Page 9 of Only Lovers in the Building

True to her word, that evening Roxanna kept Noah entertained at the bar. When Lily arrived for happy hour fifteen minutes

late, still glowing from her morning with Ben, Roxanna had him engrossed in what seemed like a spicy story. Brows raised to

his golden hairline, Noah was hanging on the bartender’s every word. Lily caught the tail end of the story when she slid onto

the stool beside him. “And now they’ve started a private book club!”

The hot story was about her and Ben. So much for allyship!

“Roxanna!” Lily protested.

Roxanna poured her a glass of white wine. “Sorry,” she said without a drip of remorse.

Noah clinked his glass to hers. “When I told you to go for the bartender, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“And this is the book that started it all.” Roxanna pulled out a water-stained paperback copy of The Sweetest Lie from under the counter and handed it to Noah.

He thumbed the frayed pages. “Should I read it?”

Roxanna shrugged. “Up to you. I loved it.”

Lily watched this exchange in shock. Wasn’t this the man who’d ridiculed her for reading at the bar? She tapped Noah’s shoulder. “You gave me so much shit the other night. Yet here you are, a book in one hand, a glass of wine in the other.”

Noah dropped the paperback as if it were contaminated.

Lily wouldn’t let him get away with it. “Too late for that! You’re reading this book, and you owe me an apology.”

“All I owe you is a recount of my date. Ready?”

Lily sipped her wine and gestured for him to spill the tea.

“It’s a short story. We met for dinner, went back to my place.”

“Sounds promising. Go on.”

“We watched a movie, something with Timothée Chalamet.”

She nodded approvingly. “And then what?”

“He left.”

“Hmm... Maybe he had an early morning. Will you see him again?”

“What’s the point? He’s wasting my time. There’s more chemistry between you and that glass of wine.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing.” Lily set the wineglass down and pointed to the book lying on the bar between them. “I won’t spoil

it for you, but the couple was so hot for each other it clouded their judgment.”

She had no business sounding so sure of herself. Her lack of chemistry with Darren hadn’t sharpened her judgment. He was a

good catch, as her mother had said repeatedly. Yet she’d released him to marry a girl named Mandy, who was not mid as Gus had so gutlessly declared. She was lovely and smart enough to see the value in the Darrens of the world.

“I don’t want to see clearly,” Noah said. “I want to see stars.”

A while later, Noah left to say hello to a friend, and Roxanna circled back. She filled a highball with ice and stuffed it

with lemon wedges. “That’s good advice,” she said.

Lily startled. She hadn’t realized Roxanna had been listening to them the whole time.

“He won’t take it, of course,” Roxanna continued. “But you had a point about the book. I didn’t think of it that way.”

“He has a point, too,” Lily said. “If there’s no smoke, there’s no fire.”

“If there’s no fire, you can’t torch your life.”

“So true.”

“Are you open to advice?” Roxanna asked.

Lily nodded. “Always.”

This wasn’t true, naturally.

“God knows my life is a mess. Add a kid and it just gets messier. Believe me. I’ve got no business telling you what to do,

but ask me if I care.” Roxanna reached for a bottle of gin. “Ben is not the one.”

“The one... what?” Lily asked, confused. Had she missed something? Happy hour was in full swing, and the rooftop bar was

getting loud.

“Your one true love,” Roxanna replied.

Lily stiffened. “What makes you say that?”

“I caught the vibes between you two.”

“We’re neighbors! It’s a neighborly vibe!”

Roxanna laughed. “We’ve all got neighbors. There’s no such thing.”

“Anyway, he told me he just ended something, and for me, that’s a red flag,” Lily said. “I’m no idiot!”

Roxanna went on as if Lily had said nothing. “I get it. He’s irresistible, particularly when you compare him to those losers.”

She pointed with her chin at a group of guys at the far end of the bar who could only be described as bros . “But my cousin has issues—and that’s all I’ll say.”

“He’s a genius. Is that the problem?”

Roxanna stared at her blankly. “My God,” she muttered under her breath. “That stupid grant has everyone tripping.”

“It’s a big deal,” Lily said.

“Ben has been translating poems in his bedroom since he was fourteen. If the world is catching on now, that’s on them. And it shouldn’t be a shock to anyone! He is his father’s son.”

Lily was about to ask if his father worked in publishing when Roxanna added a new spin to the story. “ That’s the problem. He’s got some trauma to unpack.”

So his father was the problem. Had he been overbearing, negligent, an abuser, narcissist, deadbeat dad, gambler, workaholic,

alcoholic, serial cheater, polygamist, politician, or felon? What could be so bad that, at thirty-two, Ben was still messed

up about it?

“You’re a smart woman,” Roxanna said. “But at the end of the day, you’re just a girl standing in front of a boy asking him

to read romance books by the pool, and we know how that story ends.”

She could ignore good advice; however, when the truth slapped you in the face there was no denying it. Lily didn’t have to

feign a headache, she really had one. Blame it on the early morning sun, the wine, or Roxanna’s words of caution. She said

goodnight to Noah and went straight to bed. Tucked in tight, she resumed her search, this time typing Benedicto Romero father into the search bar. She found these illuminating gems:

OBITUARY

SABATO ROMERO, CUBAN POET, DIES AT 78

Born in a coastal town in Cuba, educated in Havana... emigrated to the US as a young man... published several acclaimed

collections, notably Aurore , which won a Pulitzer Prize in 2000... delivered the inaugural poem at President...

LITERARY TRANSLATOR BENEDICTO ROMERO RECEIVES MACARTHUR FELLOWSHIP

The World Tribune ’s Lesly Kennedy speaks with Benedicto Romero about the MacArthur Fellowship and his father’s influence on his work.

This year’s roster of MacArthur Foundation fellowship winners includes thirty-two-year-old Benedicto “Ben” Romero. Born and

raised in South Florida, the respected literary translator is the son of the late poet Sabato Romero. Ben distinguished himself

by, as he put it, “eliminating the imaginary barrier of language and bridging cultures.” Each so-called Genius Grant comes

with an award for $800,000. I started by asking what led him to this line of work.

Romero: It came naturally. Like many children growing up in South Florida, I grew up in a Spanish-speaking household. My grandmother

struggled with English. I routinely translated her correspondence, her shows, magazine clippings, coupons... At some point,

there was no veil between English and Spanish, her world and mine.

Kennedy: Tell us how you came to translate the collection of poems that catapulted Cuban author Juaquin Tomas to literary fame.

Romero: The collection tells a quiet coming-of-age story of two brothers in 1950s Havana. They were first published in the original

Spanish by a small press out in Indiana. A year later, they decided to translate the poems into English to widen the audience.

That’s when I got the call.

Kennedy: The plan worked because the critics praised Tomas’s literary achievement. He went on to win the Pulitzer Prize, and you,

a PEN/Faulkner award, now the MacArthur Fellowship grant. Let’s talk about early influences. Your father, the poet Sabato

Romero, passed away last year. What influence has he had on your work?

Romero: None that I can think of. He’s an artist. I’m a wordsmith, if anything.

Kennedy: Still, you captured the musicality of Tomas’s words beautifully. Your work is extremely precise.

Romero: The author had a point of view. I did not want to dilute it in a torrent of words.

Kennedy: You’re being modest.

Romero: I promise I’m not.

Kennedy: What’s your take on your father’s most famous work, his inaugural poem, “Promise of Dawn”?

Romero: I’d have chosen a better title. [Laughs]. Otherwise, I’ve nothing to add. It stands on its own.

Lily set her phone aside and got out of bed for a glass of water. She played with the words of the interview in her mind,

moving them around. What journalist Lesly Kennedy took for modesty she took for caginess. Ben had danced around the questions

about his father and his impressive body of work. This morning, by the pool, he’d danced around her questions about his own

impressive body of work. No harm, no foul: she’d danced around his questions, too. At this rate, they could join the Alvin

Ailey dance company.

He is his father’s son , Roxanna had said. That’s the problem.

Lily was her mother’s daughter, a woman who never left a single stone unturned—not in her garden or anywhere else. A licensed

social worker, it was literally her job. She would discover the secrets buried in Ben’s beautiful mind.