This is good. Hannah’s right, I haven’t been as covert about my crush as I thought. Theo knows what’s coming and from the looks of it, he looks . . . excited. Maybe I was being stupid. This is Theo. This isn’t scary.
“So, you probably already know, and it’s okay if you don’t feel the same way, but I—”
I pause when I realize Theo’s eyes aren’t meeting mine. Is there someone behind me?
I look over my shoulder toward the door. A South Asian man in a camel overcoat is striding our way. He looks like he stepped out of a magazine ad, like one minute he was brooding into middle distance with his elbow on his knee selling watches or trench coats or really expensive whiskey, and he got bored and wandered off the page. His thick black hair is mussed in an intentional way, like after a team of stylists spent hours getting it absolutely perfect, they decided to run their hands through it because no one would believe that level of perfection, but somehow messing it up made it even better. I turn back to look at Theo, who is definitely looking at this man and not at me.
Shit, shit, shit.
When the Rolex model reaches our table, Theo says, “Raj, you made it!” He sounds delighted, like Raj is the Christmas gift he begged for all year. Theo scootches out of the booth and rises to standing.
“I told you I’d come,” Raj replies as he beams at Theo with a gleaming smile. He takes off his overcoat to reveal a white dress shirt with the cuffs rolled to the elbows. He has sexy forearms, I notice as he hangs his coat on a hook at the end of the booth.
Also, who the hell is this guy?
“Raj?” Priya shouts from the bar and launches herself off her barstool and into his arms. For a second I wonder if maybe this is some never-mentioned cousin of Priya’s before realizing how totally racist that is.
“I’m Priya. I’ve heard so much about you,” she adds. There goes that theory.
Raj rests one hand possessively on Theo’s bare chest, and I feel my heart sink into my stomach.
“Finn, meet Raj,” Theo says, and they both look down at me in the booth, the sad penguin. “My new boyfriend,” he adds. As if to demonstrate the point, Theo leans in and gives Raj a searing kiss that goes on a few seconds longer than is polite in public.
Since fucking when, I want to yell. And how does Priya know about it when Hannah and I don’t? I’m suddenly very jealous of Keith, who spent the whole parade stationed between Priya and Theo. If only his chicken suit let him hear what they were saying and he could have warned me.
I’m furious. I have no right to be, but I am.
“You okay, mate?” Raj asks in a smooth British accent.
“Yeah, too much to drink,” I lie. I haven’t had a single drink. I stand and try to pick the moose knuckle the penguin costume is giving me as subtly as possible before shaking Raj’s hand.
“Pleasure,” Raj says, “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Pri, why don’t you and Raj grab a drink. Finn was in the middle of telling me something important,” Theo says.
Priya loops her arm through Raj’s like they’re old pals, but she throws a concerned look over her shoulder toward me, assessing how I’m taking the news.
“Sorry, what were you saying?” Theo asks as he sits back down across from me.
“Oh, um, I think we should do New Year’s on your roof again.”
“Bloody brilliant! Absolutely.”
Theo gets up and claps me on the back before adding, “You should probably slow down on the drinks, you don’t look so good.” I nod, and he leaves to make his way to Raj at the bar. Once he’s gone, I collapse my head onto my forearms on the table. Now I’ll have to watch Theo kiss Raj at midnight. Perfect.
eleven
Hannah
This year, December 1
David and I are on our way home from the Union Square farmers’ market, his tote bag weighed down with stalks of Brussels sprouts, a bouquet of rainbow carrots, a carton of mushrooms, and a loaf of fresh sourdough. My only add was a bag of Martin’s hard pretzels, which have become a minor addiction in the five months we’ve lived together and I’ve been accompanying him to the greenmarket on Saturday mornings.
He’s telling me about the Melissa Clark coq au vin recipe from the New York Times cooking section he wants to try tonight when he interrupts himself. “Should we get one?” He points to a stand selling Christmas trees on the sidewalk of West Broadway.
We stop to survey the rows of trees, each wrapped in netting, so the only discernible difference is their height. “Didn’t you say you’ve always wanted a real tree?” he asks.
My heart flutters at his thoughtfulness. The way he always remembers my small comments. I did say that. I specifically said I wanted a tree from one of these sidewalk stands that pop up in late November and fill street corners with a sweet pine scent. At Orchard Street, there was no room for a tree. Our living room was like a game of furniture Tetris as we wedged in more and more sidewalk finds over the years: a pair of end tables Priya stripped and repainted, a vintage trunk, a tripod floor lamp. We set up a miniature artificial tree on the coffee table and made ornaments from back issues of Priya’s Us Weekly subscription and tubes of glitter glue. Last year’s tree-topper was a red carpet photo of Meryl Streep cut into a star shape.
“Okay, let’s do it,” I tell David. Maybe this can be our new Christmas tradition, something just for us.
* * *
? ? ?
?Half an hour and four blocks later, I have misgivings about the tree as the pine needles stab my bare fingers like actual needles. “Can we stop for a second?” I ask between pants. “I need to adjust my grip.”
“Do you want to switch sides?” He’s bearing the brunt of the weight with the trunk, but I have the spiky top half, which is impossible to get a solid grasp on.
“Uh, not really,” I say. “Why? Do you?”
“I think we should just power through the last two blocks. Get it over with,” he suggests.
“Are you saying we should attempt to jog with this behemoth? Because I was half considering leaving it on the sidewalk. I know the book is called A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, but I think this tree could have a pretty nice life on the sidewalks of lower Manhattan, too. We live in a good school district,” I pant.
“I can admit it’s possible I was wrong to suggest we get the biggest tree,” David says, his shoulders slumping forward slightly and his tote bag sliding down his arm.
My gut twists with guilt. “No. You were totally right!” I rush to tell him. “This is going to look amazing. Just wait until we get some lights on it. This was a great idea, truly.” I hook my fingers into the netting, letting it cut off my circulation.
“I’m ready,” I announce. “One . . . two . . . three . . . go.” I take off in an awkward trot that makes us look like we stole the thing.
* * *
? ? ?
?By the time we stagger out of the elevator we’re both sweating, and the tree has lost at least twenty percent of its needles. “What if it has a bald spot?” David wonders aloud as we carry it down the hallway to our apartment, leaving a trail of pine droppings in our wake.
“We’ll have to love it anyway because there’s no way I can repeat this heroic act of strength. I’m sure Amazon sells tree toupees.” We smile at each other with punch-drunk grins.