It didn’t feel real when I signed my job offer or when I told my friends. It certainly didn’t feel real when I flew to LA two weeks ago to find an apartment. That felt like playing the Game of Life, picking a place to live for a fictional version of myself. My little blue peg is moving up in the world!
But it is real. An hour ago, I closed the door to my newly empty apartment and left the keys under the super’s doormat. It’s weird to think I’ll never see the inside of the place I called home for the past three years ever again. I snapped a few pictures on my way out as a keepsake, but they already look like nothing. The kind of photos you take when the camera app opens by accident.
“Are you excited?” my sister asked when she called last night, and I didn’t know how to answer.
On the one hand, my new apartment—a two-bedroom in a West Hollywood high-rise—is way nicer than my old studio. The real estate agent regaled me with lists of amenities: new chrome appliances, central air, and a walk-in closet, but what impressed me most were the clean, freshly painted walls that weren’t pockmarked with dozens of tiny holes, hastily spackled over by scores of former tenants. This apartment was shiny and new. It even smelled like a fresh start, although that was probably the linen-scented candle the real estate agent was burning on the kitchen island.
The problem is, I can’t picture what my life in LA will look like. I can picture myself driving to work, sitting in traffic listening to one of Hannah’s podcasts. I can picture my office, mostly because it was shown to me when I stopped by for a tour. But I can’t picture my life outside of work.
Whenever I try, I can only conjure scenes from TV shows, and I’m pretty sure my life won’t look like New Girl—unfortunately, I’m not moving into a loft with three built-in best friends—or The Hills with their rowdy pre-games. The clubs they went to don’t exist anymore, and I don’t think I’d get in if they did.
The biggest blank is who I’ll hang out with. Sean Grady, my college boyfriend, lives in LA, but according to a quick Instagram stalk, he’s married with two pugs he gushes about in lengthy monthly birthday posts about their evolving likes and dislikes as if they’re actual children. A girl I went to high school with is trying to make it as an actress in LA. I know because she posts braggy status updates on Facebook about how lucky she is every time she books a commercial for IBS medication or car insurance.
This is the part of moving that scares the shit out of me: I have to make new friends. What if I’m too old to make new friends? Will I even have time? And I already know if I do manage to make new friends, they’ll never be as close as the ones I already have.
A member of the building’s army of doormen rushes out to help me with my bags, breaking me out of my impending sidewalk panic spiral. “My man.” He offers me a fist bump.
It’s a point of pride that I’ve won over the doormen at Theo’s. I’ve even made strides with Dwayne, the head doorman. When I pass his desk, he offers me a two-finger salute. I don’t need to stop because for the last year, I’ve been on Theo’s list—the list of approved guests who don’t need to be checked and can be let right up. But I’m tempted to stop and explain myself to Dwayne anyway. Make sure he knows I’m not using Theo for his money or his apartment. That I’m not like Elliot or the others. I actually care about Theo. But that feels like a weird thing to explain to a doorman who, at best, tolerates my presence in exchange for a paycheck.
The thrill of the fanciness of Theo’s apartment has dulled over the years, and now when the elevator doors open, the only thing I can think is: Home. For the next two weeks, at least.
Theo saunters into the foyer, drawn by the ding of the elevator. “Hello, roomie!”
I don’t try to hide the shy smile that blooms at his welcome.
“I have the blue guest room all ready for you.” He turns on his heel and I trail him through the living room to the guest room across from his office. The one with the best view. Even though it’s illogical, I’m slightly disappointed. On the ride over, I’d allowed myself to fantasize that I’d be sharing with Theo.
* * *
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?On Wednesday, I return to our newly shared apartment after using the building’s gym. Theo goes to Equinox even though there’s a gym on the second floor. He says it’s because he likes to use the steam room after he lifts, but I suspect he likes the pickup scene even more.
I leave a trail of sweat droplets on the floors as I make my way from the elevator to the kitchen. My quick treadmill 5K turned into an hour-long run. When I push open the swinging door to the kitchen, I’m surprised to find Theo unpacking reusable totes of groceries. I assumed there were people to do that for him.
Theo pauses and sweeps his eyes over my sweat-soaked body. My workout tank is stuck to me like second skin. “Good run?” he asks.
My arms break out in goose bumps at his assessment. “Uh, yeah,” I answer. “I got in seven miles. I think unemployment is getting to me. I felt guilty about not doing anything all day.”
It’s a lie. I’ve only been unemployed for four days. What’s getting to me is living with Theo. After a restless night’s sleep, I emerged from my room this morning to find him sprawled on the couch watching Live with Kelly and Ryan in nothing but Christmas plaid boxers and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that look so good on him they make me question why he bothers with contacts. His curls stood up at odd angles from sleep.
There’s a surprising intimacy to living with someone, I realized, bearing witness to their in-between moments before they ready themselves for the world. I never thought about what Theo did while he was home alone, but if I’d been forced to speculate, watching daytime talk shows in his underwear would have been near the bottom of the list. I’d have found it easier to believe he was hosting a Magic: The Gathering circle with the building’s school-aged residents or doing old Jane Fonda workout tapes.
We sat on opposite ends of the couch for three hours watching Live! followed by the fourth hour of the Today show followed by The View until I announced I was going for a run. In truth, sitting next to a half-naked Theo was making me uncomfortable. Or horny. Or uncomfortably horny. I couldn’t decide because I was distracted by the line of hair running from his chest down his stomach and into the waistband of his boxers.
It was all too much to take on four hours of sleep. Last night, as I tossed and turned in Theo’s absurdly comfortable guest bed, I played Hannah’s words from our fight on a loop. You’ll never be with Theo because you’re a coward. No one can hurt you like the people you love most, because they know your squishiest parts. Worst of all, I recognize the kernel of truth at the heart of her words. And so, off to the gym I went to pound my feelings into the treadmill.
Now, dressed in a pair of dark-wash jeans and a sky-blue crewneck sweater, his curls tamed into momentary submission, Theo is transferring packages of sugar and flour into glass jars with chalkboard labels. The scene is oddly domestic. A thought flits through my brain about wanting to share more of Theo’s boring bits. The mundane moments that make up a life.
I cross the galley kitchen, easily the least impressive part of Theo’s apartment, toward the glass-fronted fridge for a bottle of water. I accidentally graze his butt with my hip as I pass, an inevitable accident in a kitchen this narrow. It was designed with the assumption someone other than the owner was the one doing the cooking. I open the door and let the refrigerated air cool me down, part from my run and part from the look Theo gave me.