Page 6 of All Our Almosts

I’m always trying to get him not to work on weekends, but sometimes he wants to. He’s a developmental editor with a little indie publishing house in Boston, and he really loves it. Honestly the only negative thing about his job—in his mind—is that it’s too flexible. The man thrives on a rigid schedule, so he makes one for himself.

But anyway, I digress. The point is that I figure the ideal moment to arrive at Andy’s place will be some time around lunch, after his run and before he starts any work. Of course he may feel obligated to feed me if I show up at lunch, but there’s nothing to be done about that.

I walked here from my and Elliot’s place. It took like an hour, which is normally more walking than I enjoy, but I had time to kill. It’s now 11:00. That seems like as good a time as any, right?

I piggyback my way into the building thanks to one of Andy’s neighbors and head up to his second floor unit. I contemplate just knocking, but that’s weird right? So instead I send a text.

Me: Heyyy… are you home rn?

Andy: Yes. Why?

Good enough. I knock on the door three quick times before I can chicken out. It’s only a few heartbeats before he opens it.

“Hi,” I say with a small wave, very smooth.

“Hi?” he returns, surprised and confused in equal measure.

“Uh… What are you up to?” I’ll note that my voice sounds just as surprised and confused as Andy’s, even though I’m the one who made this choice.

“Nothing…”

“Can I come in?”

“Yes,” he says, stepping aside to clear the doorway, “but if you want to hang out I have to shower first.”

Only then do I realize he’s still in his sweaty running clothes. Whoops. Slight miscalculation on my part. But what’s done is done and we forge ahead.

“Yeah that’s totally fine!” I’m going for breezy and I hope it comes across as I waltz in and set down my purse. “Wow, is this a new kitchen table?”

“Yeah... Sophie, I’m sorry but why are you here? I mean it’s fine, but did we have plans today?”

“No, but I thought we could make some, if you’re not busy. But if you are busy that’s alright, I don’t have to derail your day. Oh and sorry, I forgot to take off my shoes.” I dart back to the shoe rack to remove my boots, but of course one of the zippers is stuck and I tug and tug on it and I just know Andy’s watching me and figuring out more about my mental state than I want him to from my body language alone.

Out of my peripheral vision I see him walk over, then crouch down until he’s eye level with me. I petulantly refuse to meet his gaze.

“You should stay,” he says. “But I really do need to shower.” He ducks a little further until I have no choice but to look at him. “And when I get out you’re going to tell me why you’re really here, right?”

I finally tug off my boot, and we both stand.

“Okay. Yeah. Definitely.” I smile—at least I hope I do, though it might be more of a grimace. He gives me one more penetrating look before heading into the bathroom.

Andy’s apartment is ridiculously nice by the standards of Boston, home of America’s finest slumlords. The front door takes you into an open concept living space, with the kitchen on the right and the couch and TV on the left. On the opposite wall from the front door are the two bedrooms (that’s right—TWO! in this economy!) separated by a bathroom in between. And of course he keeps everything spotless. No dishes unwashed, no sweaters discarded on the backs of chairs. The walls are off-white which is a little boring, but they have a decent amount of art on them (mostly thanks to Lia). It’s honestly pretty perfect.

On the whole, NASA has moved around a lot since college ended, but Andy’s lived here the whole time. In the intervening five years, I’ve spent many late nights on this familiar beige couch, drunk on gin and tonics or high on adrenaline. Mornings and afternoons too, heckling Andy while he cleaned or cooked, indulging Nolan’s jigsaw puzzle addiction, or talking Lia out of getting bangs. I’m idly drifting through the memories when I hear the bathroom door click open.

Andy comes out wearing a white t-shirt and black sweatpants, his dark brown hair now black from the water. His face asks about ten silent questions as he approaches the couch where I’m camped out, and I decide to just rip the Band-Aid off.

I pivot to face him fully, my knees digging into the couch cushions as I blurt, “Elliot and I just broke up. But we’re fine. I mean, I’m fine. But that’s why I’m really here, I needed somewhere to go. Is that okay?”

Andy stops dead in his tracks, and I’m starting to realize this is a bigger imposition than I thought it would be.

“I know I should’ve called or texted before coming over. Sorry about that. I just had to get out, and Lia lives in a studio, and Nolan basically lives in a frat house, so I thought here was the best option, but—” Oh no. I can feel my throat getting tight. I really don’t want to cry right now. I really, really, really don’t. Andy hates when I cry. “Actually, could we maybe just not talk about it for a little while? Just a bit, and then I can go.”

“Hey, Soph, it’s okay.” He comes up to the back of the couch where I’m leaning and oh God, I made him feel like he needs to comfort me. This is not how this was supposed to go! Because when he comforts me it makes me more emotional, and I’m really trying to hold it together here. But I can feel the tears pricking the backs of my eyes as he says, “You’re always welcome here, and we don’t have to talk about it. Do you, uh…” He looks around the room like he’s trying to come up with a plan. “Do you want coffee? I was just going to make some.”

I bite my tongue—not figuratively, I literally bite my tongue because I’m hoping it will help keep the tears back—and nod. He nods too, then turns to head into the kitchen.

Silence fills the room, interrupted only by the clicks of Andy taking the French press out of the cabinet and pouring in the boiling water.