You, Again(2)

And after dealing with face-to-face rejection all day, it’s nice to be wanted.

At 1:06:47 into the movie and two pairs of underwear on the floor, the intercom buzzes in three shrill bursts.

“Did you order takeout?” Gabe asks, breathing hard. He flops back onto the sofa. “A sandwich actually sounds amazing right now.”

“How would I have done that?” Ari sits up. “With my third hand?” Two more buzzes trill through the apartment, followed by one sustained buzz.

Ari rolls off the sagging couch and stumbles to the intercom. She punches the talk button: “Yeah?”

The response is a garbled mix of static, a low voice, “food,” and “Natalie.”

“Buzzer’s broken,” she says. “I’ll come down.” Ari tugs her tank top over her head. “Natalie orders these macrobiotic meals,” she tells Gabe, who’s already back on his phone. “Must be the delivery guy.” She picks his boxers up off the rug, scanning the floor. “Crap. Where did my underwear go?”

“Underwear is overrated.” Gabe heaves himself off the couch. “I’m gonna jump in the shower.”

Ari pulls on his boxers, shoves her feet into her sneakers, and jogs down the stairs to grab the meals from the delivery guy.

When she reaches the ground floor, she sees a hulking shadow through the window at the top of the heavy door at the entryway. But as she begins to open the door, the shadow takes on a familiar shape.

Tall Sweater Nightmare Man is standing under her awning, holding a reusable shopping bag of produce that looks like an eighteenth-century Dutch still life.

He’s pale and lanky—mid-twenties?—with dark hair and a longish face that’s oddly proportioned.

But not in a bad way.

His eyes move back and forth across the slice of her face that’s visible between the frame and the door.

Ari clears her throat. “Can I help you?”

He looks confused, but doesn’t answer.

“Are you here to tell me about your Lord and savior Jesus Christ?”

“I’m Jewish.” He peeks over her shoulder. “Are you Natalie’s roommate?”

He smells like expensive botanical aftershave.

“Maybe,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Are these her gluten-free paleo meals?”

“This is olive oil–poached cod with mussels, orange, and chorizo,” he says, shifting his weight impatiently. “Did Natalie not mention I was coming?”

As if on cue, Ari’s phone chirps multiple times.

Nat : need huuuuge favor.

I got my days mixed up.

Josh is supposed to make me dinner tonight

Nat : the chef.

he’s already on his way with all these groceries.

I’m on the earlier Jitney but still running so late

could you let him in?



Shit.

This is typical Natalie bullshit, and she gets away with it because she has luminous skin and this amazing laugh and Ari has a crush on her in a way that’s completely different from her occasional horny Gabe feelings. Namely, an inability to say “no.”

“Wait, who are you?” Ari holds the phone screen to her chest, shielding it from his view.

“I’m Josh. Natalie’s boyfriend.” He doesn’t phrase it in the form of a question. It’s just a statement. A fact.

Ari spits back a fact of her own: “Nat doesn’t have a boyfriend.”



* * *





“YES, SHE DOES,” he says with the confidence of someone who believes it to be true. Basically. “Me.”

It’s nearly imperceptible, but the roommate’s brow wrinkles at the word boyfriend. Josh prides himself on noticing the details other people miss.

According to his schedule, in eight minutes Natalie should be sipping a glass of Sancerre, watching him supreme oranges with his Shun Dual Core Kiritsuke knife.

Instead, he’s staring at a pink-haired stranger in men’s underwear and a faded Obama hope T-shirt with the sleeves cut off.

“Nat’s not here. She’s running late,” she says, not opening the door any farther. “I can put the food in the fridge. There’s a bar down the block where you could hang out till she gets home.”

Seconds of wasted time tick away in his brain, growing louder. Standing in the hallway, holding one hundred and seventy dollars’ worth of high-end perishable groceries, he considers abandoning the plan. Calling an Uber. Rescheduling for another evening when all the elements of the concept can come together seamlessly.

But that would be failure.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “This requires thirty minutes of prep plus fifty minutes cooking time. I need to get started now. And it’s raining.”

Tonight, after the mousse au citron, Josh Kestenberg and Natalie Ferrer-Hodges will transition from the confusing messiness of casually dating–question mark to full-fledged relationship–period.

Exclamation point.

No, period. More tasteful.

“If I do you this favor and let you in—”

“?‘Favor’?”

“—then you’re going to atone for your rudeness earlier today and help me make my quota.” The corner of her mouth tugs into the tiniest possible grin but her eyes are not smiling. A little dimple forms on the left side of her cheek. “I’ll need a forty-dollar donation. I take credit cards.”