“It would.”
“I . . . I just don’t know.”
“Can I help you in any way, honey?”
It is the endearment that does me in. Whatever defenses I had against him, and I didn’t think I had many, tumble down. I want to impress him, but more than that, I want to know him.
“I don’t get you.”
He doesn’t answer right away and I like that. Maybe I read more into it than I should but his hesitation makes it seem like his response is important enough to him that he’s not going to throw out a glib answer. “I like the sound of your voice.”
“Really?” I’m skeptical and thrilled all at the same time.
“Really.” Sometimes his responses are so dry I think he must be making a joke. “Why don’t I bring some food over?”
“Why?” I ask like a fool.
“So we can share a meal. Get to know one another.”
“What if—what if I can’t open the door?”
“Then I sit on one side and you sit on the other.”
“You’d do that for me?” My heart pounds frantically at the thought—half in panic and half in excitement.
Another of his long thoughtful pauses follows before he answers. “You’d be surprised what I’d be willing to do for you.”
For the next few hours, I write and then take breaks to practice opening the door. I visualize my portly fellow with the receding hairline—I added that detail because it fit with my safe image of him—outside, wearing khaki cargo pants, tennis shoes, and a white polo. No flannel. I shake my head and remove the receding hairline and replace the white polo with a dark blue polo, otherwise he looks too much like the cable repair guys on television. By the tenth time, I’m able to make it to the doorway and twist the knob. I don’t open it yet. While my palms are sweaty and my knees are weak, I don’t feel bile at the back of my throat and I’m still standing up.
Success. I can do this. I can let him in. I shut out the little voice in my head that chirps Dr. Terrance would not approve.
Excitedly, I call Daphne and tell her about my impending date. “Can you fall in love with someone you’ve never seen?” I ask as I straighten my hair. The wispy brown locks usually have a slight curl in them, but I want to look older and sophisticated.
“Sure. Isn’t that how Internet relationships are? You email someone or chat with them and then just confirm your lust in person. Why? Is this about the winky face person? The lumbosexual?”
“The lumbowhat?”
“That’s the type of guy who is spending thousands of dollars to look like he’s in a back-country camping ad, but he doesn’t camp. He just looks like he does, and he’ll cry if you show him a picture of a cute puppy. Hence the flannel and the inappropriate use of emoji.”
“No. He is definitely not a lumbosexual.” Jake didn’t seem like the crying type.
“Should you even be talking to this Jake guy? Have you cleared it with Dr. Terrance?”
“I don’t have to have permission from Dr. Terrance to make a new friend!” I exclaim, affronted.
“I’m just saying that so soon after your meltdown at the elevator, it doesn’t seem wise to invite some stranger into your apartment.”
“He’s going to sit on my balcony. He’s not even coming inside to act on my lust,” I point out.
“He’s bringing food and wants to get to know you better. That’s what guys do when they want to get in a girl’s pants.”
She’s right, but I’m okay with that because if all he wants is sex and I can actually follow through, that would be it’s own small miracle. “True, but what if I’m not pretty enough for him? Because for a guy to take on a basket case like me, he must either have no other options or he thinks I’m supermodel pretty.”
“You are very pretty,” come the words of a best friend.
“I’m not a dog, but I’m no model.” And model types are everywhere in New York. A guy like Jake who owns his own business and his own home would be attractive to them. Hell, he’d be attractive to 99.9 percent of the single heterosexual ladies in the city and half of the married ones too.
According to the little information that the Internet reveals, Jake owns an Upper West Side townhouse worth at least five million according to some real estate site. His mother was a lawyer and his father was a banker. Both are retired. He holds a degree in business management from Columbia, plus there’s the added benefit of a touch of danger. He was a soldier and wore a uniform. I found a picture of his platoon—or what I think might be his platoon—on Google but I didn’t know which of the dirty-faced, camo-wearing guys with guns was him. There isn’t much else that Google coughed up about him. “It’s all academic. I’ve not made a new friend or acquaintance since, you know, before.”
“There’s a first time for everything. By the way, the pages you sent me today were brilliant.
Whatever you are doing, keep doing it and keep sending me pages. You’ll make your deadline if you keep at it. If flirting with Paul Bunyan makes you write like this, then I approve.”
“So I should keep my door shut and my feelings repressed and regurgitate all the emotional mess on the page.”
“If that’s what is keeping your creative engine motoring . . .” She lets the unfinished statement dangle there.
“Maybe there will be lots of romance in this book.”
“Everyone likes romance,” she agrees. The phone beeps and it’s Dr. Terrance.
“Dr. T is on the line,” I say.
“Go,” she orders. “I’ve got work to do. Keep writing!”
“Yes ma’am.” I snap off a salute she can’t see and switch over to Terrance.
“Hello, Natalie, did you get the delivery today?”
Guiltily, I cringe. “Um, I haven’t called down for it.” I’ve been too busy flirting with the sweet security guy my cousin has hired to worry about taking drugs. Besides, now that I’ve got a date with Jake, the last thing I want to do is take some antianxiety medication that will dull all my feelings and turn me into a walking, talking, monotone zombie. That will really impress him.
“If you don’t take your proper medication, then we can’t move forward.”
“But Dr. T, I felt really good today and I was thinking—”
“Natalie, when is the last time you were able to leave your building?”
My fingers curl in anger so I take a second before I respond. “A while.”
“Two weeks and three days, if my calculations are accurate.”
You know they are, I say silently. Out loud, I try to convince Terrance I can do this without the medication. “I think we should just try, maybe once, without the medication.”
“How did it feel the last time you tried?”
“Not good,” I admit. “But I met this guy—”
“A new person, Natalie? Why haven’t you told me about him?”
“I meant to, but it was just the other day.”
“And who is he?”
“Oliver hired him to look into my situation, to give me some additional security.”
“Oh dear, Natalie, I’m going to talk with Oliver. I don’t think introducing a new person into your life at this time is good for your fragile state of mind. Now I want you to take the medication, and then I’ll call you tomorrow after I’ve spoken to your cousin.”
“But—” I start to object, but the dial tone tells me he’s already hung up. I’m about to call him back when I get a buzz on my phone from the doorman downstairs.