He gestures toward the elevators without a single word.
For a moment, I’m relieved, until I realize no one told me which apartment I’m going to or even which floor. I’m about to turn back when the elevator doors open, revealing a third doorman （or would this be an elevator man?） waiting to ferry me up to Theo. He presses the button for PH, and we stand in silence as the elevator ascends.
The elevator doors open into the foyer of the nicest apartment I’ve ever seen. The walls are covered in red wallpaper dotted with zebras leaping through the air, which should be garish or cheesy, but combined with the classic black-and-white checkerboard floors, it makes the space look modern and fun. Off to the side, there’s a lacquered black buffet topped with a pair of gold lamps buttressing an enormous arrangement of white peonies. Are peonies even in season?
I was not ready for a multimillion-dollar real estate situation. First the abs, then the shoes, and now this? My instinct is to cut and run. I may as well call it before I embarrass myself any more. Clearly, Theo is out of my league.
But I can’t make myself turn around and press the button to call the elevator.
“Hello?” Theo calls out from somewhere within the apartment.
“Hi! It’s me,” I say, and then add, “It’s Finn,” because he barely knows the sound of my voice and I don’t want him mistaking me for a robber here to steal his art and antiquities. I can only imagine what the security is like in this place. Guess there’s no going back now.
“In here!” he calls.
The hallway in front of me leads into a living room. I stop short as I enter. The room has a wall of windows with a jaw-dropping view of Central Park. I make a mental note to check the address on our way out, because I am going to need to Zillow this place. On another wall, floating bookshelves take up the entire wall from floor to ceiling. The shelves are populated with an artful arrangement of knickknacks that look like they might have come with the apartment. There’s not a single book or framed photo to give any hints about the man who lives here.
What must Theo have thought of the hovel I call an apartment?
I’m standing in the center of the room, gaping at the view and trying to remember if there were dirty dishes in the sink or what state the bathroom was in, when he walks in, freshly changed into a new pair of dark-wash jeans and a soft-looking forest-green sweater. The color brings out his eyes, which I notice are also green. The sweater must be cashmere. I have the sudden, inadvisable urge to reach out and feel it for myself, but that would be creepy. So I shove my hands in my pockets and try to look casual.
“How’d I do?” Theo asks.
“Good. Fine. Yep!” I say, like I had word soup for breakfast and it didn’t sit well.
“Can I use your bathroom?” I need a minute to regain my composure.
“Second door on your right.” He points to a hallway at the far end of the living room.
When I’m pretty sure he can’t see me, I slow my pace so I can snoop. The first room on the left is an office with an imposing mahogany desk at the center. I’m charmed when I notice a flock of model airplanes floating above the desk, strung from the ceiling with fishing wire so it looks like they’re flying.
The desk checks out; he must be important to afford this place. I preemptively dread the moment when he asks what I do and I have to confess that I’m an out-of-work actor with two equally unimpressive side jobs. The first, folding khakis at Banana Republic, and the second, answering phones at Actors’ Equity. I thought a job at the theater actors’ union might give me an in at auditions, but so far all it’s given me is an encyclopedic knowledge of the ins-and-outs of qualifying for the union’s health coverage. My only fleeting hope is that we already covered this topic last night and I had the good sense to black it out to save future me the embarrassment.
Opposite the office is a guest room, judging from the nondescript decor. The only other door in the hallway is the bathroom. I slip inside and lock the door behind me before slumping over the marble vanity.
C’mon, Finn, get it together.
I’m far too dehydrated to need to pee. I inspect myself in the mirror; I look tired.
I open the medicine cabinet hoping for some magical eye cream that will make me look dewy and well rested and worthy of the hot young Monopoly Man in the other room. I recently started using Mario Badescu eye cream and wonder what kind Theo uses—probably La Mer, from the looks of this place. The medicine cabinet is bare except for a bottle of Advil. I take two with a handful of sink water and decide enough time has passed. The last thing I need is for it to seem like I’m taking a giant dump. I flush the toilet and run my hands under the faucet to maintain the pretense.
* * *
? ? ?
?I’m feeling pleased with myself when we pull up to Hannah’s building on Orchard Street at 12:25, beating her three-hour estimate by forty-five minutes.
I let us into the building with my spare key, a remnant from when Hannah and I lived here together. We lasted two months before realizing that sometimes best friends make the worst roommates.
Theo pants as we climb the gray linoleum-tiled stairs to apartment twenty-seven, and I’m gratified to have proof that he’s not actually perfect. When we reach the fifth floor, I hesitate. Should I knock or use my key? Knocking feels more polite since I’m not alone.
Priya answers the door wearing a pink sweatshirt that says Sleigh the Patriarchy in glittery letters. “Oh, it’s you! Why didn’t you use your key?” She throws a sheet of glossy black hair over one shoulder and leans in to kiss me on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, by the way!”
“Who’s at the door?” Hannah calls from the kitchen.
“Just Finn,” Priya answers.
“Always nice to get such a warm welcome from my best friends.”
“Did you lose your key?” Hannah emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her ratty plaid pajama pants, the same pair she was wearing the night we met. Time hasn’t done them any favors, but she wears them every Christmas morning insisting they’re part of the tradition.
Hannah looks past me and notices Theo.
She plasters on a weird, manic smile and her posture straightens like she’s a marionette and her puppeteer jerked her strings taut. “Oh, you brought someone!”
“Theo, these are my very rude friends Priya and Hannah.”
“Lovely to meet you. Thank you for letting me barge in on your plans.” He presents Priya with a yellow box of Veuve Clicquot from a canvas tote I didn’t notice him carrying. “I brought this for you by way of apology.”
“That’s so nice of you.” Hannah takes the box of champagne from Priya so she can inspect it, too. I’m positive this is the nicest bottle of alcohol that’s ever graced this apartment. We make mimosas with André, sometimes Cook’s, but only if it’s someone’s birthday.
“We’ll put it in the fridge for later,” Hannah says. “Finn, will you join me in the kitchen? I need your help making hot chocolate.”
Hannah is a terrible cook, but even she doesn’t need help making hot chocolate from a packet. She must be pissed. Priya leads Theo down the hallway lined with Hannah’s collection of tour posters stuck to the wall with Blu Tack and into the living room, peppering him with questions about how we met and where he’s from in England.