Page 39 of We Could Be So Good
He and Emily are both intimately familiar with how familial disappointment can be both predictable in its consistency and infinite in its variety. He raises his glass to her.
“Are you going to tell Andy you came here?” she asks.
“Yeah,” he says. “He’s not holding a grudge, Em. I think he wishes he could still be your friend.”
“He’s a crazy person. He’s supposed to hate me until his dying breath. So are you, actually.”
“I can’t really blame anyone for falling in love with the wrong person, can I?” He blames the gin for loosening his tongue, but saying the words is such a relief. “Have you heard from—” He realizes he doesn’t know the name of the man Emily was involved with in London. He only knows the rough outline of events: Emily’s mother had a heart attack. When Emily went to London to look after her, she fell for her mother’s doctor. They started something that Emily thought was serious, but when Emily suggested that she might stay on in London, the doctor hadn’t been interested. Nick hadn’t asked for the details; in her shoes, he wouldn’t want to pour his heart out, either.
“Gerald? No. I wasn’t expecting to, though. It was a fling, evidently, and I’m the only one who didn’t know the score.” She drains her glass.
“I hate him.”
“I don’t.” She sighs. “I wish I did. Jeanne would push him off a cliff, though, which is gratifying.”
“Emily,” he says, aware that he’s whining a little and not caring, “Andy’s future girlfriends are going to hate me. They’re all going to be horrible compared to you,andthey’ll try to set me up with their single friends.”
“I tried to set you up with my single friends all the time.”
“Yeah, but your friends were the right gender.”
She smiles. “There was that.”
He finishes his drink and gets to his feet.
At the front door, he takes hold of her shoulder and kisses her temple. “Thanks.”
“Nick, be careful with Andy.”
“I’ll look after him,” he reassures her.
“That’s not what I meant,” she says.
***
Nick hails a cab, because no matter how he looks at the subway map he keeps in his head, he can’t figure out how to get home without either changing trains twice or walking approximately a million blocks west from the Spring Street station where he was mugged last week. He’s been drinking for six hours and is in no condition to think about crosstown buses.
When he looks up from the street, he can’t see any lights on in his apartment. Andy has gone to sleep, then. It’s past midnight, so that’s good. They’ll talk in the morning when they’re sane and sober.
As he climbs the stairs, he hears the sound of a television coming from Mrs.Martelli’s apartment and laughter and music coming from another. The baby on the third floor seems to have gotten past the stage where she had to holler for a few hours every night, so that has to be a relief for everyone concerned. Underneath one of the doors on the fourth floor, he can see the shadow of a dog lying down, waiting for its owner to come home.
Nick has a hard time with close friendships—if faced with the choice between lying to someone about who he is or keeping them at arm’s length, he chooses the latter. He’s no good at protracted dishonesty. But he likes being around people. He likes being sociable at work. He likes being friendly with his neighbors. He often wishes he could have more actual friends, but friendliness is a fine second best.
Andy’s the closest friend he has, the closest he’s ever had, andthat fact means more to Nick than whatever happened tonight. He’ll figure out a way to make things right between them. He hurt Andy’s feelings—although he isn’t quite sure how—and he needs to figure out a way to explain to Andy that his feelings were hurt, too. Or maybe he can skip that part. Andy matters a hell of a lot more to him than his own hurt feelings. He’s going to do whatever it takes to put things back the way they were.
He turns the key in the lock as quietly as possible, then closes the door gently behind him. He takes off his shoes and is about to tiptoe into his bedroom when his breath catches.
Andy is asleep on the couch. He’s fully dressed, the blanket from his bed draped half over him.
Nick could make his life easy and just go to bed. He probably isn’t sober enough to have the conversation they need to have. But Andy either attempted to wait up for him or hoped that Nick’s arrival would wake him, and Nick doesn’t want to ignore that.
He sits carefully on the end of the couch near Andy’s feet. Nick likes seeing Andy on his couch, likes seeing his dusty-blond hair spread over the faded green upholstery, likes the weight of his legs on Nick’s lap when they land there while they watch television, likes the scent of his aftershave in Nick’s home. He likes it more than he ought to, really. But that’s no surprise.
Through the blanket, he puts a hand on Andy’s leg and gently shakes him awake. “Andy.” It takes a few more shakes before Andy’s eyes open, and then he bolts upright. Nick has never seen Andy so alert so soon after waking. Usually it takes a full half hour of catatonia before Andy even attempts sentences.
“I’m home,” Nick says unnecessarily. “You ought to go to sleep in your bed.”
“I’m sorry,” Andy says, rubbing his eyes. “I’m a jackass. I shouldn’t have stopped you from being with that man.”
