Room for Love by Andrea Meyer Read Free Book Online

barrette, add red, red lipstick and a spritz of perfume, throw on a puffy red jacket that matches my lips, and waltz out the door. Luckily, my friends are gathering right around the corner at my favorite bar on Avenue C, which boasts forty-two different kinds of beer and a mojito famous for making patrons do things they wish they hadn’t.
    On the way down the stairs, Courtney says, “So, Jake’s coming, finally?”
    â€œYeah, kind of late, though. He has his meeting with that gallery guy.”
    â€œYou know, Jacquie, it wouldn’t kill you to go out on a date with someone else from time to time.”
    We walk outside into the frosty night. The multigenerational posse of men who spend their lives hanging out in front of the garage next door to my building are sitting in a row of lawn chairs, bundled in matching Windbreakers. They stop chattering in Spanish and nod in silent recognition as we pass. I nod back. Beyond them, at the end of the block, J ESUS S AVES burns red and periwinkle neon against the black sky. Dry leaves rustle on the cold pavement, as the wind whips them into the air, and swirl wildly above all our heads. We all stare upward.
    â€œCourtney,” I say, snapping out of it, “whatever you might think of Jake, I am seeing someone right now and I’m not just going to start going out with other people. I’m going to let it play out and then we’ll see. I might be a slut, but I’m pathologically faithful.”
    She walks silently beside me. I can feel her frown without even looking at her. We both watch a woman with fluorescent pink hair in a leopard skin coat and combat boots pushing a stroller, until my gaze is drawn to a yellow Lab wearing tiny red booties on his paws who’s tied up to a parking meter outside a deli. “Hey, baby, nice footwear,” I say, reaching out my hand to pet him. He gives me his paw to shake instead, then licks my palm passionately.
    â€œPlus, I don’t date,” I tell Courtney.
    â€œYou’re always saying that, but it’s not really true, is it? You and Jake go on dates.”
    â€œThat’s not dating. That’s getting food with someone I’m having sex with. I do that, I mean, I have to eat.”
    As Courtney shakes her head, I say, “I just don’t go out with guys I don’t know. I meet someone and either we have sex and fall instantly into a relationship—fling, affair, whatever—or we don’t. I mean, you want to sleep with someone or you don’t, so why force yourself to make dinner-table conversation with a guy if you don’t feel an immediate, barely controllable urge to jump on him?”
    â€œWell, apparently that routine doesn’t work very well,” Courtney says. “You end up with these men who don’t treat you well and wasting time that could be spent meeting someone great.”
    I stop in my tracks right in front of the bar and turn to face her. “Look, Court, I know what I do. I’ve been doing it since I was, like, fifteen. I just don’t know how to stop.” Mid-rant, I wave and make kissy lips at a passing poodle in a shearling coat, then continue, “You know, sometimes I actually pray that I’ll meet someone and let myself slowly get to know him and it will slowly dawn on me that this sweet, attentive, generous, intelligent, openhearted person is actually The Guy, because he is so damn wonderful and sweet and the rest of it, and then we’ll live happily ever.” I’m well aware that I’m raising my voice now, but I don’t care and the whistling wind seems to be whipping up my volume.
    â€œBut the thing is, Court, after I’m done praying, I usually do something like tequila shots and hook up with some cute blond boy and run around grinning for weeks or months or whatever until he commits some unforgivable crime that makes me realize he’s a dick, but by then I’m already hooked,