He hesitates, and for a second I think he’s about to decline my offer—which is probably for the best. Instead he says, “Are you inviting me in?”
“Yes,” I say, trusting myself—and him. “I am.”
“I accept,” he says with a formal little nod.
I nod back, then turn and lead him up the stairs, through my front door and lobby, and over to the elevator, figuring I would be okay getting stuck inside with him. As we ride the elevator, we don’t speak. Our silence continues as I unlock my door and we enter my dark apartment, passing by the unblinking red eye of my answering machine. I know I should lead him over to my sofa, offer him a drink, make conversation. But I’m suddenly exhausted, and all I want to do is get into my bed. With him. So I walk there instead, taking off my shoes and cardigan before peeling back the covers. I don’t look at him, but can feel him watching me.
“Are you coming to bed?” I say. “It’s so late.”
“Yes,” he whispers, then undresses down to his boxers and T-shirt. He climbs into bed beside me.
Several silent minutes pass before our bodies and breath come together in the darkness. My eyes closed, I wait for him to kiss me or make some kind of a move. Do the things that people do when they go from a bar to a bed together. But we don’t do any of that. We just drift to sleep, my cheek on his chest, his arm around me, as if we’ve known each other forever.
As the morning light works its way through the slats of my vertical blinds, I awaken. It takes me a few seconds to remember him. I hold my breath before slowly rolling over, wondering if he’s gone, half hoping that he is, if only to avoid the awkward morning-after routine.
Yet when I see him, still sleeping, with the covers pulled up to his chin, I’m overwhelmed with relief. There’s something so peaceful about his face—the way his lips are barely parted and his bangs fall across his forehead. He has good hair—the silky, shiny kind that I’ve always considered something of a waste on a guy. As I contemplate reaching out to touch it, his eyelids flutter open. He looks at me and smiles, his face lighting up. I smile back at him, nervous but excited.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice gravelly, sounding like a man who was drinking in a bar just a few hours before. He reaches up and runs his hand through his hair as if to straighten it, but ends up making it messier.
“Good morning,” I say, my heart racing.
I wait for him to speak, but when he doesn’t, I say, “So. I still don’t know your name.”
“Wait. Are you asking me for real this time? Or is this another head fake?”
I smile and tell him I’m ready now.
He clears his throat, then swallows, his face growing serious, the suspense building. “It’s Grant,” he says.
I silently replay the one syllable, thinking that it fits him. Classic but unexpected. Simple yet strong. Positive connotations abounding. Granting a wish. Receiving a grant. “Grant what?” I say.
“Grant Smith.”
“I like that,” I say, both of us frozen in place, curled-up mirror images of each other. Close enough to touch if one of us extended our arms. But we don’t.
“Okay. Let me guess your name,” he says, chewing his lip in exaggerated concentration. “I bet you have one of those feminine names that ends with an eee or ahh. Something like…Sophia…Emily…Alyssa.”
“Wow,” I say. “You’re actually right….Three syllables. Ending in an eee sound.”
“What is it?” he says. “Tell me.”
“Cecily,” I say, wondering why it feels as if I just shared an intimate secret.
From under the covers, his hand finds mine. “Cecily,” he says. “And to think I was worried…”
“Worried about what?” I ask, our fingers now lacing together, my heart thudding harder.
“Worried that I might not like it.”
“And why would that matter?”
“Because,” he says. “I have the feeling I may be saying it…a lot.”
“You do?” I ask, my cheeks on fire.
“Yes, Cecily,” he whispers. “I do.”
* * *
—
Less than an hour later, we are sitting in a bright, bustling diner on Second Avenue. Between us on the table is a New York Times he bought at the door and two cups of coffee our waitress just poured. We are waiting for our omelets—his Greek, mine plain cheddar.
I stare over at him across the steam rising from our mugs, marveling at how seamless the transition from bed to booth has been—with not a single uncomfortable moment. Not when we got up and took turns in the bathroom. Not when I told him I didn’t have a spare toothbrush, but he was welcome to use mine (he did). Not even when Scottie called on our way out the door, and I made the mistake of picking up the phone as he pummeled me with yes-no questions, and I informed him that no I wasn’t alone; and no it wasn’t Matthew; and yes he was cute.
“So. Tell me about yourself,” I say to Grant, wondering how I can feel like I know someone so well when I actually know nothing about him.
He nods as he pours cream into his mug and stirs. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything,” I say. “Everything.”
He crosses his arms, then rests his elbows on the table, leaning toward me. “Nobody really wants to know everything about another person, do they?”
I can’t tell if he’s being cagey or coy, so I say, “Good point. Just give me the basics.”
“What’s basic?” he says.
“You know…How old are you? Where’re you from? Do you have any siblings? That kind of stuff.”
He nods, takes a sip of coffee, then tells me he’s thirty, from Buffalo, and has a twin brother.
“Oh, that’s cool,” I say. “Identical or fraternal?”
“Fraternal. But we look a lot alike….That’s what people tell us, anyway.”
“Who’s older?” I ask.
“He is. By four minutes.”
I nod, then ask where he went to college, as it occurs to me that maybe he didn’t go at all.
“Stanford,” he says.
I raise my eyebrows and say, “Wow. Impressive.”
“I had a basketball scholarship….Don’t be too impressed,” he says with a smile. “What about you? All the same questions?”