The Christmas Orphans Club(58)

A member of the building’s army of doormen rushes out to help me with my bags, breaking me out of my impending sidewalk panic spiral. “My man.” He offers me a fist bump.

It’s a point of pride that I’ve won over the doormen at Theo’s. I’ve even made strides with Dwayne, the head doorman. When I pass his desk, he offers me a two-finger salute. I don’t need to stop because for the last year, I’ve been on Theo’s list—the list of approved guests who don’t need to be checked and can be let right up. But I’m tempted to stop and explain myself to Dwayne anyway. Make sure he knows I’m not using Theo for his money or his apartment. That I’m not like Elliot or the others. I actually care about Theo. But that feels like a weird thing to explain to a doorman who, at best, tolerates my presence in exchange for a paycheck.

The thrill of the fanciness of Theo’s apartment has dulled over the years, and now when the elevator doors open, the only thing I can think is: Home. For the next two weeks, at least.

Theo saunters into the foyer, drawn by the ding of the elevator. “Hello, roomie!”

I don’t try to hide the shy smile that blooms at his welcome.

“I have the blue guest room all ready for you.” He turns on his heel and I trail him through the living room to the guest room across from his office. The one with the best view. Even though it’s illogical, I’m slightly disappointed. On the ride over, I’d allowed myself to fantasize that I’d be sharing with Theo.



* * *



? ? ?

?On Wednesday, I return to our newly shared apartment after using the building’s gym. Theo goes to Equinox even though there’s a gym on the second floor. He says it’s because he likes to use the steam room after he lifts, but I suspect he likes the pickup scene even more.

I leave a trail of sweat droplets on the floors as I make my way from the elevator to the kitchen. My quick treadmill 5K turned into an hour-long run. When I push open the swinging door to the kitchen, I’m surprised to find Theo unpacking reusable totes of groceries. I assumed there were people to do that for him.

Theo pauses and sweeps his eyes over my sweat-soaked body. My workout tank is stuck to me like second skin. “Good run?” he asks.

My arms break out in goose bumps at his assessment. “Uh, yeah,” I answer. “I got in seven miles. I think unemployment is getting to me. I felt guilty about not doing anything all day.”

It’s a lie. I’ve only been unemployed for four days. What’s getting to me is living with Theo. After a restless night’s sleep, I emerged from my room this morning to find him sprawled on the couch watching Live with Kelly and Ryan in nothing but Christmas plaid boxers and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that look so good on him they make me question why he bothers with contacts. His curls stood up at odd angles from sleep.

There’s a surprising intimacy to living with someone, I realized, bearing witness to their in-between moments before they ready themselves for the world. I never thought about what Theo did while he was home alone, but if I’d been forced to speculate, watching daytime talk shows in his underwear would have been near the bottom of the list. I’d have found it easier to believe he was hosting a Magic: The Gathering circle with the building’s school-aged residents or doing old Jane Fonda workout tapes.

We sat on opposite ends of the couch for three hours watching Live! followed by the fourth hour of the Today show followed by The View until I announced I was going for a run. In truth, sitting next to a half-naked Theo was making me uncomfortable. Or horny. Or uncomfortably horny. I couldn’t decide because I was distracted by the line of hair running from his chest down his stomach and into the waistband of his boxers.

It was all too much to take on four hours of sleep. Last night, as I tossed and turned in Theo’s absurdly comfortable guest bed, I played Hannah’s words from our fight on a loop. You’ll never be with Theo because you’re a coward. No one can hurt you like the people you love most, because they know your squishiest parts. Worst of all, I recognize the kernel of truth at the heart of her words. And so, off to the gym I went to pound my feelings into the treadmill.

Now, dressed in a pair of dark-wash jeans and a sky-blue crewneck sweater, his curls tamed into momentary submission, Theo is transferring packages of sugar and flour into glass jars with chalkboard labels. The scene is oddly domestic. A thought flits through my brain about wanting to share more of Theo’s boring bits. The mundane moments that make up a life.

I cross the galley kitchen, easily the least impressive part of Theo’s apartment, toward the glass-fronted fridge for a bottle of water. I accidentally graze his butt with my hip as I pass, an inevitable accident in a kitchen this narrow. It was designed with the assumption someone other than the owner was the one doing the cooking. I open the door and let the refrigerated air cool me down, part from my run and part from the look Theo gave me.

Before I can move, Theo turns and hovers his head over my right shoulder looking past me into the fridge. “Can you see, is there butter in there?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah, there’s a whole box.”

“Salted or unsalted?” Theo is so close I feel his breath on my neck when he asks. How is such an incredibly unsexy question such a turn-on?

I bend over, not thinking, so I can read the label on the box of butter. My ass bumps Theo’s crotch and I hear his breath hitch in his throat.