Slip of the Tongue (Slip of the Tongue 1)

I shake my head and push past him. I get into bed, buzzed, aroused, and dejected. Ginger pads between the couch and the bed, confused. In the dark silence, I’m defenseless against the onslaught of emotions. The tears come. He doesn’t want me on the most basic level, and it’s something I never thought I’d have to deal with. What do I do with that? Where can we possibly go from here?

I sob with my fist in my mouth so he won’t hear. Nathan’s getting further away, but he’s still in the next room—and somehow, that makes it worse.

THIRTEEN

When Finn spots me coming up the sidewalk toward our apartment building, he holds the door. “Hi,” he says as I duck inside. I try not to look at him, but it’s hard. He smells earthy, like he’s been sitting around a fire on a winter night, draped in blankets. “How’ve you been?”

“Okay.” I stop to get the mail.

He waits as I sort through it. Perhaps sensing my mood, he says, “Hey. What’s Mickey Mouse’s favorite book?”

I glance up finally. His bright green eyes make me self-conscious about the bags under mine. I toss everything but a bill in the recycle bin. “I give up.”

“The Great Ratsby.” He grins. “Marissa came up with that. She has a sudden fascination with rodents.”

It feels good to smile. “Smart girl.”

He hits the elevator call button. The doors open, and we get on. “It’s late,” he says. “Just getting home from work?”

I nod. “We had an event in SoHo. How’s unpacking?”

“Hot.” We stand there a moment. As if the word itself is a heater, the space warms. He licks his lips. They look dry from the cold, but still rust-colored and inviting. My hands twitch as I remember how I lost control last week and grabbed onto him while he kissed me.

He laughs. “We forgot to hit the button.”

My cheeks flush. Or maybe I was already blushing from my memory. Either way, the tension eases, and I relax. “Is the apartment almost done?” I ask once we’re ascending.

He shrugs. “Not really. I got distracted.”

“With what?”

“Finally got some of my equipment out. I took my camera for a spin or two.”

“That’s great,” I say, smiling. “Get anything good?”

“I’m a little rusty,” he admits. “But there’s a lot to work with in this city. In fact, I even scored my first gig.”

“Wow.” I pick up on his excitement. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks. She’s a small business owner, so I’m cutting her a deal. Hopefully, she’ll refer me to others.” We arrive at the sixth floor, and he touches his hand to the small of my back as we get off.

“Your beard’s growing in,” I note on the short walk to his door.

He scratches it. “It itches.”

“You could shave it.”

We stop at his apartment. “You don’t like it?”

I’ve never been much for facial hair. Nathan has a blade-like, square jawline, and it’d be a shame to hide it. On Finn, though, it works. Very well. “No, I do.”

He nods. “Then I’ll keep it.”

I go to leave, but being near his apartment makes me think of how it feels inside. The warmth. The slight buzz from breaking the rules. I can almost hear the skip of the vinyl. He has his key in the door when he notices I’m still standing there.

“I’m sorry about your record player,” I say. “I’ll replace it.”

“It’s fine, actually,” he says. “Vintage. Well made.”

“Oh. Okay. Good.”

Slowly, he curves his mouth into a smile, as though I’ve been caught confessing a secret. I’m not sure I have a secret. If I did, it would probably be that after almost a week of near silence in my own apartment, I kind of want to go to Finn’s, listen to some music, and chill. “Night, Sadie,” he says on his way inside.

At work the next day, everyone in the office gathers in the conference room for a meeting. As Amelia discusses updates to our website, she points at me. “Headshots,” she says. “Don’t let me forget.”

“Headshots?” I ask. “Why?”

“We need to update your blurb on the site. Now that you’re dealing with clients more in your new position, I want your face out there. It’s not enough just to list your accomplishments.”

I sit forward. The last week, I’ve had a lot on my mind. Mostly work, Thanksgiving plans, and the fact that Nathan is still sleeping on the couch. But since I saw Finn last night, I haven’t thought of much else. As Amelia starts in on the next item of business, I speak up. “Can I hire my own photographer?”

“Fine by me,” she says. “Just try to have fun with it. Make sure it reflects what we do here—incorporate a hobby or something. Send me the bill.”

A hobby, I think to myself later, when I’m riding the subway home from work. Being silly with Nathan is my definition of fun. The nosebleed section of a Yankees game, my feet in his lap as I scarf down a relish-laden hotdog—the only reason I put up with baseball.

Fun is racing against the clock at the Union Square farmer’s market, trying to come up with a more creative dinner than Nathan in ten minutes. Even when his ideas are better, he declares me the winner.

Cooking for Nathan. Being with Nathan. That’s my hobby.

Tonight, he’s bowling. Even though it’s Wednesday again, we didn’t need to discuss whether or not I’d come along. As much as I’d like to be there, I’m respecting his wants and needs. He doesn’t want me there. Doesn’t need me bringing him down.

After taking Ginger out, I’m not in the mood to sit still. I pour myself a glass of wine as I prepare a steak salad, garlic potato wedges, and broccolini. I eat alone at the counter, stabbing at romaine lettuce, feeding Ginger table scraps. There’s enough for two, but this meal won’t be any good tomorrow.

I wonder about Finn. If he’s been eating well. How often he goes back to Connecticut. What he does all day. One gig won’t be enough to pay the rent in this building. Make that two gigs, if he accepts the job to do my headshots. His excitement last night over finding work he’s passionate about has stuck with me. When I tell him about the job, I’ll be the reason for his enthusiasm.

After my second glass of wine, the silence in the apartment is deafening. I put leftovers in a Tupperware and grab my keys. I knock on Finn’s door, rocking in my Minnetonka moccasins. He probably isn’t home. Out for dinner. Visiting Connecticut. At a movie. I’ve convinced myself he isn’t here when he answers in a t-shirt and basketball shorts.

He leans his shoulder against the doorframe, an absurdly pleased smile on his face. “Hello again.”

“Hello.” I glance into the apartment. The lights are on, but I don’t hear anything—or anyone. I should’ve thought this through more.

“I’m alone,” he says.

“Oh.” I look up into his eyes. “Me too.”

He nods as if he understands. How could he possibly know how painful it is for me to be alone tonight while Nathan is cavorting with his friends and their wives?

“Come in,” he says.

I don’t even hesitate. Tonight, the gray cloud over my head can take a break. “I brought you something.”

He shuts the door behind me. “Is that what I think it is?”

“It’s dinner.”

“God in heaven,” he groans, “you are an angel.”

I grin. “That might be a

stretch.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you were me. I haven’t had vegetables in a week.”

It’s supposed to make me laugh, but instead it makes me a little sad. He has more furniture since I was here last, but the couch is covered with a sheet. The TV is still in its box. There’s an entertainment center in the corner, but it’s not lined up right with the walls. I bury my hands in my sweater sleeves, even though his heater clearly still isn’t fixed.

“Are you doing okay?” I ask.

“What?” He follows my gaze around the room. An Ikea coffee table is in pieces by the sofa, the instructions spread out. “I’m having a blast. It’s the first time in years I get to live like a bachelor. And it’s just as good as I remember.”

I don’t point out that bachelorhood can have as many ups and downs as married life. Last time I was here, I found the apartment refreshing, a clean slate. The mess makes me second-guess myself. TV dinners and living out of boxes? First dates and awkward conversation? I don’t recall my single days fondly.

I hand him the Tupperware. “Sorry to spoil the party, but there is broccolini in there.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Good thing broccolini’s my favorite.”

I laugh. “Try again. That wasn’t convincing.”

“No, really.” He motions for me to follow him into the kitchen. “I like how small it is. Better than broccoli, those big-ass motherfuckers.”

I’m full on giggling into my hand now. Five minutes here, and I’m no longer a villain—or a victim. I’m not ruining someone’s day just by being around.

“Will you eat with me?” he asks.

I gesture in the general direction of my apartment. My hand is still sleeved like a five-year-old. “I already ate.”

“But you’ll sit?” he asks, pulling out a chair for me. “Just for a few?”

He goes to a cupboard without waiting for my answer. I tuck some hair behind my ear and take a seat at the table. At the moment, I’m more comfortable in a stranger’s crowded, unorganized kitchen than I am in my own bedroom.

He puts all the food onto a plate, even though I suspect if I weren’t here, he’d eat straight out of the container.

“So,” we say at the same time. Both of us smile politely.