Page 36 of The Love Losers

In my head, I see something different.

I see my unicorn.

“You’re right,” I agree. “But other people wonder why I keep renewing the bar’s lease when the space could be used for more storage.”

“And why do you?” she asks, her eyes a glimmer in the night.

“I like it,” I say simply.

“But it’s terrible,” she blurts, making me laugh. She lifts her free hand. “Now, don’t get me wrong, I adore terrible things—can’t get enough of them—but you don’t seem like a man who’d appreciate the joys of dank weed and flat beer.”

“I feel like I should thank you for saying that,” I say, sneaking a look at her as we walk along the side of the building.

“You shouldn’t. I’m not entirely sure it was a compliment.”

But I still haven’t answered her, and I can tell she’s waiting. It’s there in the heavy air between us. So as we continue walking, passing beneath my favorite piece of graffiti art, I say, “I guess there’s something I enjoy about the imperfection. It’s straightforward. Honest. There are no pretenses.”

“You’ve been around a lot of liars,” she says, cutting right to the heart of the thing. That’s something else she has a talent for—collapsing artifice as if it’s a faulty box.

I think of Nina, telling me that I could leave the past behind—we’d be each other’s family—and assuring me that even if the wedding wasn’t on the time table we’d chosen, she would have wanted to marry me anyway.

I think of my father, whispering insults in a voice too low for anyone else to hear.

“Yes.”

“Me too,” she says with a sigh. “My uncle was one of those guys who could talk anyone into anything. He probably cared about my brothers and me as much as he was capable of caring about anyone, but he still used us. He didn’t know how to love people, I guess. And every man I’ve ever fallen for has turned out to be exactly like him.” Then she surprises me by stopping me there, by the side of my building. The moon glimmers on her as she squeezes my hand and peers into my eyes. Some forgotten instinct inside of me says this is going to be an important moment, one I’ll always look back on. “Let’s make a pact never to lie to each other, Anthony.”

“I’ll never lie to you,” I promise, feeling it burn through me as if there’s magic attached to the words.

“And I’ll never lie to you,” she says firmly. “Now tell me about your unicorn. What does this building look like in your mind?”

So I tell her.

I show her where the apartment units would be, and where we’d build the community garden. I share my idea about arranging for the city buses to stop here so the residents would have reliable transportation. And I tell her about the skylight in the middle of the warehouse. I’d like to keep it as is, so the hallway is always bathed in light.

“How could you make money on them if they’re low-cost units?” she asks.

“I got the building for next to nothing,” I say, feeling the old excitement spark to life again. “And you can apply for incentives if you offer low-cost housing. We’d be building a community. I thought I’d call it The Ware.”

I realize I’ve stopped walking—that I’m talking too loudly, too passionately, and to someone who probably doesn’t give a shit about housing or real estate.

I can see Simon giving me a sympathetic look when I told him about my plan—as if I was some dumb kid who didn’t get it.

“It’s okay,”he’d told me.“It’s good that you told me first. That’s never going to fly, and here’s why…”

I hadn’t just given up on the spot. I’d revised my proposal. I’d wined and dined members of the board to try to get someone else sweet on it. But it was like Simon had constructed a box for me, with walls he’d borrowed from my father, and the box had only windows and no doors.

I couldn’t find a way out.

So I’d sat on The Ware, and on this building…and I’d kept the dream to myself, withering inside of me.

I clear my throat, embarrassed. “Sorry. I…it’s easy to talk to you.”

“It’s that gift of the gab,” she says, touching my arm. “And I’m glad. I like hearing you talk about it. It makes it feel real to me. I paint pictures in my head.” I meet her eyes, and to my surprise, she doesn’t look bored or indifferent. She really means what she’s saying.

“I’d like to see those pictures,” I say, before I can stop myself. “You know, I’ve always thought I’d enjoy painting. Maybe that’ll be on my bucket list.”

“Good,” she says, squeezing my arm slightly. “You arrange the unicorn riding, and I’ll arrange a painting outing for us afterward. Do you really think we can get everything done before New Year’s?”

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