23
Matt
It has been a full week since I moved into this place, and I haven’t even seen my neighbors yet. I like it as much as I can like a place that has absolutely zero Bernadette Farmers in it. I really think she’d love Park Slope. If you manage not to trip over all the baby strollers, you can really appreciate the historic brownstones and down-to-earth bohemian vibe. Sitting here, staring at herInto the Woodspainting, both subdues and exacerbates the longing to be with her.
I’ve always been able to compartmentalize and disappear into my job when I don’t want to think about something else, but I’m not about to go to the office on the weekend just to get away from these thoughts. Not yet, anyway. Whenever I’m home, Daisy begs me to let her out into the little garden area—I’m pretty sure it’s not because she wants to be outside but because she can’t stand to hear me play “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over”by Jeff Buckley on my guitar one more time.
As I quietly sing the last lines, when I get to: “Oh, love I’ve waited for you/Lover you should’ve come over” I realize just how passive these words are. Am I really the guy who waits for love? I am now able to grasp just what a stubborn ass I’m being, doing the same thing that I did with Vanessa—just giving her space—when I don’t feel the same way about Bernadette as I did with Vanessa. I want her. I want her in my space. I always have. I’m sure as I’ve ever been sure of anything that I always will.
I pick up my phone, watching Daisy perk up in her outdoor bed through the patio door. She stares up at me, and it’s like she knows I’m finally calling Bernadette. She gets up and comes to the door. I let her in. She looks up at me hesitantly: “You better say the right thing this time, buddy.”
It goes to voicemail after four rings. I don’t usually leave messages unless it’s a business call. What the fuck is the right thing to say to a voice recording at a time like this? I clear my throat: “Hi, it’s Matt McGovern, Esquire. I just wanted to say that I hope you let me know if you’re ever in the neighborhood here, in Brooklyn. We’d love to see you…Actually, fuck that—we’d love to see you no matter what neighborhood you’re in. I’d love to see you. I need to see you. I want to talk to you. Call me.”
I hang up and look down at my dog. She blinks and shakes her head. I know what she’s thinking. “You’re going to have to do better than that, Loverboy. This is the woman who bought me winter bootsin the summer.”
I text her all the sad-face emojis, before leaving food in Daisy’s bowl and ordering an Uber to the Upper West Side.
Brooklyn Bridge is hilariously jammed today, and I’m kicking myself for not taking the subway because it’s nearly an hour later when we finally get to where I need to be. By the time the Prius has turned the corner onto her street, I haven’t gotten a response to the call or text, but I know what I want to say to Bernadette. I just hope I’ll get the chance to say it to her face. Hopping out of the car, I’m at the front door of the townhouse in three long strides.
She doesn’t answer the buzzer after the first or second time I’ve ringed her. She might be in the basement doing laundry. I hope she’s in the basement doing laundry, and not making out with her boss by some lake, or hiding in her apartment and ignoring me.
I try my Aunt Dolly’s buzzer, on a whim. I’m not even sure if she’s back in town yet.
“Who is it?” My aunt sounds so tough through the intercom, as if only thugs would be buzzing her on a Saturday morning.
“Aunt Dolly? It’s Matt.”
I hear her sigh. “Oh, Matt. Good. I know why you’re here. Come on up, my dear.”
When I reach the fourth floor, my aunt is standing by her open door. She is wearing a ‘70’s era pant suit that probably used to belong to Diana Ross. It has been a while since I’ve seen her in person, and I’m surprised by how happy I am to see her. She holds out her arms for a hug.
“My darling boy,” she says, patting my back. “You look like crap.”
“I haven’t been sleeping much this past week.”
She nods, knowingly. “Thank you for the tea pot. It’s lovely. Bernadette isn’t here.”
I reach out for the doorframe, to brace myself. “Did she move to Hudson Valley?”
“No, silly. She isn’t going to work for Sebastian Smith anymore.”
Once again, when it comes to Bernadette, I release a breath that I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.
“She took a job at a gallery. She’ll be working for my friend Anita. Come inside.”
I do. It’s strange, being here with my aunt. I’ve had sex so many times in her apartment, and no matter how old I am, or how much she encouraged it, I feel like a guilty teenager. But I can’t really think about that now.
“Oh. You know Anita?” Of course she does. My aunt knows everyone.
“Yes, why? Do you?” She wrinkles her brow at me, probably wondering if I’ve slept with that woman.
“Not really, I met her once. When I was with Bernadette. So, she’s working for Anita now?”
She leads me to the sofa in the living room and takes a seat next to me. She’s talking to me like I’m a little kid who’s finding out he doesn’t get to go to camp this summer, or that there’s no Santa Claus. It’s doing nothing to calm me down. Inside my brain I’m screaming.
“Not yet. She starts next month. She still has to help Sebastian transition to his new home and find him another assistant, and lord knows that won’t be a walk in the park. I only know this because she sent me an email right before I got home. She said that she’ll be out of town until next week, and it might be difficult to reach her.”
My insides clench up again. “Do you think she’s in Hudson Valley?”
