Page 43 of Is This for Real?
We get up from the couch and say goodbye to Zelda.
Olivia’s apartment is several blocks away on Riverside Boulevard. The postman is wheeling his blue bag down the nearly empty streets. Contrary to reputation, New York City is a city that sleeps late. A doorman steps out to open the door of a cab stopping in front of his building.
“Is the story that I slept over at your house after your writers’ critique group meeting?” Rory asks.
I nod. “What’d you do last night while I was at my writers’ meeting?” I ask, so we have our stories straight. Not because I want to know if he went out on a date with Callie.
“I met up with a bunch of friends. And then Callie and I went out for a drink afterward. She hit on me, so I told her we were dating. Handy.” He’s looking at an ad campaign on a bus shelter for a new movie coming out. Not at me.
Warmth fills me. There’s still a chance. He didn’t want to date her. “I bet she didn’t take that well.”
He side-eyes me. “She was very gracious about it. Said she’d always suspected there was something more there.”
Now I feel bad that I was catty. We walk down a brownstone-lined block, passing a mom carrying a mesh bag of balls, heading in the direction of the playground with her children.
“What’s happening with your writer’s website and your blog?” Rory asks. “I thought you were going to start that up.”
We turn onto Riverside Boulevard. The Hudson River is choppy today, and the wind whips my curls around.
“I haven’t had time, what with the store and all the mini orders. Once I finish a solid draft, setting up a website is next on the list. With this wind, I am definitely going to look rumpled.”
Rory snorts. “I thought the word was windswept.”
“Youhavebeen reading romance novels.”
He laughs.
We arrive at Olivia’s apartment building and say hello to the doorman. The ornate lobby with its fresh flowers feels like we’ve stepped into an entirely different ecosystem from my brownstone apartment. We take the elevator up.
As we walk down the carpeted hallway, we hear children screaming inside Olivia’s apartment.
“It sounds like a children’s party,” Rory says.
“We’re probably the entertainment,” I say.
“Carissima?”
“Schatje.” I look into his eyes.
He holds my hand. Our feet slow almost in unison, as if we’re en route to face a firing squad.
Rory rings the doorbell. Olivia opens the door. Her glance darts to our clasped hands, and her eyes widen. She kisses me and then Rory. “John got called into work—again—so it’s just me holding down the fort. And the kids each have a friend over. Welcome to the family, Rory. I’m thrilled you guys are dating.”
Nothing like added pressure and guilt.
It’s kid chaos inside the apartment. Four kids are running around having a pillow fight in the living room. The living room is big and comfortable, its former sharp glass and stainless-steel coffee table replaced by a solid-wood coffee table with drawers for games and art supplies. A rug covers a padded gymnastics mat.
Olivia disappears into the kitchen. I’m expected to follow her and help out. But then my nephew Thomas hits me with a pillow and I say, “Girls against boys.” I grab a pillow from the couch and swat my nephew back. If it’s play with the kids or get grilled by Olivia, the choice is easy. The kids are also using small, snowball pillows I gave them last Christmas. Olivia was not happy. I thought she’d thrown them out. The kids must have overruled her.
“Hey, you’re too big,” Thomas says.
“You shouldn’t have hit me,” I say.
Whoosh. Into my back. Rory has hit me with a pillow. “Ouch,” I say, more from the shock.
“This means war.” I throw a small, snowball pillow at Rory. He catches it. So much for my powerful throw. I’m better with real snowballs. Rory and I have a tradition that we meet for a walk in Central Park for the first snow of the season. It usually devolves into a snowball fight.
We’re now all hitting each other with pillows. No feathers are flying—yet. The two girls and I retreat to hide behind Olivia’s blue, leather couch with a stockpile of the pillow snowballs. Rory and the two boys have taken up positions behind the armchairs. Some snowballs are scattered off to the left. I tell the girls to cover me so I can get them. I run out. Rory emerges from behind the chairs, surprisingly undeterred by the hail of soft snowballs from behind the couch. I am trying to scoop up the snowballs, but he keeps knocking them out of my hand. The girls and boys are all screaming for their respective players. I am laughing so hard I can’t speak. I hug the snowballs close to my body and curve over them, hip-checking him so he stumbles slightly. Ha.
