Roomies

“I should honestly never try to do something sexy and impulsive.”

Calvin pulls me down onto the bed, digging tickling fingers into my sides. “I will never forget this.”

“Blow job fail.”

“It’s a very good reason for a blow job to fail. I would have had a hard time performing, I fear.”

I groan. “I can’t even contemplate that.”

He laughs into my stomach, kissing as he pushes up my shirt. “It was a nice thought for a birthday gift.”

“There are more surprises to come.”

And no matter how hard he tries to get the secret out of me—no matter how much he makes good on the promise to fuck me hard in gratitude—I hold strong.

twenty-five

I remember coming to New York for the first time at sixteen to visit Robert and Jeff. I landed at the airport, and although Jeff had planned to meet me at JFK, he was held up with some work emergency, and instead texted me directions to the AirTrain, and then the subway, and then the walk to their apartment, where he would meet me.

It sounded simple, but that was before I had the true scale of New York bearing down on my Des Moines naiveté. It wasn’t just the number of people and the number of signs, it was the noise. I felt like a bubble trying to push my way to the top of a carbonated bottle.

And even though New York seems almost comically easy to navigate now, I remember that feeling of complete disorientation as I head out of the apartment. I’ve fooled Calvin into thinking I have a gynecological exam in some mysterious region of Manhattan, and, no, I do not need him to accompany me—because really I am going to meet his mother and sister at the airport.

Nerves are a funny thing. I thought I was nervous at our wedding. And then, no, I realized that had nothing on the jitters of his first rehearsal. But that was swallowed whole by the whale shark of my restlessness during the immigration interview, and—later—on the Night of the Failed Birthday Blow Job. All of that feels like a tiny dot on the horizon compared to my anxiety today.

Despite our many texts, Brigid and I have never spoken. And after our plan to bring her and Marina out here took root, our interactions became pretty transactional, in part because I warned her that Calvin is highly casual about phone privacy—both mine and his. He’ll have me read emails to him while he plays, or answer a text if his hands are full unloading groceries. And although I don’t think he ever intends to be nosy, he’ll often inform me when Lulu or Robert or Jeff has texted or called, asking me if I want him to read it aloud. And usually, why not? I have nothing to hide.

Except this visit, which we are all determined to keep a surprise.

I admit I’m nervous as hell. I’m meeting my mother-in-law. I’m meeting my sister-in-law. These people are technically family, and what if they take one look at me and I’m nothing like what they’d hoped for him?

Calvin is so open and easy to talk to; normally I would let loose all my thoughts about this visit with him. Obviously, that’s not really possible here. And I can’t trust Lulu to keep her trap shut, Robert is composing a new show with a writer friend of his and is completely unavailable, and Jeff has listened to my concerns but what can he say? Don’t worry, you’re perfect?

What does Calvin’s family know about me? What has he told them?

I’m so distracted wondering what they’ll expect, what they’ll assume, what they’ll want to see in his wife—that when a subway car jerks along a bend I make a rookie mistake and lose my footing, sliding roughly into the door.

A man helps me, pulling me upright again. “Hold on to the bar here, honey.”

It is on the tip of my tongue to tell him that I live here, and I’m just nervous about meeting my in-laws, but he doesn’t fucking care—and neither do my thoughts, which are back on a wild bender, buzzing around.

I wait outside of international arrivals, hoping I’ll recognize the two women I’ve seen only in photographs. From what I can tell, of all Calvin’s siblings, Brigid looks the most like him, and it’s true in person, too—the second she walks around the bend into the terminal, I know it’s her. She has the same thick, light brown hair, the same olive skin, the same crinkly-eyed smile when she sees me. Marina is right behind her, and cries out when she follows where Brigid points in my direction, clapping a hand over her mouth.

They run, throwing their arms around me, and I feel the moment Marina breaks down and starts crying.

“Aw, Mum.” Brigid laughs as she pulls her mom into a hug. “We’ve just been so excited,” she explains over the top of Marina’s head. “We haven’t seen Calvin in four years.”

Marina is tiny but has the appearance of being unmovable and ageless. “You have no idea,” she says, pulling away and wiping her eyes. “And we’ve wanted to meet you for ages. We were excited thinking the two of you might come home at Christmas, and then it fell through.”

What a curious thing to say. I smile, returning their individual hugs and guiding them out of the terminal with a stunned numbness.

Does she mean this upcoming Christmas? It didn’t sound like that.

I’m trying to answer their questions and ask my own, but her words are pinging around in my ears, unwilling to move aside and let other things in.

We make small talk, about the weather, about the flight, about the food that was served, but in the background, the high-pitched voice needles me.

She’s wanted to meet me for ages? It’s April 8; I met Calvin officially just over three months ago.

We load up their bags into a cab. “Forty-Seventh and Eighth,” I tell the driver.

We pull away from the curb, and Marina takes my hand. “You look different in your recent photos than the early ones we got.”

The early ones?

My stomach tightens again. “I do?”

“Your hair’s lighter than it was when you first met in school.”

Something is very, very wrong . . .

I pat my hair, plucking a lie from the chaos of my brain. “Yeah, I lightened it a little since then.”

I have never colored my hair.

“Amanda?” Brigid says. “Amanda.” She reaches around her mother in the middle seat and taps my arm. “Amanda, love, is that the Empire State Building?”

She means me.

She’s talking to me.

In all of our texts, not once did she ever need to use my name. She doesn’t know me as Holland. Apparently she knows me as Amanda.

Who the fuck is Amanda?

I am worried I’m going to lose my breakfast in the back of this taxi. “Yes, that, um . . .” I nod to where she’s looking. “That’s it, over there.”

The refrain I put on a loop in my head is to not assume anything until I’ve spoken to Calvin. My first Hail Mary was hoping I picked up the wrong Irish family from the airport, but when they started rattling on in the taxi about being so proud of Calvin, and unable to believe that he was really playing with the orchestra for Possessed, I was pretty sure that wasn’t the case.

Don’t assume anything, I tell myself, walking up to the apartment building. Don’t freak out.

“He’s here?” Brigid asks in an excited whisper. “He’s upstairs, in your flat?”

“He should be,” I tell her over my shoulder. “He doesn’t head to the theater until around five.”

Behind me, Marina lets out a quiet sob. “I cannot believe we are going to see him play.”