You First: A Joe Goldberg Prequel (You, #0)(35)

“So, first things first…” I channel you. I am you. “I hope you’re feeling better. Second things second. It’s my favorite kind of January New York night. Reminds me of being a kid. We had a clothesline, and my mom would hang up her bras out there and, in the winter, they’d be all stiff and crunchy. My mom…She had her problems, but this one time, this one winter, I got sick. Like nasty sick. Fever and all that. Anyway, I was in bed shivering and my mom brought all her frozen bras into my room to cool me off. And she said this was the thing about not having a lot, like if we had a dryer or whatever, those bras would be hot, but they did the trick. The wire and the nylon…My fever went down. And I was always happy we had a clothesline. Anyway. I’m just thinking of you, Vail. I’ll see you in a few hours.”





13


Thanks to a Xanax I bummed off a customer, I slept like Tom Hanks in his granddad’s boat. I reach for my phone because that voicemail was my best work yet, and…Nothing. You didn’t call.

Okay. That’s okay. Seriously. I won’t panic. Last time I panicked, I was wrong. You love my voicemails. You’ll call soon and I’ll tell you about the sleeping Virgo on the floor and maybe you’ll put her in your sitcom.

But two hours into my shift…Nothing. Radio silence. Worst silence.

We are supposed to fuck in a bowl of frozen hot chocolate in a matter of hours and did I wreck it? Was the clothesline too much? No. Stop it, Joe, stop it. Everything is fine. It’s still early, and we have plans to meet at seven. Ish. I keep you in my back pocket and you don’t call, but you are having the week from hell. Or maybe not. Was it too much? Did I turn you off with my mother’s drippy ice-cold lingerie?

Lunchtime. Mooney and me. Two ham sandwiches. No cheese. No voicemail. Were you wrong about food poisoning? Was it something worse?

I want to call you to see how you are, but I can’t. Our game is ping-pong. Back and forth. I can’t go back if you don’t come forth, and it’s 3:12 p.m.

Are we on? Are we eating frozen hot chocolate and fucking our brains out?

I leave the shop without your Amy Sohn—I am slipping on the slush—and it’s been twelve minutes and eleven hours since I let you in on the clothesline, since I (maybe) killed us with frozen bras. Or is it about your voicemail? Drumroll, please. Is that what this is about? Are you mad that I blew off your drumroll? I am just about to lose my fucking mind when you emerge from the shadows like a white knightess riding my black Motorola.

I pick it up on the first ring. Fuck it. I love you. “Vail!”

“Joe! Omigod I’m so sorry I’ve been MIA, but work is out of control.”

Relief and no mention of bras, drumrolls, or my mother. “That stinks, baby.”

The baby was maybe too much, and you cough. “Anyway, Barry is a mess over this big scene coming up. A party with six thousand extras in costume in our most important episode ever and shooting with a baby now that Miranda had Brady and—”

I AM SICK OF YOUR FUCKING JOB.

“Sounds like someone needs some frozen hot chocolate.”

You didn’t like that, but Christ. Aren’t you thirsty? Don’t you want me? “I’m sorry,” you say. “I’m a mess. And I think you left me a voicemail, but in the craziness, I think I deleted it.”

SCORE ONE FOR HANKS. “Oh, that’s cool. It was nothing. Just checking in.”

“Anyway, I have to be downtown for work, but I was thinking…I am so not up for going out-out, but would you wanna watch Hannah at my place? I have it on VHS and DVD.”

“Of course you do.”

“Ha. So how about we meet at the Beanery at like seven?”

YOU WANT TO FUCK ME YES YOU DO. “I will be there at six fifty-nine.”

“Well, I will be there at sixty fifty-eight.”



* * *



—

I am a man of my fucking word.

At 6:56 p.m., I open the door to the Beanery. My messenger bag is loaded. I have your scarf. I went back to the shop for your “signed” Amy Sohn, and I got you another book too, the script of Hannah and Her Sisters. I drop my messenger bag on a chair and wait my turn.

Dick nods. “?’Sup?”

He said that like he’s the Piven to my Cusack, and I do the same thing. “?’Sup.”

I look good for you, Vail. Second-first-date kind of good. I am Romeo in black jeans, and I open my Motorola. 7:02 p.m.

Dick hands me a coffee. Black. “So, how’s it going?”

“Good,” I say. “Vail’s on her way over, and we’re gonna hang out.”

He winces like this is bad news—he is insane—and he walks off to grind beans. It’s 7:09 when he finishes, and a girl at the counter licks her lips. She stares at Dick. I am invisible. And that’s okay—I want you—but it’s 7:14 and where are you? Are you okay?

The girl bats her eyelashes at Dick after he delivers her a latte. Paper cup. No lid. She leans over toward the barista. “I have to know…. Are you a Sagittarius? Because I’m a Sag…”

It’s yet another astrology slut with too much makeup, and I hope that’s not the reason you’re so fucking late. It’s 7:21. You are perfect. You don’t need that black shit on your eyes and neither does the Sag, and Dick claps back. “I’m an animal,” he says. “No sign.”