Roomies by Christina Lauren
eight
No one in the history of the New York City transit system has ever taken so long to descend a set of stairs. At least that’s the way it feels as I take them one by one, shoved side to side by the commuters rushing to get around me.
As you might have guessed, I’m stalling. Have the ceilings always been this particular shade of gray? I didn’t know they were replacing the light bulbs in this station. How have I never noticed the texture in this paint—oh, that’s not paint.
But then, like some preternatural tease, Calvin’s music rises up, beckoning.
I reach the bottom landing and see him there, bent over his guitar, lost in the music. Every time I hear it, I become a bottle of carbonated water, lifted and shaken. Inside, everything grows too tight, as if pressurized.
The chaos of the late-morning commute is a little like being in the middle of a giant ant farm, and people dart between us and on each side, swarms moving in every direction.
He hasn’t seen me yet, and doesn’t look up as he transitions from one musical piece into another. I cross to stand in front of him, blurting the first words that come to mind. “Do you want to have lunch?”
Even down here it sounds like I’ve shouted. My voice rises above the squealing cacophony of the trains.
Calvin looks up, and his notes trail off before he gives the strings a final, dramatic strum. “Lovely Holland. How are ya?” I’m rewarded with a smile that sprouts from one corner and grows across his full mouth. “Sorry. What did you say?”
I swallow, wishing I could reach up and wipe my gloved hand across my forehead. I’m sure I’m sweating. “I asked, do you want to have lunch?” I repeat, wondering a little if he’s messing with me.
He hesitates, and his eyes dart around us before landing back on my face. “Lunch?”
Someone, quick: Pass me a remote control. I am going to slam my hand on the rewind button.
But instead, I nod. “Lunch. With me. Food. Middle of the day?”
Oh, Holland.
I imagine a horrified Lulu beside me. Her artfully thick brows rise. Her brown eyes roll. Imaginary Lulu drawls in that drawn-out way she has: “Jesus Christ, Appalland.” And imaginary me turns to her, growling, “You agreed with me about this, asshole.”
Calvin’s laugh is this sweet but tentative thing, like he suspects I know about the visa but isn’t sure what my endgame is.
“Sure.” He blinks up at me. “Now? I could eat.”
By the time we reach the restaurant, even imaginary Lulu has abandoned me. When the hostess asks us the requisite “How many?” I react like this is my first adventure out with another person.
“Two. Yes. Two of us. Me and him. Can we sit far away from everyone? I mean, have a little privacy or . . . ?”
The hostess goes still with her hand floating just above the stack of menus.
I feel the gentle weight of Calvin’s hand on my arm, and he clears his throat. “We’d like that booth in the corner, please.” He drops his voice so only I can hear: “The lady requested privacy, did she?”
My face is on fire as we follow her to the table, sit down wordlessly, and bury our noses in our menus.
I take one look at the monstrous list of options and decide on the gnocchi. I’d probably rather have the spanakopita, or a salad, but the image of me indelicately collapsing giant hunks of greasy lettuce into my mouth—or worse, getting strips of spinach stuck in my teeth while I’m trying to casually propose to a stranger—makes a hysterical laugh bubble up in my throat.
It’s then that I’m hit with the full weight of what I’m about to do. If Calvin says yes, I’ll have to explain this somehow to my parents and the rest of my siblings . . .
Or hide it indefinitely. Davis tells me every chance he gets that I’m in over my head in New York, that I should move home and do something with my degree. With my life. My parents always admonish him, and remind him that I am essentially the baby in the family and haven’t quite found my place in the world yet.
I don’t think marrying a stranger is exactly how they meant for me to find it.
The other bit of awareness is that if Calvin says yes . . . we’ll be married. Husband and wife. We’ll have to live together . . . proximity, nakedness, my fantasies about him expanding into something barely manageable.
Calvin scratches his jaw, runs a finger thoughtfully up and down the skin just below his ear, up and down, up and down. I feel it on my own face, like we are neurologically linked somehow. I’ve been with my share of guys, of course, but my type has always been more the nerdy, clueless-about-appearance kind of guy. I’ve never dated someone in Calvin’s stratosphere. Think me: turtleneck sweaters and sensible shoes. Think him: artfully layered shirts and jeans that he’s poured into each morning. His casual sexiness is a leaf blower to the brush fire of my nerves.
If only I’d been more sensible today. I scoot in my seat, adjusting my skirt. It’s this annoying cheap, slippery fabric, and against the vinyl bench it keeps sliding up my thighs, exposing my ass. I wore it because this morning I thought it looked cute and eccentric with mustard tights and boots, but Calvin is giving the menu exponentially more consideration than he’s giving me. I suspect my efforts were wasted.
“Spanakopita or chopped salad?” he muses.
I laugh at how our brains ended up in the same place, but mine then veered into Eating Neatly territory. Guys just . . . never do that.
“I’m getting the gnocchi,” I say.
Finally, he looks up at me and smiles. “That looks good, too.”
We put in our orders, make small talk about the weather, and tourists, and our favorite part of Possessed, until a meaningful silence falls . . . and there’s nothing else to do but dive right in.
I adjust my napkin on my lap. “I’m sure you think it’s weird that I asked you to lunch.”
“Not weird.” He shrugs. “Nice. Unexpected.”
“The music was amazing the other day. At the theater.”
It’s almost like something warms from inside him when I say this. “Thanks. I know this sounds trite, but what a bloody honor to be called in. To be offered that gig.” He pauses, dipping his straw in and out of his water distractingly. “I assume you heard why I had to turn it down.”
I nod, and for the next two breaths, he looks devastated. But then his posture loosens again, and his smile is back.
“It’s . . . sort of why I wanted to see you today,” I say. The bite of bread I’ve eaten settles into an uncomfortable glob in my stomach. “So. Calvin.”
His eyes sparkle. “So. Holland.”
Our food arrives and breaks the tension. Calvin bends, stabbing a bite of lettuce and neatly maneuvering it into his mouth. Teeth and chin: spotless. He looks up at me expectantly. “You were saying?”
I clear my throat. “Robert was so impressed by you.”
He blushes, chewing and swallowing. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. They all were.”
He bites back a smile. “That’s lovely to hear.”
“I’m thinking . . . I might have a solution.”
He stills. “A solution? Do you have an in with the border patrol, then?”
“Ramón Martín is coming on in two weeks,” I begin, and Calvin is nodding, “and has a ten-month run. I was thinking . . . that if you—if we . . .”
He continues to stare, unmoving. When I don’t finish my sentence, his eyebrows slowly rise.
I swallow a gulp of air and push the words out in a rush: “I was thinking thatwecouldgetmarried.”
Calvin sits back, surprised.
I look at the other tables, a little unsettled. Is he going to find this not just bizarre but outright immoral?
He puts down his fork. “Aye, why not. It’s only Holy Matrimony.” He tilts his head back and laughs delightedly. “Surely you’re only joking?”
Oh God. Someone flush me out of this room right now. “No, actually.”
“You,” he says quietly, “want to marry me? For this?”
“Not indefinitely, but for a year or so. I mean, until your run is up and then . . . we can do whatever we want.”
His eyebrows pull low as he works through this. “And Robert’s okay with that?”
“Um . . .” I chew my lip.
Calvin’s eyes widen. “He doesn’t know you’re asking me, does he?”
“Of course he doesn’t.” I wash down my anxiety with another gulp of water. “He’d try to stop me.”
“Yeah, I imagine he would. I imagine he’d do a lot worse to me.” He shakes his head, still wearing a dumbfounded grin. “I’ve never met anyone who loved my playing enough to want to put a ring on it.”
I scramble to salvage my self-respect here. “Robert would never ask, but I know he wants you. I saw his face while you played.” I don’t know how to say this next part without sounding pathetic, so I just go for it. “Robert has been more like a father to me than an uncle. I was raised watching him conduct, watching him compose. Music is everything to him, and the reason I have the life I do is because he takes care of me. I want to do this for him.”
Calvin finds this either heroic or pathetic. I can’t tell from his expression which it is.
“And . . . I do love your music. I can see what it means to you, too.”
Calvin bends, taking another bite. The entire time he chews and swallows, he studies me. “And you’d do this for me?”
“I mean,” I hedge, mortified, “unless you’re a violent criminal.”
Wincing, he picks up his water, draining it in a few gulps, and my stomach bottoms out.
“I did steal a pack of gum once,” he says at length. “Age ten. Though no one was hurt.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “I think I can overlook that.”
He nods, licking his lips before touching his napkin there. “You’re serious.”
The moment seems to be slowing down, warping a little into a surreal bubble. “I think so?”
This makes him smile, and I notice how his eyes move over my entire face. “How would it work? In theory?”
My stomach slowly climbs back up from the floor. “From what I understand there are some forms, an interview.” The biggest piece of information comes out a little squeaky: “You’d stay with me. I mean, on my couch is probably the . . . way we would do it. Not, it it—but. Sleeping.” I clear my throat. “Arrangements.”
Calvin considers this, smiling down at the table. “Do you have cats?”
I blink. “Cats?”
“I’m allergic.”
“Oh.” I frown. This is really where his brain goes first? Mine went straight to bare skin and sex sounds. “No cats.”
“That’s good.” He pushes a few pieces of lettuce around on his plate, scoops up a tomato and drops it again. “A year?”
I nod. “Yeah, unless we don’t want to go that long.”
He sniffs, fidgeting with his knife and spoon, straightening them over and over on the table beside his plate. “And when would we do it?”
“Soon.” The word rushes out a little louder than I’d have liked, but I push on. “We couldn’t put it off too long because of the hiring paperwork. Definitely before Ramón starts.”
He nods, chewing his bottom lip. “Right. Sooner would be better.”
My breath catches. Does this mean he’s considering it?
“So we’d be married, and I’d get to be in the show?” he asks. “Just like that?”
“I think so. You’d have your dream, and Robert would have his new musician.”
“I’d also have a beautiful wife. What would you have? Other than a famous Broadway musician husband, that is.”
He thinks I’m beautiful? I hold his gaze from across the table, not blinking, barely breathing. “I’d get to help my uncle. I owe him so much.”
I conveniently leave out the part where I would get to look at Calvin daily—and that would not be a chore at all—hear him play, be near him. Yes, I wanted him for months before ever speaking to him, but he’s so clearly full of joy, and passion, and a playfulness I never could have predicted. I’m even more attracted to him now that we’ve spoken. He’s witty. So talented . . . but not arrogant. Way too sexy.
Calvin looks down at his salad and I can tell he’s mulling this crazy offer over. Oh, my God, he thinks I’m a headcase.
My stomach turns to concrete.
“Holland,” he says slowly, more somber than his previous impish tone. “I appreciate what you’re offering, I really do, but I worry that it’s a burden that you really shouldn’t have to bear. I wasn’t trying to butter you up earlier—you really are beautiful. What if you meet someone in the next twelve months, and you want to date him?”
It’s hard for me to imagine wanting anyone other than him right now. But maybe he’s asking this from his own perspective. Maybe he doesn’t want to be stuck in a situation where he can’t date and sleep with other women.
“Yeah, I mean . . . if you want to date other women in that time . . . maybe you could be discreet?”
“Shite. No. No, Holland, that’s not what I meant. This is beyond generous. I’m still in shock. That Robert Okai wants me in his show . . . that I impressed him. But you, wanting to make my dream possible?”
He lets out a long, controlled breath.
I’m not sure what else to say. I’ve laid it all out on the table and am holding my breath in these long, painful spans, just waiting to hear what he says.
Finally, he lifts his napkin and wipes his mouth again before setting the cloth neatly at the edge of his place mat. His face explodes in a grin. “I’m in, Holland. On one condition.”
I feel the way my brows disappear into my hair. “A condition?”
“Let me take you out.”
I nod, waiting for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, I look around the restaurant. “You mean like . . . a date?”
“Call me old-fashioned, but I like to date a girl before I marry her. Besides, to pull off this mad plan of yours, I reckon we need to look like we’re in love?” When I nod, he continues. “Come out with me tomorrow night and let’s see if we can stand to be near each other. You’re not going to want me in your apartment if you can’t handle me at a bar.”
He has a point, but I laugh at his wording. “Handle you at a bar? Are you trying to scare me away?”
Calvin leans in. “Not in the slightest.” His eyes move to my mouth, and his voice goes low and warm. “Besides, something this big warrants at least a twenty-four-hour think, yeah?”
Swallowing, I give him a trembling “Absolutely.” We’re talking about a transactional marriage, but I feel like we’ve just enjoyed a tumbling round of foreplay.
Sitting up, he nods to where my phone is resting on the table, and I slide it over to him. He types in a message and a moment later, his phone vibrates with a text. “There”—he slides mine back across the table—“I’ll send you the details and we’ll see each other tomorrow night.”
I’m supposed to meet Calvin at Terminal 5 at eight o’clock. I’m a little better at handling the cast by now and get dressed on my own, deciding on a pair of loose ripped jeans for easier bathroom excursions, a black sweater, and my favorite boots.
It’s a long walk, even by New Yorker standards, from the train to the venue on Eleventh Avenue. I have a cab drop me off as close as the crowds allow, and text Calvin that I’m here.
With an arm up in a wave, he steps off the curb in front of the building, his long legs wrapped in dark jeans, a gray jacket over a white T-shirt. His hair is shiny beneath the flickering neon sign, and when he’s close enough to take my hand and lead me inside, I smell soap and fabric softener. I give myself precisely three seconds to imagine how it would feel to press my face to his neck and huff him.
“This okay?” he asks.
I pull my eyes up to his face and then look around, really taking in our surroundings for the first time. Calvin has managed to get us into a show that—according to the signs outside—is completely sold out.
“You’re showing off, aren’t you?”
His laugh is a bursting, delighted sound. “I’m absolutely showing off.”
We check our coats and head to a sweeping balcony that looks out on the stage and the general admission area below. There’s an identical level just above, with industrial steel railings, a bar, restrooms, and small clusters of couches scattered around.
“Are we here to watch?” I ask, looking out at the giant disco ball suspended from the center of the massive ceiling. “Or are you playing?”
“I’ll be in for one set, yeah. It’s a miniature festival. One of the bands I play with was invited.” Calvin pays for our drinks and hands me my glass before leading us to a VIP section roped off next to the railing. “This time there will be no spandex or dangly earrings, I promise.”
I laugh and peek out over the railing. The floor is starting to fill. Those lucky enough to get in are already crowding their way to the front near the stage.
“You guys weren’t bad. Despite all the crotch-strangling Lycra. How many bands do you play with?”
“It changes,” he says, “but four, at the moment. Funny enough, the crotch stranglers do pretty well for themselves. I was only brought in a few weeks ago when their original guitarist threw his back out doing a fancy high kick.” He takes a sip of his drink and the limes jostle against the ice cubes. “The pay is good, so I didn’t ask too many questions.”
“Do you have a favorite?”
“I just want to play music.” He looks down at me, and his eyes are so wide and earnest. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” The way he says this plucks at a tender spot in my chest, the part that sees my laptop rusting away under a pile of takeout menus and junk mail. My degree sits useless in the proverbial box under my bed. Music is Calvin’s passion and he’s found a way to do it, no matter what. I’ve always been obsessed with words—so why can’t I seem to write a single one?
“So what exactly do you do at the theater?” He gently bumps my shoulder with his. “Besides sell T-shirts and scout talent, that is.”
I set my drink down, right next to where someone has written the words P.L.U.R.—Purity, love, unity, respect on the metal table between us.
“I’m basically peon number three. I take pictures backstage and work front of the house.”
He tilts his glass to his lips, smiling over the rim. “Very cool.”
I wonder how big a lie that is for him to tell. Calvin, with so much talent and passion that he stayed here illegally hoping to get a job, telling me—a twenty-five-year-old selling T-shirts—that my job is very cool. It almost makes me feel more ashamed.
“It isn’t what I want to do forever,” I say quietly. “It’s just what I’m doing for now.”
He opens his mouth to say something just as the house lights go out, and the stage lights come to life.
The first act is an EDM group. Three DJs stand onstage, each behind a laptop and various mixers, heads bowed and obscured by giant headphones. The floor erupts at the first beat and even though I’m not too familiar with this genre, I totally get it. There’s a high that comes from live shows, a collective energy in a large group of people all gathered for one reason. The beat slices through the melodies and then drops; the crowd bounces and undulates like ripples in water.
I look over to see Calvin with his eyes closed, body moving to the beat, lost in the notes along with everyone else. I close my own eyes and let myself dance. The bass is so loud it feels like a monster heartbeat pounding through me. By the time the last song ends and the lights go up again, I’m flushed.
“They are so good,” I say, finishing my drink. “I would never have pegged you as an EDM guy.”
“The thing about this music is that if you just stand here and listen, you’ll never appreciate it. You’re supposed to be part of it—part of the party. I think that’s why I like it so much.” He does a quick check of his watch. “Listen, it’s almost time for our set. Will you be okay here?”
“Absolutely.”
“We’re playing three songs, so if you want to come down during the last one I can meet you backstage.”
I nod and smile up at him.
Am I really here? On a date with Calvin?
I’m momentarily light-headed. We’re negotiating getting married.
He wraps a hand around my upper arm and gently squeezes. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.” I pull a few strands of hair out of my face, and notice when he glances at my lips. “This is just sort of surreal.”
“I know.” He pauses, seeming to be on the verge of saying something more about this, but in the end just tells me, “I’ll give them your name and see you in a few?”
“Good luck.”
At this, he gives me a grin and leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheek that nearly annihilates me, before heading down the stairs.
Calvin’s band is on about twenty minutes later, and when he looks up while tuning his guitar to offer me a little wave, my knees grow rubbery.
He was right about the distinct lack of animal print. There are four guys in total, all of them in varying degrees of distressed skinny jeans and vintage band T-shirts, all of them hot. Calvin is playing a guitar I’ve never seen him use before—it looks acoustic but plugs into an enormous amp near his feet.
Within the first notes of the opening number, I can already tell these guys are good. The singer is a gritty baritone, but impressive on the higher notes, too. The songs are short and range from indie rock to a bit heavier, and each one showcases Calvin’s incredible fluidity on his guitar.
Unlike in the station, Calvin is playing to the audience here. He grins wickedly, lifts his chin in greeting to the screaming women up front, and steps into the spotlight during his solos. It’s such a starkly different version of him—and still so obscenely sexy—that I can barely drag my eyes away.
And I’m not the only one. A girl with platinum hair and a nose ring stands next to me at the railing, her gaze locked in on the stage. “Is that the new lead guitar?”
The girl next to her is equally impressed. “Jesus Christ. Is he going to be at the after-party? Because if he is, so am I.”
At this, I essentially sprint down the stairs and toward the backstage entrance.
“Um, Holland Bakker?” I tell the security guard. “I’m supposed to meet Calvin McLoughlin.”
He looks down at me—seriously, I think he’s seven feet tall—and then at his list. With a bored sigh he steps to the side, allowing me to pass.
Calvin is just coming offstage and spots me immediately. Having known Robert all my life, and worked at the theater for the last few years, I’m familiar with the adrenaline rush that comes with performing. It’s a high as good as any drug, and is the only explanation I can find for the way Calvin’s eyes light up when he sees me, the way he makes his way straight to where I stand and picks me up in a squeezing, sweaty hug.
“Could you see all right? How did it sound?” he asks, amped.
“It was amazing.” Being this close to him makes me legitimately dizzy. I now know how hard his chest his, how strong his hands are.
He sets me down again. “Yeah?”
I don’t even need to exaggerate my breathlessness. “You were amazing.”
“McLoughlin.”
Calvin turns to find the lead singer standing right behind him. “Devon, hey.”
“Thanks for filling in on such short notice. We would have been screwed without you.”
“No problem.” Calvin tucks an arm around my waist and pulls me closer. When my sweater rides up, I feel the rough press of his hand on my skin, making me grow as hyperaware of each of his fingertips as if he’s just brushed them across my nipples. “I appreciated being asked.”
Devon wipes his face on a towel and lays it over his shoulder. “Do you think you’d want to make this a permanent thing?”
Calvin takes a moment to consider before looking down at me. He blinks, and a beat of silence passes between us where I think he’s asking, Well? Are we doing this? His fingers rub my waist gently, as if to remind me there’s no pressure.
I swallow, giving him a smile that says: Fuck yes we are.
Calvin turns back to Devon. “Dev, this is my fiancée, Holland. Holls, this is Devon.”
Holls.
Fiancée.
And I die.
Devon’s eyes disappear into his artfully styled mop of sweaty hair before he reaches out, and I return the handshake awkwardly with my cast.
“Fiancée?” he asks. “Well done, man.”
Calvin laughs. “Thanks, mate.”
“So what do you think?” Devon asks.
Another glance in my direction before Calvin grins. “Thanks for the opportunity, Dev. I really appreciate it, but I’m going to be pretty busy for the next several months.”
