Imaginary Lines (20 page)

It took a minute to locate the exact building. The numbers didn’t work in an orderly fashion, but skipped by twos and tens sometimes ate up whole dozens. Finally, my eyes landed on 712B.

I stood back to take it in. It looked much like all the other buildings on the street: small, brown and cramped. A small Laundromat filled the ground floor, and I wondered if it had been there when my grandparents had. Probably not.

Abe stopped beside me, tilting his head up. “So this is it?”

“Yeah.” I peered up at the third-floor windows and pointed my finger. “That’s where they lived.”

We stared up at the dark glass. I tried to imagine my grandparents peeking back out at us. They’d been younger than I was when they moved here—twenty-one and twenty-two. “What a strange life.”

He nodded. “Want to see if we can go inside?”

I glanced at the door. “Not really. I just wanted to...ground the stories. It’s weird how by the time they were our age... They were just kids, you know?”

He took my hand. “I know.”

“I’d like to go to Wroclaw. Though that sounds silly—what would I do, stare at the building where the chocolate shop used to be? That would take ten seconds.”

He shook his head. “It makes sense.” He hesitated, and then said with sweetness and sincerity, “I’d go with you.”

I squeezed his hand. “I’d like that.” Another beat of silence passed. “When I was little, I used to think their whole story was so romantic. Love. War. Paris and New York. But it’s not romantic or glamorous. It’s just sad.”

Abe nodded. His dad’s parents and Abe’s maternal grandfather had all grown up in California, from families that had lived there since the early 1900s. But his mom’s mom, Grandma Lewinski, had only come over after the war. She’d been an orphaned teenager, and had been separated from her sister and brother as they were all sent to live with distant relatives all over the country. She didn’t speak English and didn’t know the people she lived with, and there was nothing romantic about that. “I know.”

It was petty, cowardly people who ruined a generation in their quest for power.

We stood there another minute before both of us slowly noticed a family of four hovering in our peripheral vision. Abe glanced at me, and I inclined my chin a tiny bit.

He opened up his body language, and the family was on us in seconds. They were all tall and slim and smiling nervously. Tourists. Tourist Dad had a trim goatee and stepped forward. “Aren’t you Abe Krasner?”

Abe grinned. “Yes, sir.”

The man fumbled in his pocket for his camera. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

Tourist Dad held out his camera to me.

Oh, I saw how it was. I bit back a smirk. A guy in the door of the Laundromat shook his head, his handlebar mustache shaking. My smirk tried to surface even more. Locals disapproved when tourists assaulted their celebrities.

I took several shots of the whole family with Abe, and then the two daughters. Tourist Dad was clearly psyched beyond belief, and so was Tourist Daughter 1, but Daughter 2 looked like she just wanted to get back to Angry Birds.

“Thank you so much,” Tourist Dad gushed at the end. Tourist Mom looked like she was trying to resist smirking.

Abe laughed, and then he extended his own phone. “You mind?”

Tourist Dad looked like he might pee himself, and he turned and angled the phone like he’d been Ansel Adams in a past life. I was so busy watching the man that Abe took me by surprise when he swept me off my feet and cradled me against his chest.

I caught my breath and threw my arms around his neck for balance. I felt weightless and airy, and Abe’s face was very, very close. “What are you doing?”

He grinned down at me. “Re-creating your grandma’s photo.”

I wasn’t surprised he’d seen the picture. “We’re missing the veil and too small suit.”

“Shh. Smile for the camera.”

We did, and I couldn’t help the happy leap within me as we posed. Abe spun me about, my skirt flaring dramatically. Tourist Family oohed and ahhed like we were the ending of their Broadway show. Even Handlebar Mustache cracked a smile.

Afterward, we sat in a small café drinking hot tea. I watched him, studying the square of his jaw, the darkness of his eyes, the way his hair just slightly curled over his ears. Studying beyond that. “I was thinking.”

“About?”

“I think you should take classes.”

He looked puzzled. “What?”

I glanced down at my tea, slightly embarrassed. “You just sounded...I don’t know, slightly despondent the other day. Like you wish you had your BA.”

He swallowed, and now it was his turn to look into his tea like he could read the leaves.

I leaned forward. “It doesn’t matter if you do or don’t. You know that, right? It just matters if you want it.”

“It seems like too much,” he told his tea. “Professional football and endorsements and now I think I can take classes too?”

His words were doubtful. He sounded like he wanted to, and just didn’t know how. “Hey.” I nudged his foot until he looked at me. “You were always great at football. But you were always great at everything.”

He cracked a smile. “You always believed in me too much.”

“You don’t believe in yourself enough.” I paused. “You know, when we first met, I thought you were going to be an astronaut.”

Surprise crossed his face. “You did not.”

I leaned back. “Did too. Thought you’d go to the moon. Bring me back a moonstone.”

He grinned at that, but then shook his head. “When would I even have time?”

“Off season,” I said promptly. “Abe, just—don’t do something just because you think you’re supposed to.”

He fiddled with his drink. “Maybe you’re right.”

“I’d help you figure it out, if you wanted.”

He nodded. For a moment he stared out at the gray clouds, and then he switched his gaze to me, bright and fierce and straight. “Look. What page are we on?”

“I don’t know. What book are we reading?”

“The Book of Abraham and Tamar.”

“Ah, that one.” I nodded several times. “I think I missed that day in Hebrew school. Caught the Abraham half. Douchy bit with the attempted filicide.”

His lips twitched, and he caught my hand, as though that would keep me still. It did impart some calm, actually. “Tamar.”

“Yes?”

“You realize we’re dating.”

I gnawed on my lip.

“You can’t eat your lip.”

“I can
try
.”

“This is a date. The club was a date.”

“Maybe we’re not dating. Maybe we’re just flirting. A lot.”

He shook his head. “Nope. We’re dating.”

I closed my eyes. “Well, see, Abe, that’s a problem.”

“Yes, you explained. Issues with history and all that. Luckily for you, I believe I can help you with those issues.”

I smiled but didn’t open my eyes. “No, but also... Tanya talked to me about you.”

He looked unimpressed. “Tanya Jones. Your boss. Why?”

“She figured out we knew each other.”

He could tell something was off, and it visibly displeased him, enough to sharpen his words. “I thought you guys were supposed to be reporters. Or does
Sports Today
not investigate?”

That pricked at my pride. “We do. I just... I’d kept it quiet.”

He cocked his head. “Why?”

I looked out the window. Rain had begun to fall, a steady drizzle without the oomph or excitement of a downpour, just relentless and unyielding. “I don’t know. I guess because I knew...I had an inkling, you know? That we can’t do anything. That it’s not professionally appropriate.”

His mouth turned down with displeasure. “The hell with that. We’ve known each other since long before anything professional came into this.”

“But it doesn’t change the fact that our jobs
do
put us at odds.”

“I don’t care.”

I couldn’t help smiling. “Because you were a Rookie-of-the-Year. Because you’re first string and a beloved player and known by—and making—millions. But I’m a newbie reporter that still needs to prove herself.”

He reached across the table and brushed a loose lock of my hair off my face. “And is that the real reason?”

Confusion curled in my belly, desire for his touch, for him, and uncertainty at how to proceed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean the real reason you’re so hesitant.” He shrugged. “There is a real reason, isn’t there?”

I licked my lips. “What if I’m right, and you’re wrong? What if we try a relationship or whatever, and it doesn’t work out, and it ruins our friendship? That seems like a very bad idea.”

“Hey.” He leaned forward, dark eyes glittering. “Let me tell you a secret.”

I mimicked his body and leaned forward, until we were only a breath apart. I could smell him, warm and spicy, and my entire body lit on fire. I couldn’t look away.

He pressed his lips to mine. They moved in a sensual, slow kiss, the kind that could topple empires—or at least people into bed.

I pulled back and scowled. “Foul play.”

He grinned. “You liked it.”

I shook my head. “I still think we should meet other people.”

His grin just widened. “Liar.”

“I am not!” He was infuriating. And kind of right. “You’re not a good emotional investment. And I’m not interested. So I’m meeting other guys.”

He arched a brow. “And how’s that going for you?”

“Great,” I shot back. “Considering my roommate’s having a dinner party and inviting all her single guy friends.”

He frowned. “You’re kidding. What, is she setting you up?”

I jutted out my chin. “She might.”

“When is it?”

“Tomorr—wait.”

He smiled slowly. “And what time?”

“No! Abe, that’s not the point. I shouldn’t...” I shouldn’t go down this road again.

But, oh, God, I wanted it more than anything.

I stared at him. Everything wobbled, and this great yearning pulled me toward him. We were inevitable, weren’t we? Why didn’t I just say yes and give in?

After all, how do you resist the only guy in the world you’ve ever really wanted?

I let out a deep breath and watched as Abe’s gaze dropped to my lips. My heart started up. “Fine. Eight o’clock. I’ll see you then.”

Chapter Fifteen

Everyone invited a handful of people. We capped at sixteen, figuring too many more would be unwieldy in our small apartment. Lucy wanted an ambitious menu while Jaz voted for just picking food up. In the end, we combined both styles: Jaz dug out a Crock-Pot I didn’t know we had and whipped up a batch of chili, and Lucy made quesadillas and salsa and fresh rolls. For dessert, we bought pints of designer ice cream and chopped up strawberries and chocolate. For appetizers, we arranged pretty bowls of peanuts and almonds around the room and cooked up a sheet of frozen spinach bites.

We weren’t entirely certain the living room would fit everyone. The table, which we usually had pushed against one wall, certainly wouldn’t, as it sat six at most. So we moved it to the kitchen, where it took up almost all of the available space, and arranged our smorgasbord of food atop it. We filled the living room with chairs and circled them all.

Three people would be stuck in folding chairs we borrowed from the landlord, but it was still a pretty good setup.

Lucy decked herself out in what she called her
Mad Men
audition clothes—a teal dress with a swooping neckline and a flared waist, with bangle-y earrings and high heels, which seemed slightly silly since we usually didn’t wear shoes inside. Sabeen straightened her hair, which made it impossibly long, and glossed her lips. Even Jaz managed to scrounge up some pants that weren’t for running.

I had a red dress that would have been perfect, but I couldn’t wear it after that first conversation with Abraham. Unless I wanted to send mixed signals, which I was trying really hard not to do.

It was just that my mind and heart weren’t even on the same wavelength.

A pair of Lucy’s friends arrived first, two whom I’d seen a couple of times in and out of the apartment. Next came Sabeen’s friends Nita and Alli, and Sabeen’s on-off hookup, Evan, along with two of his guy friends. Then Jaz’s friends from her grad program showed up.

I hadn’t invited anyone besides Shoshi, who couldn’t make it, and Abe. I’d love to have had my coworker friends over, but I didn’t see how I could invite just a few and not all of them.

Everyone brought alcohol—six-packs and Trader Joe wine. One guy, with a trimmed goatee and rectangle glasses and a vest, brought Jack Daniels.

Lucy invited two of her theater friends, and she ushered the taller of the two in my direction, unable to keep the yenta-like glint from her eyes. And she called herself an actress.

“This is Neil,” she said with no small relish. “Neil, my roommate, Tamar.”

“Hi.” I gave a wave that wanted to be a handshake when it grew up. “Thanks for coming.”

He grinned back. “Yeah, no problem.”

I suddenly had nothing left to say. I could interview strangers without difficulty, but give me a cute boy to impress and my words dried up. How was anyone ever clever on cue? I would be queen of witty repartee if I could have five minutes to think up a response.

But honestly, “no problem” didn’t give me much to work with.

“So you’re new here?”

Thank God. I latched on to it immediately. “Yeah! I just moved from California.”

With that, we fell into the easy small talk. He was pleasant, if a little bland, but I told myself I was being unfair. So I concentrated on his conversation, and participating, and laughing at his jokes and telling my own. I could do this. I could have a normal, adult relationship, like a normal, comfortable person.

Then Abe arrived.

When I opened the door, he grinned down at me with the full intensity of his personality, which made me feel enveloped in warmth. “Hey, you.”

He’d brought chocolate babka, which seemed like a brutally underhanded thing to do. I loved babka, the sweet strands of dough woven with dark chocolate and butter and cinnamon. It was a heavy, dense, decadent dessert when prepared correctly, and Abe had learned from the best—my dad.

I took it from Abe with a sense of wonder. “You made this?” With some sadness, I placed it on the table to be consumed by all.