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“Actually, Dweeb,” I said and kissed him some more, “I wasn’t talking about your violin.”

  And that, boys and girls, is how all the trouble began.

  Chapter 4

  Knock-Knock

  Roger

  Maybe the oddest part of the whole story—we’d met at Katrina’s party, and we’d seen each other exactly three times since. Each time he’d called, which had surprised the hell out of me. I mean I wouldn’t even think about calling a guy who looked like Fletch, so why was a guy who looked like Fletch calling me?

  But that’s not the strange bit. The really weird part was when he didn’t call—he’d just shown up.

  I’d been practicing and was putting the violin away when the door buzzer buzzed. The buzzer always makes me jump out of my skin, and it doesn’t help that Haggis also jumps out of his skin and barks like an idiot.

  “That’s enough, Haggis.” He knew that command, and he settled down to growling and waited at the door.

  I pushed the intercom button.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “Hey, Dweeb.”

  Fletch? He’d sort of adopted “dweeb” as his nickname for me. Part of me thought I should resent it, but I just couldn’t. He always seemed so affectionate when he said it. I had a pet name. I’d never had a nickname before. Even if it was dweeb, it still seemed really sweet somehow.

  Anyway, he called me dweeb, and I buzzed him in.

  We’d seen each other a couple times, as I said, and, you know, things had happened, and he’d spent the night, but this was completely weird of him, just showing up. I really liked Fletch, and I had hoped I’d see him again, but I had no idea if he felt the same.

  I mean, seriously, why would he?

  I was a skinny little drip who liked classical music and he—well, for starters, he looked like Fletch. He was one of those sort of breathtaking people: blond, blue-eyed, yeah, but that doesn’t tell the half of it. There was something about the shape of his eyes, almost almond, that made them extraordinary. The hair was longish in those days, with a little curl to it, not crazy curly like mine, just a little. His skin was very fair, tending toward pink, and flawless. Beautiful mouth, gorgeous smile, and the body—seriously, go to the Metropolitan Museum and look at the statues of naked Greek guys. That was Fletch.

  He was sex in high tops.

  So, as I said, I was the nerdy lawyer with the fiddle, and he was Fletch.

  I was terrified of going to parties because what if I didn’t know anybody when I got there? He deliberately crashed parties where he knew he wouldn’t know anybody, because he also knew that whomever he met would like him. Unbelievable.

  I opened the door and waited for him to come up the two flights. As he came around the bend in the stairs he was carrying a gym bag over his shoulder in addition to his usual shoulder bag. Curious. Then he smiled up to me through the railing—

  Okay, let me explain something. I’m not really crazy about surprises. Truth is I’m not the most spontaneous person you’ll ever meet? And I sort of had my evening all planned out, you know—pizza and an episode of Masterpiece Theatre. I know, pretty dorky, but still, it was what I’d planned. And I had not planned on somebody just turning up without calling. Even if it was an absurdly hot somebody.

  But when he smiled at me through the railing like that, nothing else on earth mattered.

  “Hey,” I said, trying not to grin like the village idiot.

  By now Haggis was dancing around Fletch, and he was fiercely wagging his tail. Haggis, I mean—which was in itself remarkable. He was not a terribly demonstrative dog. Fletch had never had a dog, he said, but he had somehow connected with Haggis from the get-go.

  “I’m really sorry to barge in like this,” he said, barging in. Okay, he didn’t really, he gave me a peck on the cheek on the way by, which was nice—and then he plopped the gym bag in the middle of the floor. “Hey, Haggis,” he said squatting down to the dog. Haggis immediately scooted away from him, which was just a game he played with everyone. “Doesn’t he like me?” Fletch asked me.

  “I think he likes you more than anybody—he just dances away from everybody like that.”

  “Ah. Playing hard to get,” observed Fletch. “Haggis, you gotta teach me that one.”

  “That little dance is Scottish terrier for ‘can’t touch this.’”

  “Dweeb, was that a pop music reference?!”

  “Enjoy it. I get about one a decade. But to be honest, I stole that joke from my sister. So—what’s up?”

  “I—I have a huge favor to ask you. And no is a perfectly okay answer.”

  “Good, because I am not helping you with your laundry.”

  He laughed. I’d made a joke and he laughed!

  “It’s worse than that.” He looked sheepish. “Can I kinda crash here for a few days?”

  “Here?” Jeez, talk about surprises!

  I looked around at my little one-bedroom apartment. It was a nice place—for one. The living room was a good size, big enough that I used it occasionally for quartet rehearsals. One side faced the street and had three big windows. On the opposite wall was a small galley kitchen separated from the rest of the room by a counter and bar stools, with cabinets above. The place was sparsely decorated—clean, modern-y furniture. A console piano against one wall. There was a series of framed artsy photos on the wall that my sister had taken of my violin for a photography class, some shelves of CDs. I kept the scads of music scores in the bedroom.

  And now there was this guy. Well, he was certainly decorative, but…jeez.

  Did I like him that much?

  “My landlady,” he started. “It’s a long stupid story, but I have this not entirely legal apartment, and my not entirely legal landlady is not entirely sane. So yesterday, she starts nagging me, and maybe I said something back, and then today when I get there, there’s this gigantic padlock on the door, and she’s standing in the stairs screaming—Hungarian, Czech, I never figured out what she is—but whatever she is, she’d clearly forgotten her Zoloft or something, and—”

  “Hey, sit down. Just move the Haggis steps.”

  “These are so cute, by the way,” he said, setting aside the little steps I have for Haggis to climb up on the couch. “I was gonna ask—he can’t get up on his own?”

  “His legs are only five inches long. He can’t jump up that high, and if he jumps down, his nose hits the floor before his front feet do.”

  “Ohhhh!” he said full of sympathy.

  “Would you like some—water or—something?”

  “Yeah. I’m wrecked. Thanks.”

  “Where do you live?” I asked on my way to the fridge.

  “Brooklyn.”

  “I knew that. Brooklyn. Very hip.”

  “Not this part of Brooklyn.”

  I handed him a bottle of water.

  “Hey, I was just going to order some food. Have you eaten?”

  “No, I’ve been a little…” He made a sort of stressed-out face.

  “Yeah, obviously. Pizza okay?”

  “Wow, I never let myself have pizza. You know—the body and all.” He lifted his shirt to show me his abs. Wow.

  “Should we—would you—” The glimpse of Fletch’s tummy had pretty much short-circuited the language center in my brain. “Th-there’s other—” Of course I’d seen him naked but still. I was never going to get jaded about seeing those muscles, the shallow little belly button. “Menus—” I forced myself to say. And jeez, that little bit of blond hair that—“Chinese?” I practically yelled it. “Sorry. I got—distracted.”

  “Don’t sweat it.” He grinned at me.

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you,” I said, going to find menus.

  “I always enjoy it here.”

  “Good line.”

  “It’s not!” He followed me toward the kitch
en and leaned against the counter so he could see me under the cabinets. “I mean, yeah, it was a line, but seriously, it’s true. Dead honest—this day has been straight from hell, but as soon as I saw you, I felt better.”

  I had no idea what to do with that. Did he mean that?

  “So…Chinese? Sushi?”

  “Absolutely not, now that you’ve tempted me with pizza.”

  “Okay.” I cleared my throat and tried to concentrate. “So what do you like on it?”

  “My favorite thing is anchovies, but nobody ever wants anchovies, so you choose.”

  “I love anchovies.”

  “See? You and me—it’s fate,” he said and stepped over to me, all mock romantic with one arm around my waist, and he bent me over backward in this huge black-and-white-movie dip. “It’s no use fighting it,” he said doing some kind of vague accent. “It is written in the stars.”

  “Green peppers?” I asked, still bent over backward in his arms.

  “Perfect.” He kissed me on the forehead, and it was really sweet. “God you feel good like this.”

  Which really embarrassed me. I wriggled out of his arms and stood up.

  “Mushrooms or no?” I asked, pushing my hair back.

  “Love ’em.”

  “Me too.”

  “See? Now if Scooby Doo is your favorite cartoon, I think we should go ahead and start a family.”

  “Drinks?”

  “Water for me.”

  I called the pizza place.

  “So you’re sure it’s okay?” he asked. “Me crashing here?”

  “Um, yeah, I guess. I mean, jeez, we hardly know each other. You really have no place else to go?”

  “I’m sorry to ask. But it’s not like we’re total strangers after all…”

  “No.”

  “And we get along. Don’t we?”

  “I think so.”

  “I definitely think so! I borrowed some clothes from my friend Marco, and I’d have crashed with him, but they’re in the middle of this huge reno—and Marco’s already sleeping in the living room as it is.” He looked at me with sad-little-orphan-boy eyes. Breathtakingly beautiful sad-little-orphan-boy eyes. “Oh come on, Roger, please-please-please?”

  “Well, you can’t sleep in Penn Station. But—you’re thinking—what?” Fletch was so far out of my league it wasn’t even funny. I didn’t dare entertain the thought of anything—is serious even the word?—with him. I would never in a million years hit on a guy who looked like Fletch, and here he was—what? Crashing? We’d seen each other four times total—and it had been incredible. And he’d stayed the night, which surprised me. I mean, a guy like Fletch, you’d think he’d be the kind of guy who would make a quick excuse afterward and bolt, sort of in and out. That sounds bad, but you know what I mean. He’d be sort of come and go. Jeez, that’s way worse.

  What I’m trying to say is that he’d stayed the night and he’d hung around for breakfast, and he even talked to me, told me about his day, asked about mine. Not just grunted at his coffee mug. Not that I brought guys back here every other night or anything. I get most of this stuff from Tommy’s dating horror stories.

  But Fletch stayed the night and with him it really was great, the sleeping over, I mean. You know how it can be impossible to sleep with somebody else right there? But with him…I’d never slept so well. He was a terrific cuddler without getting all grippy. He held me, I held him, it was somehow relaxed and fine, and in the morning, I loved waking up with him there, all warm, his gorgeous arm around me. I never wanted him to leave.

  So was that he was thinking? Or was he thinking more along the lines of—

  “Couch?” I asked.

  Now he looked as insecure as I was.

  The couch was a nice size for an apartment, meaning it was small. Not long enough for you to be able to stretch out on.

  “That would be great, if that’s what you want.”

  “If that’s what I want?”

  “Well, honest, I really enjoyed the time we’ve spent together and all, but if you don’t want—I totally understand. This thing folds out, right?”

  “No. This is it.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. And you’re so tall, so…”

  “So, in that case”—he leaned over and kissed me—“I think you’re saying I can’t possibly sleep on your couch. Is that it?”

  “It wouldn’t be right.” He kissed me again.

  “And I’d really much rather sleep with a beautiful guy.” He kissed me again.

  “Great,” I said. “Do you know one?”

  “Fortunately for me…” He kissed me again.

  “Pizza’s coming, don’t forget.” Still kissing.

  “Damn. Of course. I’ll behave,” he said kissing me back.

  “Promise?” And the kissing continued.

  “I don’t know, Dweeb. I’m not very good at promises.” His hands started migrating south.

  After a good half minute of tongue wrestling, I pushed him back.

  “That buzzer’s going to ring.”

  “Yeah. Pizza.”

  “Pizza.”

  He sat up and I sat up, and we tugged at our pants to arrange things. His pants problem was particularly conspicuous. One more thing about him that put him out of my class.

  He reached over, grabbed the end pillow from the couch, and plopped it in his lap. He handed me the other one.

  “There. Now I’ll be good. Hey, I know,” he said with a sudden idea. “Until the pizza guy comes—would you, maybe, play something for me? I’ve wanted to ask you before, but it’s always been so late. Is it like a huge deal?”

  “No. I mean, sure, of course I can play something.” Cold sweat of sheer panic sprang to my temples. I got up and pulled my violin up out of its case—but its cozy brown color didn’t calm me, the familiar weight in my hands didn’t give me confidence. I was scared to death.

  Here was this really cool guy sitting on my couch. And he wanted me to play violin for him? How frigging uncool was that going to be? What should I play? Gilbert and Sullivan? I plucked some strings to check the tuning and adjusted, feeling my throat closing up. But what could I play that wouldn’t make me look like the incredibly boring dork that I was? My instrument didn’t really lend itself to hip-hop. Not that I knew any hip-hop. I wiped some rosin on the bow—sticky stuff to help the bow grab the strings better. My hands were sweating. I wiped some rosin off. Anyway, it was something to do while I stalled.

  This was it. This was the end. Nice while it lasted, but whatever interest this fabulous guy had had in me—it would be all over now.

  “I’m sorry,” I said finally, giving up about a sixteenth of an inch from tears. “I’m a little—and honestly?—I have no idea what to play.” Jeez, I sounded pathetic.

  “Hey!” He saw what a mess I was. “Hey, I didn’t mean to flip you out, Dweeb.” He had jumped up, and now he held me in his arms. “I’m sorry. Put it away, you don’t have to play for me! I don’t want to make you miserable!”

  “It’s so stupid,” I said, violin and bow still in my hands. “I’ve been playing since I was a kid. I’m probably more comfortable with my violin than I am anywhere else. Definitely more comfortable.”

  “It’s okay, you know. If you make a mistake or something, I don’t care. I probably won’t even know.”

  “It’s not that I’m going to make a mistake. I play really well. And part of me wants to show off. Me and my little violin—it’s me at my best. It’s just…”

  “What then?”

  “You’ll think I’m such a geek.”

  He pulled me tighter in his arms.

  “I don’t. I won’t.” He backed up a little to look at me. “Look—only if you want—you can play me something really simple, something not stressful. And if you don’t wan
t, that’s okay too.”

  “Okay, I know. I told you—I know it’s really nerdy—but we have this string quartet?”

  “It’s not nerdy. Katrina’s in the quartet?”

  “First violin.”

  “Does Katrina strike you as nerdy?”

  “Well, no.”

  “So. Definitely not nerdy.”

  Good point.

  I tuned.

  “I’m putting together an arrangement for the quartet of some Gershwin songs?”

  “Gershwin, the songwriter guy.”

  “Yeah. So I’ve pulled together some of his songs into a medley for the quartet, and this is from that. I arranged it so each of us gets featured, but, since I’m putting it together, second violin gets the best solo.”

  “Sly.”

  “Okay.” I took a deep breath. “Okay.” I took another deep breath. “Please don’t hate this.”

  “I bet I won’t.”

  “Okay.”

  He was startled by the first notes—people are always surprised by just how much sound a little violin makes. My chunk of the medley was the song “They Can’t Take that Away from Me.” The words, which I obviously wasn’t going to sing, are about this guy’s memories of a relationship and how, no matter what, nothing can take those memories away. The piece wasn’t particularly difficult or anything, just a terrific tune, lots of opportunities to let the violin really sing, with a few variations and flourishes and a fancy coda to a long high note at the end. I’d written myself some sort of tricky bits, some flashy runs, some awkward double-stops that I liked that I didn’t really expect him to be able to appreciate. Still, he seemed to listen. I didn’t dare look at him. I held out the last long note and let it slowly fade on the E-string. I tried to “savor the note,” as Mrs. Kleinmeyer, my first violin teacher, once told me to do, but I was way too scared to savor much of anything. And then I stopped.

  “That was—amazing.”

  Was he making fun of me? I looked up, and he jumped up and threw his arms around me. I still had the violin and bow in my hands, and I was suddenly very aware of how much I had pitted out with worrying, but he held me tightly.

  “My God, Dweeb, I had no idea. You really are good! That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.” He grabbed my head and kissed me.