You First: A Joe Goldberg Prequel (You, #0)(72)

I hit the buzzer, but there is no God in Murray Hill. The buzzer is broken. I push buttons again as if I can fix the call box—I cannot fix the call box—and I call your cell again but you don’t answer. I call your landline again but I get your machine. Did you break the fucking call box to keep me away? Gently, Joseph. Ditch the roses. ’Cause you’re a cool cat. Relax. You had a late night and it’s Saturday fucking morning. New York is yawning. Slow. For all I know, you’re alone, sleeping it off.

A girl in last night’s clothing walks out of a nearby building with a naughty smile and this is good. It’s the witching hour, when one-night stands turn into walks of shame. The man in the yellow hat has not emerged from your building, but then again, the man in the yellow hat has not emerged from your building. I stare at your front door. I am going in circles and standing still at the same time and there it is again, in my head. I know you’re not my boyfriend.

“Beep, beep.”

A woman with a stroller and two bags from Key Foods is trying to get in. I know her, but I don’t know her. She lives in your building. There are cans in that bag and cans are heavy and I’m a gentleman. A New Yorker who doesn’t think twice when he sees a woman with a stroller navigating subway stairs or apartment stairs. I grab the bag. She unlocks the front door. I’m not “breaking in.” This isn’t like Angus Kaplan and the gargoyles. I’m simply helping a put-upon Murray Hill–adjacent mom. She doesn’t thank me with words, but her sad eyes say it all. She closes her first-floor apartment door and locks it.

I am in. Close.

It feels good to climb your stairs, to be your Prince, to take it one step at a time. No roses. No clue what I’m gonna say or do, but this is how you know you love someone, isn’t it?

I am not here because I want to be here. I am here because I have to be here.

And now I am here. Sixth floor. Your floor. Approximately twelve steps from The Last House on the Left. Why am I scared to knock? Why do I feel bad being here when I’ve been here, when I’m yours? I tiptoe. Gently, Joseph. The goalposts move and now I am here as in really here. Eye to eye with your peephole and why can’t these peepholes be two-way streets? Who’s to say everyone on the inside is so good? Is he there, Vail? Are you alone?

I can’t see things, but I hear things. Calypso music…Sex. Not actual sex. It’s your show. I smell something burning and what if there’s a fire and no. Ding. That’s an overcooked Pillsbury Toaster Strudel—it is cherry—and it feels weird, Vail. Knowing what I shouldn’t know. Being where you shouldn’t be and being where you belong are not supposed to be the same thing.

I raise my fist. I should knock. I am allowed to be here. I am dating you.

I can’t knock. I am not your boyfriend. It is before noon on a Saturday.

I will knock. You invited me to your birthday.

I can’t knock. I showed up late. You had already left with the man in the yellow hat.

I have to knock. Big was here, in a way. He had to tell Carrie that he knew she stalked his ex-fucking-wife.

I can’t knock. Carrie was here, in a way. She had to hang her head and cop to stalking his ex-fucking-wife.

While I was in my head, something happened. No more calypso. Silence.

I hold my breath and who designed us fucking humans? Why can’t I choose to stop breathing for a few fucking seconds? Is this trespassing? Is this love? The quiet is that kind of quiet where I question my own memory, the sound of the Bible hitting the floor of the church.

Thunk.

Fuck this shit. This is us. You and me. I bought you a beret and I made you a CD and there are eleven red balloons in the sky, soaring. You’re my girlfriend, even if you say you’re not my girlfriend. I have every right to be here, and if you are in there with the man in the yellow hat, then it’s not my fault, not your fault. It is our fault. We’re allowed to mess up. I should’ve insisted on taking you to Pastis, and you should’ve told me what kind of cake you wanted from Magnolia. I raise my fist, and my knuckles are sharp. White. Wait.

What was that sound?

It’s the absence of sound, the feeling that someone on the other side of the door is holding her breath. Quiet in that intentional way where you hit the Mute button because you feel the mouse in your house even before you spot the little whirling dervish. Is that what I am? Am I the mouse? Do you smell me out here? I want to knock. I have to knock. There is no scarier sound than silence—just ask Simon and Garfunkel—and a real man is fearless. A real man raises his fist and connects his knuckles with the door and—





26


I didn’t do it, Vail. I didn’t knock on your door.

See, I never had a Nintendo, but I had a neighbor that had one, and sometimes he let me come over to play Super Mario Bros. A skinny older guy in his thirties or some shit. Stefan. A Nordic dude who was always talking about his visa running out. I was young. I thought he meant his credit card. Anyway, my dad didn’t like him. Called him a creep. He was pasty and nervous and always squinting because he couldn’t afford new glasses. My dad, my booze bag, screaming vicious dad, he thought he was better than Stefan because he had someone to fight with. Stefan wasn’t creepy. He was just alone. But it’s a thing about the world, isn’t it? When you’re alone, people assume it’s because you can’t get anyone to be with you.