Egomaniac

“Here are a few more messages.”

Drew had just hung up the phone after waving me into his office. I set the bag containing our lunch on his desk and handed him the little slips of paper. He shuffled through them quickly and held one up.

“If this guy calls back—Jonathon Gates—you have my permission to hang up on him.”

“Can I call him a name first?”

Drew looked amused. “What would you call him?”

“That depends. What did he do wrong?”

“He beats his wife.”

“Oh, God. Okay.” I twisted my lips as I thought of a good name for Mr. Gates. “I’d call him a fucking animal, and then hang up on him.”

Drew chuckled. “You don’t curse like a New Yorker.”

“What do you mean?”

“You pronounce the entire word. F-u-c-k-i-n-g.”

“How should I pronounce it?”

“Fuckin. Leave off the hard g.”

“Fuckin,” I repeated.

“It sounds stiff. You should practice more so it sounds natural.”

I reached into the bag and pulled out the food I’d ordered. With a smile, I offered it to him. “Here’s your fuckin lunch.”

“Nice.” He smiled. “Keep it up. You’ll sound like Tess in no time.”

“Tess?”

“My secretary who’s out because she had hip surgery. She’s sixty and looks like Mary Poppins, but she swears like a sailor.”

“I’ll practice some more.”

I’d ordered us sandwiches from a deli I discovered on my first day of fake tenancy. Since Drew looked like he took care of himself, I picked him out a turkey club on whole wheat with avocado and ordered myself the same, though I usually tended to eat less healthy food. Drew devoured his entire sandwich before I could finish half of mine, and I wasn’t a slow eater.

Looking at his empty wrapper, I asked, “I take it you liked the sandwich?”

“Went to the gym at 5 a.m. and didn’t have time to eat before an early meeting uptown. That was the first thing I’d eaten today.”

“5 a.m.? You went to the gym at five in the morning?”

“I’m an early riser. From the appalled tone in your voice, I take it you’re not.”

“I try to be.”

“How’s that working out for you?”

“Not so good.” I laughed. “I have trouble falling asleep at night, so mornings are tough.”

“Do you exercise?”

“I started taking that Krav Maga a few times a week at night to wear myself out, hoping it would help me sleep. It doesn’t really help. But I like it anyway.”

“How about those drinks with melatonin in them?”

“Tried them. Nothing.”

“Sleeping pills?”

“I wind up groggy for twenty-four hours after I take anything. Even Tylenol PM wipes me out.”

“Prolactin then.”

“Prolactin? What’s that? A vitamin or something?”

“It’s a hormone you release after orgasm. Makes you sleepy. Have you tried masturbating right before bed?”

I was mid-swallow and choked on the sandwich bite. Not the sputtering, coughing, it-went-down-the-wrong-pipe cute kind of choke. No. I choked. Literally. A small chunk of bread lodged in my throat, blocking my airway. In a panic, I stood, knocking the wrapper with the rest of my turkey club and my soda to the floor, and began to point furiously to my throat.

Luckily, Drew took the hint. He ran around to my side of the desk and smacked me on the back a few times. When I remained unable to breathe, he wrapped his arms around me from behind and performed the Heimlich. On the second hard thrust, the bread blocking my airway dislodged and flew across his office. Even though the entire episode probably only lasted fifteen seconds, I bent and gasped for air as if I’d been deprived for three minutes. My heart thundered inside of my chest, the sudden adrenaline surge hitting hard.

Drew didn’t let go. He kept his arms locked around me tightly, just under my chest, as I heaved in long breaths.

Eventually, when my breathing had returned to somewhat normal, he spoke in a low, hesitant voice. “You okay?”

My voice was scratchy. “I think so.”

His grip around me loosened, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he rested his head on top of mine. “You scared the shit out of me.”

I held my throat with one hand. “That was a terrifying feeling. I’ve never actually choked before.” For the brief moment of my impending doom, I’d completely forgotten what had made me choke. But it quickly came back to me. “You almost killed me.”

“Killed you? I think your brain was deprived of oxygen. I just saved your life, beautiful.”

“You made me choke. Who brings up masturbating with an almost stranger while eating lunch?”

“An almost stranger? I’ve seen you in your underwear, bailed you out of prison, and given you a place to park your ass all day long. Pretty sure I’m your best friend in town at this point.”

I whipped around and stared at him. “Maybe I don’t need to masturbate anyway. Maybe I have a boyfriend who takes care of those needs.”

Drew smirked. Not smiled. Smirked. “If that’s the case, and you’re still having trouble sleeping after he takes care of you at night, then dump his ass because he sucks in bed.”

“And I suppose all of your women are fast asleep after you take care of them.”

“Damn straight. I’m like a superhero. The Prolactinator.”

This man had the uncanny ability to make me laugh in the middle of an argument. I snorted as I leaned over to clean up my sandwich from the floor. “Okay, Prolactinator. How about you use your superpowers to help clean up this mess?”

After the lunch debacle was straightened, I offered to help Drew unpack his boxes. He had a cordless drill in the first one we opened, and he hung some of his fancy-framed degrees while I unwrapped things and cleaned them off. Our conversation was light and easy until he asked me the question I always dreaded answering.

“So you never told me the other day, what brought you to New York?”

“It’s a long story.”

Drew looked at his watch. “I have twenty minutes until my next consult. Shoot.”

For a brief moment, I considered making up a story so I didn’t have to tell the truth. But then I figured, this guy has seen me at my worst—he helped me keep out of jail and witnessed firsthand that I could be sold the proverbial Brooklyn Bridge in the form of Park Avenue real estate. So I went with honesty.

“My first year of college, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to major in. I took a Psychology 101 class, and the professor was amazing. But he was also a drunk who often missed classes or came in with ten minutes left in the lecture. He had a TA who was from New York but working on his doctorate at the University of Oklahoma, and he wound up teaching a lot of the course. The TA was Baldwin.”

Drew dumped a pile of files into a cabinet and shut it, turning to face me. “So you moved to New York to be near this Baldwin guy? I thought you said the other day he didn’t return the feelings you have?”

“He doesn’t. Baldwin and I became good friends over the next four years. He had a girlfriend he lived with—an art history major who modeled on the side.” I rolled my eyes thinking of Meredith—she was so full of herself. “He stayed at the college to teach after he finished his doctorate, and then decided to move back to New York to start his own practice and teach here. We kept in touch while I did my graduate work, and he pretty much helped me write my thesis over Skype for a year.”

“Are we getting to sex or something good in this story soon? Because Baldwin’s starting to bore the shit out of me.”

Drew was next to me, opening the last box, and I shoved at his arm. “You’re the one who wanted to hear the story.”

“I thought it would be more interesting,” he teased with a cocky smile.

“Anyway. I’ll sum up so I don’t put you to sleep—”

Drew interrupted. “No worries. I’m not sleepy. Didn’t masturbate this morning.”

“Thanks for sharing that. Do you want me to finish or not?”

“Of course. I don’t know why, but I’m anxious to hear what’s wrong with Baldwin.”

“Why do you assume something’s wrong with him?”

“Gut feeling.”

“Well, you’re wrong. There’s nothing wrong with Baldwin. He’s a great guy who’s extremely intelligent and cultured.”

Drew put his hands on his hips and stopped unpacking to give me his full attention. “You said he had a girlfriend for four years. I take it they broke up?”

“Yes. They broke up right before he left to come back to New York.”

“And he didn’t make a move on you, knowing you were in love with him?”

“How do you know I was in love with him?”

He looked at me like the answer was obvious. “Were you?”

“Yes. But…I didn’t tell you that.”

“You’re easy to read.”

I sighed. “Why is it so easy for you to see it, but Baldwin seems to be clueless?”

“He ain’t clueless. He knows. But for one reason or another, he isn’t letting you know he knows.”

It was pretty amazing that Drew had zeroed in on something I’d suspected for a long time. I’d always felt like Baldwin knew about my feelings for him, even though I’d never voiced them. And part of me believed Baldwin returned some of those feelings, even though he’d never acted on them. Which is why I’d decided to make the first move—literally—and I moved to New York. Somehow I’d gotten it into my head that since he was single now, the time was right. But all I’d succeeded in doing was torturing myself, as he brought different dates home a few nights a week.

“I thought if I moved to New York, maybe it would be our time.”

“He’s single now?”

“He’s not dating anyone seriously, no. Although it seems like he’s been through half of the women in New York over the last few months. He comes home with a different woman almost every week. The newest one is Rachel.” I rolled my eyes.

“You live with this guy?”

“No. I sublet the apartment next door to him while his neighbor is teaching in Africa for a year.”

“Let me get this straight. He walks women by the apartment you live in and has never acknowledged that he knows how you feel about him.”

“It’s my fault. I’ve still never told him how I feel.”

“It’s not your fault. The guy’s an asshole.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Open your eyes, Emerie.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I hope you’re right. But I’d put money on not being wrong.”

I could feel the anger rising in my throat and considered storming back to my office and not helping unpack the rest of his boxes, but I was getting Park Avenue space for free. So instead, I kept quiet and finished what we’d started—until I unwrapped the last item.

It was a small picture frame covered in bubble wrap. Drew had left the office to take some boxes out to the garbage compactor in the building’s maintenance room. He’d just returned when I unraveled the last layer of tape. The photo was of a beautiful little boy dressed in a hockey uniform. He was probably six or seven years old, and a golden retriever licked his face as he laughed.

Smiling, I turned to face Drew. “He’s adorable. Is this your little boy?”

He took the photo from my hand. His answer was curt. “No.”

When our eyes met, I was about to ask another question when he cut me off. “Thanks for helping me unpack. I have to get ready for an appointment.”