Page 25 of How Freaking Romantic

I spend Friday refusing to think about the not-kiss.

Not while I’m brushing my teeth or in the shower, not while I reorganize my closet or when I clean the fridge out for the second time.

Because it was, by definition, not a kiss.

Technically, it wasn’t anything at all. Which is great, really, because last night was just business.

That’s what I tell myself as I separate my colored laundry from the whites.

I went to the event to meet Marcie and nothing else about the night mattered.

But even as I lug my laundry bag and backpack out of my apartment to head to the laundromat, I know I’m not being honest with myself.

Yes, I had wanted to meet Marcie, but there was also the thrill of who had invited me.

A deep-seated need to spend time with him outside of school, spar with him, coax that damn dimple from his cheek.

And somewhere in the back of my brain, I also know that will probably never happen again.

No matter what his motivation last night, I made it clear with Nathan where I stand.

Or at least, where I want him to think I stand.

I could have asked him to come home with me—I’m pretty sure he was hoping I would—but when I stepped away, he had simply watched me go.

He hadn’t pressured me to stay. He hadn’t even really asked.

Every fight felt like foreplay, and maybe he assumed it would end in the same inevitable way. When it didn’t, he simply moved on.

That’s probably it. In fact, he’s probably out with someone else right now.

Images of him laughing with her, kissing her, bringing her home to his bed flood my mind, and I’m suddenly uncomfortable.

Blindsided by something that should have been a given.

Of course Nathan is dating. He’s just not dating me.

That sobering thought keeps me company as I ride down the elevator.

The weight of both the laundry and my books and my laptop has me hunched over as I waddle through the lobby. My landlord and Idris are there arguing with a few construction workers, but I ignore them, shuffling out the doors and up five blocks until I reach the laundromat.

It’s barely five o’clock, so the sun is still up when I reach my destination.

I drop my bag on the linoleum floor, reveling in the pastel colors of the large room, how the late-afternoon light softens the harsh glare of the fluorescents above.

For the next few hours, at least. It’s empty, too, except for an older man who’s seated in the corner waiting for a dryer to finish, and so blissfully quiet that I let out a relieved sigh.

I can’t even remember the last time I was able to sit down with a book and absorb the text without any distractions.

And yet, as soon as I have a washer running and settle down in one of the plastic chairs with my bar prep book open in my lap, my leg bobs up and down.

My highlighter plays a staccato on the pages.

I try to focus on the words, to make sense of anything written out in front of me, but my mind keeps finding its way back to Nathan, like he’s somehow rewired my brain for his purposes alone.

I groan, abandoning all appearances of studying as I begin moving my wash into a nearby dryer.

I’m halfway through when I hear the dull ring of my phone from my pocket.

I don’t recognize the number. I’m tempted to ignore it, let myself truly embrace this solitude, but decide to answer on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi, may I speak with Beatrice Nilsson?”

My eyes narrow. “Speaking.”

“Hi, Beatrice. This is Scott Becker at Marcie Land’s office. How are you?”

My stomach drops to the floor as I freeze, one hand on my phone and the other preventing a mountain of underwear in the washing machine from cascading out onto the laundromat’s tiled floor.

“Good,” I manage to eke out.

“Great. Sorry for calling at the end of the day, but Ms. Land wanted to see if you’re available for lunch next week. She has time available next Wednesday.”

I open my mouth, but it takes a moment before anything comes out.

“Okay,” I say.

“Does one o’clock work for you?”

Does it? I have class that morning, but it’s done at eleven and my office hours don’t start until three.

I swallow. “Yes, that works.”

“All right, I’ll email you the restaurant information now. She’ll meet you there.”

“Great. Thank you,” I croak, keeping the phone to my ear after he hangs up.

I’m still staring into the dark depths of the open washing machine as I process the last thirty seconds. I am going to have lunch with Marcie Land herself. This is really happening.

A broad smile spreads across my face, and I look back down at my phone again.

You have to call Nathan and tell him.

My brain produces the idea like it’s obvious, but my fingers still pause above the illuminated keyboard. He’s probably getting ready to go out right now. He’s probably on a date. The last thing he wants to hear about is a phone call I got from his friend’s assistant.

I scroll past his number in my contacts to my mom’s, but I don’t stop.

If she doesn’t understand why I’m in law school, she can’t be trusted to exude the right level of happiness about the potential of a low-paying, entry-level job after graduation.

I continue down the list until I come to Maggie.

I press call, then let it ring and ring. I’m finally connected to her voicemail.

“Hey, Mags, it’s me,” I say, and only then remember why she’s not picking up. “Shit, you’re still in Miami. Okay, well, when there’s a break in celebrating your future marital bliss, call me! I have some news about a job interview thing that’s not really a job interview but, whatever. Bye.”

My momentum falters a bit until I find Jillian’s number and press call. It’s only as it’s ringing that I remember Jillian went to Boston this weekend for that in-person interview. She’s probably out with her prospective boss right now.

“The number you are calling is not available. To leave a message, please press the pound sign.”

I hang up.

Silence swallows me back up again, with only the steady tumble of the dryers to keep me company.

I stare down at my expression reflected back in my phone’s darkened screen, my excitement dwindling away, eaten up by loneliness.

It stokes that ever-present anger in my chest, the resentment and fury over how hard I worked to create this small, tight-knit family, and how it’s all falling apart.

I want to talk to someone, but I also can’t think of one person left who I want to talk to.

Actually, that’s not true.

I unlock my phone and find his name again in the contacts.

NATHAN ASSHOLE

My finger remains poised above the call button for a long moment. Finally the screen goes dark and I can see my reflection again. The stark openness in my face, the sadness in my eyes.

I shake my head and put my phone back in my pocket. Then I start throwing the rest of my laundry in the dryer.

For the next few hours, I pretend to study until all my clothes are clean and dry. I don’t bother folding them, just shove them all back in the laundry bag.

Forget the bar. Forget lawyers and divorces and friends and responsibility. I need to go to bed.

The walk back home is long. I barely look up from the sidewalk as I cross street after street and maneuver around people dressed up and ready to go out for the night.

I don’t look up at the front door of my building as I approach, either, which is why I don’t see the padlock until I already have my key out, ready to try and enter.

But even while I’m staring at the thick chain wrapped around the door handle, the impenetrable lock keeping it in place, it doesn’t click.

My brain is not computing. That’s when I finally look up.

The sign is taped on the center of the door.

VACATE

DO NOT ENTER

THE NYC DEPARTMENT OF BUILDINGS HAS DETERMINED THAT CONDITIONS IN THESE PREMISES ARE IMMEDIATELY PERILOUS TO LIFE.

THESE PREMISES HAVE BEEN VACATED AND REENTRY IS PROHIBITED UNTIL SUCH CONDITIONS HAVE BEEN ELIMINATED TO THE SATISFACTION OF THE DEPARTMENT.

VIOLATORS OF THIS COMMISSIONER’S VACATE ORDER WILL BE SUBJECT TO ARREST.

I read it. Then I read it again. Then I stare at it for another minute, my jaw slack until the synapses finally begin firing in my brain and I yell, “What the fuck!”