plate of shishito peppers and garlic parsley fries for the table to share, adding that the waitress should make sure to split that on the checks.

Calvin shifts beside me, moving closer.

“So, any other auditions on the horizon?” he asks her sweetly.

“Nothing new coming up. This was for a commercial for some electronics store, but apparently they wanted a fetus to play the part. Blah blah blah, just like all of them.” She lifts her wineglass, draining it.

I can tell she’s had a shit day; I’ve seen Lulu like this before. Normally I would walk over to her side of the table, put my arm around her, and tell her how amazing she is. Tonight, it’s like watching her through a warped set of glasses; I’m not even remotely interested in placating her. She’s being a complete asshole—not amazing in the slightest.

I take a sip of my own drink. “Where’s Gene?”

“Working, I think. Who knows.”

Calvin and I exchange a look.

“So what’s going on with you two?” she asks, lifting her chin to us. “The show going well?”

“Other than the madness just now, it’s brilliant,” Calvin says, grinning. “I swear I sit down and the lights dim and it still doesn’t feel real.”

“I lose my shit every time I see him up there,” I add. It comes out as a jumble of breathless words and Calvin laughs at me, leaning over to kiss my jaw.

As if on cue, a woman approaches, clutching a Playbill, and although Calvin initially looks mildly wary, she ends up asking—very politely, with a shaking voice—for an autograph. Calvin smiles at her, charming with his crinkly eyes, and she goes into full-on fangirl mode, asking for a selfie, a hug, practically offering to birth his firstborn. He reaches for me, his hand landing on my thigh, and the cold press of his wedding ring through my tights makes heat spread in a wave across every inch of my skin. I clench my thighs together; for crying out loud, I’m still sore from last night.

It’s obvious to anyone watching that this still feels surreal for him, and I love witnessing him soak it up. How many of us in our lifetime get to experience this type of adulation? But across the table, Lulu is playing on her phone in dramatic boredom.

With the Playbill signed and selfie taken, Calvin looks at me in question before turning back to Lulu and offering, “I can get you tickets if you want to come?”

“Thanks, but no.” She slides her phone back onto the tabletop. “I see enough of it every freaking place I go. Wasn’t Ryan Gosling there the other night or something? People were wetting themselves all over my Twitter feed.”

Calvin grins—it was a huge commotion and, honestly, a ton of fun backstage. “He was. He’s a friend of Ramón’s.”

“Did you meet him?”

“I got to talk to him for a few minutes.”

Lulu looks at me, and then back to him, clearly expecting more fanfare. “Did Holland lose her shit?” She nearly knocks her wineglass over. “I think she’s seen Blue Valentine about five hundred times. I mean, it was nothing compared to the crush she had on you before you met, but—”

My heart stumbles in my chest and I quickly cut in. “Did Gene mention he was looking for another job? Jeff’s friend is opening a—”

“I see you.” Lulu wags a drunken finger in my direction. “I see what you’re doing. You don’t get to change the subject that quickly. Look at you two now. Don’t you want him to know? You were crazy about him.”

“I’m sorry, who are we talking about?” Calvin asks.

My pulse is running like I’ve just finished a marathon.

“We’re talking about you.” Lulu reaches over and taps his nose before he can dodge her. “I still remember the first day she saw you. She lost her goddamn mind. She even sent me a video of you playing at the subway station.”

Calvin glances at me, confused. “From the night of the attack?”

She looks at him like he’s dense. “No, like waaaaaay before. She sent me a video of you playing last summer and wouldn’t shut up about it. Oh my God, she called you Jack!” She smacks the table, cackling to herself. “Do you remember Jack the Busker, Holland?” She turns back to him and leans her chin on her hand. “We used to give her so much shit about it.”

I’m trying to get her attention, begging her with my eyes to stop talking, but she either doesn’t see me or—more likely—doesn’t care. I’m honestly wondering if it would be less awkward for me to pull the fire alarm or just knock the table over to shut her up.

“Okay, Lu. Why don’t you let me have that?” I reach for her glass but she jerks it away and wine sloshes over the rim and down her arm.

“Are you kidding me?” she yells.

Heads turn. It’s the height of the post-show crowd, and there’s not an empty seat in the place, but Lulu’s obnoxious drinking voice has risen to a level that can be heard even above the noise. “Do not pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You knew his schedule. You gave him a fake name. You didn’t even need the subway but went to see him play!”

“Because he’s talented,” I hedge, my mind racing with a way to get out of this.

“You’re telling me you married him because he’s talented?” she asks, and then laughs, but it’s choked off by a hiccup. “You’re telling me you’re fucking him because he’s talented? You were obsessed. Why do you think Brian was so quick to suggest you marry him? It was a joke. Do you really think he was serious? I mean, that is insane.” She leans back in her chair, staring at me with unfocused eyes. “But look, it all worked out. Now he’s in your bed and—”

“That’s enough, Lulu,” Calvin says, pulling me back from the table. He’s barely touched the beer in front of him. “Enough.”

“What?” She raises her hands like she’s innocent. “I’m not making any of this up.”

I don’t know what’s happening, or why she’s doing this. I feel like I don’t even know her.

Standing, I reach for my purse and pull out my wallet. There are three twenties inside and I toss them down on the table. “I think we should go.”