Page 19 of Is This for Real?
I give him a hug. The table is set for two, with candles even. Rory is really taking this “dating” business seriously. He gives me a squeeze back.
“Takeout is good, too.” I move out of his embrace and walk toward his windows. “We should open the windows and air this out before your neighbors call the fire department.”
The sirens of a fire department truck wail outside. Rory and I open the windows. As the firefighters emerge from the truck, Rory yells down that the fire is out. They confer, and the second truck pulls away. The first says that they will send a team up. He runs down the stairs to let them in.
I hurry to the back of his apartment and open up the rest of the windows. There’s no acrid smoke smell in the back.
Rory has a spacious, loft-like apartment in Tribeca, which could look like a magazine spread, but not in its usual condition of rumpled disorder: stacks of books and magazines piled around the room, a sweatshirt draped over a dining chair, a basketball and high-tops by the door, his jacket hanging off the back of a chair as if he rushed inside and didn’t have time to hang it up. I prefer that very relaxed and casual vibe, though. Very Rory. But today, no clothes are strewn around, there are no piles of sports equipment in the corner, and the books are neatly stacked in almost artistic piles.
I’m reading more into this than I should. I look around his bedroom. I haven’t spent a lot of time in Rory’s bedroom. His bookcase reveals the most: classics, art books, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, detective stories and thrillers, three romcoms I recommended, books on marketing and advertising, a framed picture of Rory with his parents on holiday in Italy, another photo of Rory holding up a fish with his dad. Several modern paintings decorate the walls. A Nerf basketball hoop hangs over the door. The painting over his desk is a portrait of Rory laughing. It really captures him. I step closer to see the artist. His mom.
Deep voices echo from the living room. I walk out to join them.
Rory is explaining to the two firemen that he thought he turned off the burner before he went to buy flowers. Two firemen are looking at the remains of the pot on the stove—and the white spray gook. The kitchen seems really small with these tall, heroic men in it. They turn around as I enter the kitchen. Firemen just radiate heat.
“Penelope?” one fireman asks.
It’s Anthony, a fireman I dated briefly two years ago. I popped by our local fire department to ask some research questions. (Seriously, they were real research questions. I was writing a short story with a fireman as the romantic lead and their “meet-cute” happened when she started a fire in her kitchen making French fries. It wasn’t particularly original, but I still liked that story. I used it as a free giveaway to build up an email list.) Anyway, I met Anthony, and he asked me out. I don’t think he believed that I was really doing research. We had a few dates, but then it faded. He was a very good cook, however.
“Anthony,” I say. “You’ve switched stations.” Rory looks surprised, as does the other fireman.
“Yeah, I moved down here a couple of months ago.” He looks at me and at Rory. “Hi, you must be Jamie. Nice to meet you.”
“No, Rory.” Rory shakes his hand. Rory and Anthony exchange a look.
“Well, good luck here. I’d stay away from lighting those candles for now,” he says. Ah, he noticed the candles, too. “You might want to eat out until you get a chance to clean this up and the smoke smell clears out. Penelope is particularly sensitive to that smoke smell.”
I flush. He’s remembering how when he came over to my apartment straight from work, I always tried to air the smoke out of his coat out by hanging it up outside on our small balcony. Or is he just being possessive with an “I know Penelope” comment aimed at Rory? Rory looks skinny compared to these two, who are seriously muscular.
The firemen leave. I busy myself by trimming the flower stems and putting them in water. Rory throws the pot into the garbage and cinches the bag up.
“I’m really sorry. I had a romantic dinner planned.” Rory looks sheepish. I find it endearing. He runs his hand through his hair. “So that’s Anthony the fireman. Why did he think I was Jamie?”
I squirm. “We were dating when Jamie first visited from Singapore, and I hung out with Jamie that whole week.”
“He didn’t meet Jamie?”
I look away. “I didn’t tell Jamie I was dating someone. It was not my finest moment. And we broke up after I was ‘busy’ seeing Jamie for that whole week.”
Rory nods. I can’t tell what he’s thinking.
He asks, “Shall we go out?”
“Yes.” The table even has wine glasses and placemats.
My hat from yesterday’s brunch is on one of the hooks by the door. I grab it and position it just right. I walk out the door. Rory follows, carrying the garbage bag.
As we leave the warmth of his building, he reaches for my hand and pulls me close. I squeeze his hand. Okay, this isn’t that bad. But what are the chances that Anthony would show up on our first date?
“A new Tex-Mex opened in the neighborhood. Should we try it?” he asks.
“Let’s.” We turn the corner. The last employee of the candle store in the middle of the block is pulling down the iron grate with a screech and locking up. The restaurant on the corner looks cozy and inviting in the dusk.
“We need to discuss the rules of our fake dating,” I say.
Chapter six
“Rules?”Roryasks.Hishand is warm and solid, holding mine in the crisp night air as we amble along Chambers Street.
