Page 21 of We Could Be So Good
“I was going to make minestrone soup,” Nick says. “You like soup.”
“I do like soup,” Andy agrees. “I take it that’s an invitation, not you taunting me with soup I don’t get to eat.”
Nick takes a ball of paper out of the wastebasket and throws it at Andy’s head.
At nine o’clock, Nick is still stirring the pot of soup and Andyis sitting at the kitchen table, his legs stretched out and a bottle of wine mostly empty.
“You can stay, you know,” Nick says, his back to Andy. “I have the space. I could use a roommate.”
Andy’s monumentally grateful that Nick’s back is turned and that he can’t see whatever Andy’s face is doing right now. At the idea that he could stay here—here with Nick in this tiny apartment with its wall of books and record albums, the noisy radiator and the sofa that barely fits them both, the cabinet full of mismatched dishes and spices Andy doesn’t recognize—Andy’s heart gives an extra thud. “Are you sure? I promise I’m not going to cry myself to sleep if I have to go home.”
Nick turns around, his arms folded across his chest, like he’s furious that Andy’s making him say this. “It’s nice having you here. I hate cooking for myself. I wind up eating scrambled eggs or Chinese food every night.”
It’s nice having you hereis practically florid language from Nick Russo. Andy has to try not to look shocked. “Well, we can’t have that.”
“Exactly. You’d be doing me a favor.”
Andy manages not to roll his eyes. “Okay. You’ll have to let me pay half your rent.”
“Really?”
Andy laughs and tips his chair back on two legs. “Why do you look surprised? You asked me!”
“My apartment’s a dump! Also, stop tipping back in your chair like that. I don’t want to have to clean your brains off my linoleum.”
Andy settles the chair firmly on the floor. “Was I supposed to say no? Oh my God, you’re making this so complicated. And your apartment isn’t a dump.”
“You’ll really stay?” Nick looks... relieved, maybe. Like he was worried about Andy saying no, and not like he only made the offer because he feels bad for Andy.
“Yes. Jeez. Give me some soup, already, will you.”
They eat the soup and finish the wine and linger at the table long after both are gone. And Andy doesn’t admit to himself until he’s in the narrow bed in Nick’s spare room—his room, now?—how relieved he is. He hates being alone—it’s pathetic, he knows it’s pathetic, he’ll never admit it aloud, and it would probably take a dog’s age on an analyst’s couch to deal with—but that’s the truth of it. It comes from too many mornings waking up to a note on the kitchen table, too many letters with foreign postmarks. He knows why he’s this way and that doesn’t make it any less embarrassing.
He doesn’t feel great about Nick having figured all this out. Sure, it counts for something that Nick has seen the worst of him and likes him anyway, but it smacks of pity and Andy does have a little pride, or at least enough that he doesn’t want his best friend to treat him like some kind of emotional charity case.
Still, though, Nick did say that it was nice having Andy there. Nick, who only admits to having emotions when he’s under actual duress, wouldn’t have said that unless he meant it. As Andy burrows under the pile of blankets, this thought pleases him more than he knows what to do with.
***
Every morning, Andy meets with his father at nine o’clock, right before the editorial meeting, and they both act like they aren’t losing sleep over the future of theChronicle. Andy sits on his hands so he doesn’t bite his nails, Andy’s dad nervously polisheshis glasses like he’s going to face a firing squad if a single smudge is left on a lens, and they both engage in the fiction that Andy is ever going to run theChronicle.
Actually, Andy’s becoming increasingly concerned that for his father it isn’t even a fiction. People usually realize Andy’s incompetent pretty quickly and he can’t imagine what’s taking his father so long.
“Where were you last night?” his father asks on Tuesday morning. “I couldn’t get ahold of you.”
“I’m staying with Nick Russo for a while.” Andy isn’t sure why he includes Nick’s last name. His father knows the two of them are friendly. He could hardly mean any other Nick.
“There’s going to be a write-up in theDaily Mirror’s gossip column about the broken engagement. I should have expected it. I’m afraid you might be newsworthy just by virtue of being your mother’s son.” Andy’s a little impressed that his dad managed a full sentence about his mother without soaking the whole thing in disapproval and resentment, so impressed that he doesn’t argue that it’s probably Emily’s family that makes their broken engagement newsworthy.
“Thank you for letting me know,” Andy says.
“Would you mind getting me my wheelchair?” his father asks. “I don’t want to bother Evelyn.”
For the past year, there’s been a wheelchair discreetly tucked into the coat closet in his father’s office. So far, his father is usually able to walk, albeit a bit unsteadily and with the help of a cane, but his bad days are coming more often.
Andy pushes the wheelchair so it’s parallel with the desk chair and then braces it in place as his father makes the transition.
“I can’t run this paper from a wheelchair,” his father says. “I’m retiring in September.”
