You First: A Joe Goldberg Prequel (You, #0)(16)
You: You still there?
Me: Always.
You: It’s cheesy, but I left you a little present at that coffee shop in alphabet city lol
Me: The Beanery, right?
You: Yep, just a little something…that you might want to wear tomorrow night
I pull my Moleskine notepad out of my back pocket. Black leather. Cool. It might be cheesy to write down every little thing but what guy wouldn’t want every little life-altering, dick-hardening moment on the record?
#6 YOU BOUGHT ME A FUCKING PRESENT AND WE HAVEN’T EVEN FUCKED
“Excuse me, son. Do you have a restroom?”
Oh, right. Real life. The here and now. A poor woman with a walker and two French cookbooks. I relieve her of the heavyweights. I am gallant, helping her to the back of the shop, standing guard as she unloads in a way that makes me wish we had another bathroom. Normally, this kinda thing would set me off, but I live in a new world now. I live in a world with you.
After my shift I make a beeline for the Avenue B Beanery and the bald guy sees me coming. He remembers me. I am memorable.
He grabs a black bag off the counter. “I think this is for you, guy.”
I take the bag. Never got a present from a girl before. “Thanks, dude.”
He gives me another bag with a free muffin. “No prob,” he says, nodding at my gift bag. “The things we do to get some, right?”
I laugh like it was so fucking hard to make a pit stop for a present. “Thanks again.”
He nods. “Eat up, son.”
Love is like that Janet Jackson video from the ’80s where New York is a fun place and the whole city dances for you, with you, even the bald barista! I wait till I get home to my cardboard box to open my present. I still can’t believe it, Vail. You saw something and thought of me. You put your money where your mouth is, and there is tissue paper. Black. I never did this before, never pulled out the thin party paper to discover…
A hot pink Ralph Lauren shirt. Giant fucking polo player on the chest. It’s not me, but you’re psychic, so of course my phone is ringing…you.
I answer with a lie: “I love it.”
“Do you? I felt silly and I don’t want to scare you off. It’s not like I spent money on it. Our costume designer had an extra and…”
“Vail, seriously. I love it.”
“Good,” you say. “And more good news. Cynthia is staying at her quote-unquote boyfriend’s tomorrow night, some guy she met at Don Hill’s.”
Oh. Big O. Orgasm! “Oh?”
“So after Serendipity, I mean, I do have the place to myself, as long as you don’t think I’m coming on a little way too slightly strong…”
Impossible. You are my girl. Nervous. Hopeful. Feathers all fluffy and shiny. The next day is the longest day of my life but eventually it’s time for me to go into the restroom and change into my pink fucking shirt for lucky number seven….
#7 SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX
It’s D-Day as in Dick Day. Sex day. I’d be whistling if I could whistle. Serendipity-do-dah-unzippity-my pants…My oh my what a wonderful—
“Joseph!”
“Coming!”
Buzzkill, but I jog to the back of the shop—Mooney needs to hear my feet pound the ground—and I guess it was inevitable. Predictable as a fucking rom-com. Love always has an enemy, a form of cynical, toxic Cholera. And in our case, that would be Mr. Mooney, the Fox Books to your Shop Around the Corner.
He sneers at me. “Wipe that grin off your face.”
“Sorry.”
“Has this girl even sucked you off?”
I don’t answer that—you’re a lady—and he stabs at his papers with his long, pale fingers. You haven’t kissed my Portnoy. You made it clear that you don’t approve of Cynthia and the way she moves fast, a nonstop parade of sketch pads from Passerby and Don Hill’s. It’s your way of telling me that you’re a good girl. And good girls only do bad things for nice boys like me who are willing to wait.
“Stand by,” says Mr. Mooney. “And stop fidgeting with your wiener.”
I adjust my Portnoy, but he’s excited about tonight, and who can blame him? Frozen hot chocolate. Sex. “Sorry.”
“All right, Joseph. These invoices need to be filed.”
I reach for the invoices, but he pulls them back. Dick move, but I feel for the guy.
His old lady (his phrase, not mine) hasn’t laid a hand on him “since American Psycho was in galleys.” It’s easy to put up with his shit, to be the bigger fucking person.
“So, what’s up with the invoices?”
“?‘What’s up’? Are you twelve?”
“Sorry,” I say, relieved that you hate bookstores, that I don’t live in a world where there’s a danger of you popping in and hearing Mooney lash out at me, or even worse, overhearing me refer to you as my girlfriend before we even do it. “What can I do for you?”
“For starters, I asked you a question. Did she suck you off?”
“Tonight, I’m staying at her place.”
He grunts, and the poor guy really should leave his wife. “Moving on,” he says. “How much is Ralph Lauren paying you to advertise his wares?”
“It was free. Vail got it from the wardrobe department at her job.”