“Well,” he says eventually, voice soft, “it’s not a crime to take up space.”
I can’t help but stare back at him. His eyes are brown and light and dark at different times. I don’t know if he’s talking about himself or me, but it feels like he’s talking about me. It feels like he knows things no one else even tries to comprehend. My heart clenches and so does my stomach. I want, I want so badly, but I know I can’t have, not when it comes to this. No one ever wants the whole me, all of the parts, not just a few.
The spell is broken as the cab slows to a stop. Marius pays the cabdriver, and I make a mental note to pay him back at the end of all this. The building is nice, tall, going up and up and up. There’s even a doorman standing outside. It’s all very fancy. His mother is a theater director, but his father teaches scenic design at NYU, which I doubt brings in much. Maybe there’s family money. I could ask him about it, but that would feel rude, especially since he offered to take me here in the first place. But he had to know I’d be asking questions and taking notes the entire time. I’m a journalist. It’s what I’m supposed to do.
My recorder is still on, but I’m sure it’s mostly picked up the sound of driving, muffled from being in my pocket. My fingers ghost over it as I follow Marius to the door.
“Eddie, this is Josie,” he says, pausing in front of the doorman. He’s an older man with tan skin and a cap like in the movies. “She’s a journalist.”
I’m sort of embarrassed, but at the same time it’s kind of nice. My parents talk about my writing like it’s a hobby. Technically it is, but they’re more focused on college. Marius talks about me like I’m already a journalist—and I guess I am. He’s one of the few people who agree with me. In any case, I’m smiling so big that Eddie must think I’m a friendly young lady.
We take the elevator to get up to his floor—sixth, not a penthouse, which would’ve been really cool—and I try to think of what I’m going to say. His parents aren’t supposed to be home, which knocks off a ton of anxiety. I sneak a glance at him, and suddenly I’m anxious in a different way, chest tightening.
“You’re so quiet,” he says, glancing back at me. “I promise I’m not leading you to my evil lair or anything.”
His voice, too, is hard not to melt at. I want to bottle it up. He could just talk to me and I’d stand there, entranced.
“I’m not scared,” I say, which is a lie. “Just busy…buffering.”
He snorts.
I’ve only seen New York City apartments on TV, so I’m expecting the hallway to look like the one in Friends or How I Met Your Mother. It’s actually nicer than that. The colors are deeper, like someone recently went through and decided to paint the walls a rich maroon. Some people have decorations on their doors—a menorah, Christmas trees.
I always thought growing up in an apartment would be kind of sad—not having a house and trees and a backyard—but this apartment isn’t sad at all. It’s airy and open, without many walls. Everything is warm, yellow or red or orange, and we walk right into the kitchen.
Where two adults are sitting at the table. Fuck.
For a second, I’m sure Marius planned this, but then I remember his promise to avoid anything that would make me anxious. Surprise is written all over his face, anyway, his mouth dropping open and his eyes flicking between the two of them. My hand slips into my pocket, gripping my recorder. No one says anything.
It’s odd to see him right next to his parents. His father has close-cropped curly hair with gray mixed into the brown, glasses resting on his nose, and dark eyebrows. His mother, on the other hand, looks more like Marius—dark brown curls tossed up in some sort of twist, brown eyes, a frowning red mouth. The lines under her eyes and around her chin seem to give her character. Unlike her son, she knows how to wear a guarded expression.
“Marius,” she says, resting her chin on her knuckles. There’s the French accent I was waiting for, but it’s less Beauty and the Beast than I thought it would be. “I did not know you were inviting a friend over. Is this Josie?”
I’m holding my breath. Actually, it’s more like I can’t breathe. I don’t know where to look—should I make eye contact with her or the father or Marius? She might not want me to look at her, but the father might be more sympathetic.
How does she know who I am? And why are they here when he said they wouldn’t be?
“Yes,” Marius says, glancing at me. I can’t tell what he’s feeling. “This is Josie. We were just here to get out of the cold.”
His mother hums. I take a random guess and force myself to stare at the father. There’s a gentle smile on his face. At least he’s safe, for now. I’m hoping he doesn’t feel pity for me.
“Marius,” his mother says again, pushing away from the table. “J’aimerais te parler.”
I press my lips together. The father frowns, glancing at her, but she’s already walking into another part of the apartment. Marius mirrors his father’s face. His touch on my elbow is light but still manages to make me jump.
“She just gets grumpy sometimes,” he says, glancing at his dad, as if asking him to confirm. “I’ll be right back.”
I watch him walk down a hallway after her. I guess this place is bigger than I thought it would be. My recorder is on. I don’t know if I should turn it off, but I definitely don’t want to whip it out in front of Mr.
