You First: A Joe Goldberg Prequel (You, #0)(23)

That question again, and I make like a man who knows where he lives. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m just wondering if we should take a cab or the subway.”

“God, I love it up here. It’s like being in a Woody Allen movie, and I keep thinking Nora Ephron is gonna pop up around every corner.” You lean your head on my shoulder. “But, Joe, seriously, I’m not a princess. I’m good with the subway. I just want to get to your place in time for the opening credits, you know?”

No, I don’t know, and why don’t I have a friend? A buddy who would let me use his place. Cusack has his Piven, and you need a buddy when you’re in a jam. The temperature is dropping. The clock is ticking. The traffic sign turns white. Walk. As if I know where the fuck we’re going. As if I have a home, an apartment, a bathroom without a Dumb and Fucking Dumber poster taped to the wall.

Fix it, Joe. Fix it.

STOP IT, JOE. BREATHE.

All men lie for love. We improvise. Cusack and his sidekick didn’t give up on getting the girl. They went to Bloomingdale’s, and they went to The New York Fucking Times, because when you want the girl, when you need the girl, you do what has to be done.

I take you past the subway, not down its steps, and am I doing this? I am doing this. We turn south down Amsterdam.

It’s a risk, but that jumpy spring in my step is a sign. I’m manning up, putting love first and going that extra uphill, possibly prison-bound mile for the one I want. Guys like me have to work with what we have. And I may not have a nice home, but I do have the code to a good home. And you are damn well worth the nerves and the paranoia that are the price of fucking admission.

I squeeze a little, just to make sure. “Sorry if I’m a little sweaty.”

“Oh, Joe,” you say, and you swing my arm. Frisky. “Just wait till we get to your place.”





9


Ten blocks later and we’re there.

You gasp. “Wow. I just…I can’t believe you live in a place like this. The gargoyles…”

I’m full of shit. I can’t do this. This is a crime. Breaking and entering. And I can’t do this to you. But you loosen your coat and I see those hot pink satin straps and I do what any guy with a Portnoy and a passcode would do. Fuck the gargoyles. I open the door. “You first, madame.”

You’re in the lobby. You’re a criminal and you don’t even know it and you look over your shoulder. Skin. Bare. Smooth. “Joe, come on. The show starts in like two seconds.”

It’s another first for the Moleskine, Vail. Our first elevator make-out session. You look at me like I am the man, and so I am the man. I grin. “Well, hello, Miss Tongue.”

You smack my ass. “So how do you afford this?”

The best lies are born in the truth, and a good man is fast on his feet. “I don’t afford it. My Uncle Andy is a trader, and he’s overseas a lot. It’s kinda like…I’m house-sitting.”

“Ah,” you say. And you’re a little disappointed that the big money isn’t mine, but your gloom fades fast, and why shouldn’t it? I’m young. I’m not supposed to be a fat cat, just a cool cat. Trustworthy. Solid. You kiss me again, and wait. What happens when we get there? Do I throw you against the wall and pull your clothes off? Do I play it cool? Do I push the red button and trap us in here for a Fatal Attraction fuck-fest?

Ding. No such luck.

You do your best to whistle, but then you sniff and frown. “Do you smell that?”

It’s crack, Vail. Angus is a crackhead. “The painters were here all week.”

You wiggle your way out of your coat, and I catch it as it falls—Rico…suave—and you swan down the hallway, avoiding a near miss with a stack of signed Raymond Carvers.

“This is like being in your store.”

I like the sound of that. My store.

“Ooh,” you say, stroking a Manhattan poster. “This is my favorite Woody Allen….”

You’re lecturing me about Manhattan, and this is a good thing. I need you to be distracted because holy shit. I have to make this crack house a home. He left the CD player on—Frampton Comes Alive—and I’m grabbing pipes and bags of rock and this pipe is hot—and wait.

Is Uncle Andy Angus here?

No. I shove the hot pipe in a pizza box, and you sink into the sofa in the sinking living room, and I am hard. Rock hard. Can we do it, Vail? Can we do it right now?

“Questions,” you say. You pick up a lipstick-stained wineglass and you point at a pair of panties. FUCK YOU, ANGUS.

I stammer about a party. You laugh. “Relax. I’m not jealous. Where’s the remote?”

ANGUS TOOK IT APART WHEN HE WAS HIGH ON METH.

“Shit,” I say. “I have HBO at my crash pad, but my uncle isn’t big into TV.”

This might be the end, but nope. You want sex with me more than Sex and you untie your bootlaces. “It’s all good. I mean, it’s just a show. One day we’ll sit down and start with season one, episode one. Anyway! Where are your DVDs? Got any rom-coms, my dear?”

We can’t watch a movie, because I can’t turn on the TV, and I tell you it’s broken and that’s NOT FUCKING FAIR. Watching a movie is code for “fucking our brains out.” I failed you, and I can feel it in your bones. You don’t trust me, the sinking living room, the bras on the floor. You pick up a bong, a glass fucking bong. “Wait…You smoke weed?”