You, Again(28)

He exhales, recalibrating. Apologies have never been his strong suit. “A bit arrogant.”

“But you’re a softboi now?” She gives him a gentle little jab in the ribs. It gives him a jolt in a way he’s certain she didn’t intend. There’s a pause—an opening—but they let it pass.

“I honestly don’t know if that’s a positive or a negative.” He makes a mental note to check the meaning of softboi on Urban Dictionary later.

“You also said you were completely certain that the best sexual experience of my life wouldn’t be with a stranger.”

Interesting that she memorized the exact wording of his pronouncement. Of course, this exchange burrowed deep in his hippocampus, too.

“So…was it? With a stranger…or…?”

“I’d like to believe the best is yet to come.” A smile spreads across her face. “Pun intended.”

She stops in front of him once they reach the red light at the corner. They’re standing close enough that she has to tilt her head up and…Fuck, he misses having another person focus all their attention on him. They look at each other for a beat too long. The walk sign flashes. People with dog leashes and overstuffed backpacks and knockoff Louis Vuitton handbags brush past them. Everyone has somewhere to be.

They don’t.

They’ve been talking for almost three hours. To keep going might be pushing his luck.

Ari takes a big breath. “Well, I should—”

“My apartment’s down the block,” Josh blurts out to his own surprise. “Do you want to come up?”

She squints like she’s trying to read the bottom line on an eye chart. “Come up?”

“We could watch a movie?” His voice is slightly breathless, like he’s desperate to avoid being alone again.

“Really?” Ari raises an eyebrow.

“Why not?” The question comes out immediately, even though it’s humiliating.

“I don’t think I’ve ever actually sat on someone’s couch, just the two of us, and watched a movie past the fourteen-minute mark without…”

A beat passes while Josh attempts to process that statement. It’s been years since he’s had to decode these kinds of semantic nuances. “No, I didn’t mean—” He swallows and starts over. “I meant it in a strictly…platonic way.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Netflix-and-chill, but actually watch the movie? Like, silently?”

“You’re one of those people who talks through movies, aren’t you?”

“Are you a watch-the-credits-through-to-the-very-end-out-of-respect-for-the-craft guy?” In his defense, something feels wrong about leaving a movie as soon as the credits roll. “The thing is,” she continues, “I feel like…one fingertip and I’d probably disintegrate.” Josh might, too, but probably for a different set of reasons. “I’m hoping the vibrators help,” she adds, holding up her shopping bag.

She hugs her torso again, fighting off the chill, and he can’t part ways at the corner like this. He’s tempted to offer her his coat, but it’s probably too intimate a gesture. At this moment, he employs the only useful piece of wisdom Danny Kestenberg ever imparted to his son: Anytime you’re standing on a street corner with another person and at a loss for what to do next, there is one valid suggestion.

“Want to grab a slice?”

Ari’s face brightens immediately at the prospect of pizza. “I’m actually kind of starving.” Josh nods in a southerly direction down Lafayette and they start walking again. “I think that’s the title of my memoir: Hoping the Vibrators Help, But Actually Kind of Starving: The Arianna Sloane Story.”

Josh chuckles.

Ari glances back at his building. “Hey,” she says, her tone a bit softer, almost hesitant. “Just so you know, at any other time in my life—if I wasn’t feeling like human garbage—I’d probably ask you to take me up to your place right now.”

The left side of her mouth curves into a tiny smile, forming a dimple. He hadn’t noticed before that she has the kind of hazel eyes that seem to change color depending on the time of day. Josh finds himself taking new mental snapshots to augment the ones that have stubbornly refused to fade.

“For the record,” he says, “you wouldn’t have to invite yourself up to my place. At any other time.”

“God,” she says, releasing a huge exhale. “I’m too sad to fuck someone. I didn’t know that was possible.”

“That’s mine: Too Sad to Fuck Someone: A Portrait of Josh Kestenberg as a Young Man.”

It earns him a full-throated, head-tilted-back laugh. It feels a little thrilling. A minor victory. He’s never been so confused by a woman in his life. They wait for a red light to change at the corner.

“We can be…friends in misery?” he asks.

“Okay,” she replies. “Friends. But I should warn you: Historically, I haven’t had the best track record keeping things—”

“Platonic?”

“Sex-free. I mean, it’s way harder to make a new friend than to find someone to fuck around with. This is, like, a really great growth opportunity for me.”

“I can’t even remember the last time I made a friend.”