She is not used to the notion of J coming to visit her. The farthest he’s ever had to travel to be with her was the distance between his apartment and hers. He has always been the one with the far-off destinations, the tour stops that she might hop on a plane to join him at. It was a strange way of being away together—they rarely had evening plans, because for other people, Jwasthe evening plan. V never shed the self-consciousness of being a perpetual plus-one, knowing that everyone else in the room knew she was only there because he was there. Especially when they were staying with his friends, the vagabond network of people in different cities that he’d now visited long enough for it to feel like a familiar route—she felt a constant pressure (from herself, never from him) to justify her own presence. She would clean every dish in the sink, even though her own dishes often stayed sink-bound for days. She would be sure to make every bed they slept in, even though she knew the sheets were likely to be thrown in the laundry as soon as they left. Hotel rooms were better, were more neutral territory, to a degree that she almost suggested that J get a hotel room for this trip. Which V knows is ridiculous; whatever they are to each other right now, he should be staying with her. But instinctively she knows that would be too much, too soon.She would be trying to justify her presence again, in her own temporary apartment.
My days are not my own. She half expects him to challenge her on this. To type back,Then whose days are they? She is grateful that he doesn’t, but that in itself is tricky—because gratitude is one of the ingredients in a relationship that needs to be provided in just the right amount.
She wants him here, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t want him here, but she does. He’s often told her that he loves how decisive she is, how straightforward their communication styles are. But now she feels that casual directness is hiding something else underneath. She is not able to be entirely honest, and that doesn’t feel right.
She wants him here; she doesn’t want him here—ultimately it doesn’t matter, because one way or another, he will be here soon, and she will see him, and there won’t be any corners to hide in anymore.
The week before J leaves is one of the most productive he’s had in ages. Knowing that he will soon be in the same city as V allows him to stop thinking about her constantly and deal with other things. The pause works because he’s the one declaring it.
He waits until the last possible minute to text her from the plane. The cabin door will soon be closing. Liftoff is imminent.
Flight is on time,he tells her.In seven hours, we’ll be back on the same clock.
He turns off his phone, and when he revives it upon landing, there is a brief hiccup where it recalibrates to the new hour. It reaches out for a signal, and once J has signed his life away to get one from an American carrier, a message from V appears.
I can meet for lunch tomorrow. I’m afraid I’ll only have an hour. ? I’ll meet you here.
There’s a link to her office address.
J smiles.
The door has opened wider.
After freshening up at Julia’s apartment, J figures out how to take the subway to where Skye and Detroit live. He feels his usual dis-combobulation, the excitement of travel deeply tempered by the fact that his body thinks it’s midnight well before the sun has begun to set. When he was younger, it was much easier to adapt. Now, the discombobulation only underscores that he’s no longer younger.
The door to Skye and Detroit’s apartment is answered by the fresh-faced friendliness of a twenty-six-year-old, who turns out to be Skye. They are wearing a striking light blue silk shirt that’s scattered with small birds and a small diamond nose ring that glints against their dark skin. Even though they and Detroit are the ones doing the favor, Skye welcomes J in as if J is the bestower and Skye is the recipient.
“This is so surreal,” Skye says. (As with most twenty-six-year-olds, this is a preferred adjective, because it covers oh so much.) “When Julia mentioned the idea...I just thought,what? But Detroit thought it sounded like a blast, and when I started to listen to your music, I thought, sure, let’s go with the universe here.”
The thing that makes this charming rather than simply bearable is the fact that Skye is so transparently sincere. It’s also very clear when they take J inside to what they call “the sitting room” that the apartment is usually a complete mess, and that they have spent much of the day trying to tame it for their visitor.
“I hope you’re not allergic to cats?” they say. “If you are, I have some Benadryl. It’s not likely that Veneno will come out while you’re here—she’s not very social. But she definitely sheds.”
“I’ll be fine,” J says, taking a seat on the lime-green couch. He doesn’t see any cat hair.
“Can I get you something to drink? Are you just off the plane? Do you need coffee? I put on a fresh pot an hour ago. Or—whereare my manners?—I could also brew a new pot. I’m not sure how picky you are.”
“I’m good.”
“Water? Diet Coke? Whiskey?”
“Water would be good.”
“One sec!”
J grows more and more curious as he looks around. This apartment has clearly been lived in longer than Skye has been alive...or it’s the home of two young people nostalgic for a time before they were born, a time when showgirls and speakeasies were ascendant. J senses that the sitting room is the only room in the apartment that isn’t the kitchen, bedroom, or bathroom. In one corner, there’s a sewing machine and a basket of fabrics that seem like they were gathered hastily.
Skye returns with two glasses of water, then looks to the front door. “Detroit should be here any moment. I texted him and he promised me he was on his way. He’s excited to meet you, too.”
“I really appreciate you doing this,” J says.
“Well, I can’t remember the last time anyoneappreciatedsomething I did!” Skye says, bemused. Then they add, “That was a joke. I swear.”
J isn’t sure. He senses that, for all their open demeanor, there are things Skye doesn’t want him to see. Which, of course, makes perfect sense. They’ve just met.
“How long have you lived here?” J asks.
“Almost two years! That’s when I moved in. Detroit’s been here longer. Much longer. It’s really more his house than mine.”
