Chancers Read online

  While he was taking my picture, Graham had asked which authors I liked, saying he mostly picked up books his neighbors left outside for anyone to take—but there was usually a reason they were giving them away.

  “You didn’t have to get me anything,” Graham said. “I only asked because you’re a writer and I figured you’ve read things I haven’t. I could’ve gotten them myself—I was going to ask you to email me the names.”

  “I wanted to give you something, for taking my picture,” I said, suddenly self-conscious about the gift. Maybe it came across as a bit condescending, like I thought he should be more well-read.

  Graham was flipping through the books like a boy who didn’t expect a present at Christmas—the way he carefully turned the pages, his head bowed in concentration. I got the sense that he wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of anyone’s generosity, at least not lately.

  “Thank you,” he said, in a quieter voice than usual. “I’ve got something for you, too.”

  “You already gave me something,” I protested. “You took my picture!”

  But Graham was already clomping down the stairs, rummaging around one of the bedrooms on the floor below. I could hear him opening and closing drawers, a closet door banging shut, more footsteps—as if he’d descended one more level, to the basement. When he finally resurfaced, he was holding something up, triumphant about whatever he’d found.

  “Close your eyes,” he said.

  I did, playing along. After more rustling, and what sounded like paper being cut, he placed a small object in my hand, his fingertips brushing my palm.

  “You can open them now.”

  I was holding a blue plastic cone with a white rectangle connected to a key chain at one end. I had no idea what it was.

  “Look,” Graham said, grabbing it out of my hand. He held it up to my eye: It was a toy photo viewer, with my picture lit up inside.

  “I think I look better this way,” I said, genuinely touched by his gesture. “I like the tiny version of me.”

  “I prefer the big version of you,” Graham said, not missing a beat.

  There was something refreshing about how direct he was—I wondered if that was a Scottish trait, or if he just blurted out whatever popped into his head. But I still hadn’t made up my mind about how I felt about him, and I wasn’t going to decide that night: The transit workers were threatening to strike starting at midnight, so I wanted to get home while I could still catch a train.

  “I should probably get going,” I said. “It sounds like there really might be a strike.”

  “You could always get stuck in Brooklyn…Liam is staying at his mum’s house tonight.”

  “Except I’m flying to Michigan tomorrow morning, remember? I told you—I’m going to see my family for Christmas.”

  “Oh, right. I forgot about that.” Graham wasn’t any better than me at hiding his disappointment.

  Standing up to get my coat, I suddenly felt bad about leaving, insisting I’d be fine walking to the subway alone. The route to the quickest train meant passing by the housing projects Graham had warned me about. “Drug dealers hang out there,” he’d said. “Just watch your back.”

  I gave him a hug at the door and thanked him again for taking my photo. He thanked me for the books and gave me a polite peck on the cheek. When I turned around to wave from the sidewalk, he’d already gone back inside. For a moment, I regretted rejecting his offer to walk me to the train.

  The street was dark and the wind blew back the hood of my coat. Pulling it up over my head, I snapped the flap tight under my chin, checked my watch—10:20—and hustled toward the subway. Waiting on the platform, I took the photo viewer out of my pocket and looked at my picture again.

  I had plenty of reservations about getting involved with Graham—mostly, his two divorces and the prospect of dating a guy with a teenage son. I liked him, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to deal with all that baggage. He had talked a lot about his messy breakup with Liz, so I wasn’t sure he’d really put that behind him.

  But no one had ever pursued me as intensely as Graham did, through a flurry of emails and text messages he sent while I was away: updates about his bathroom renovation (“I bet you’ll want to submerge yourself in warm soapy water the minute you see it!”), synonyms for the word yuppie (despite his working-class upbringing, I told him owning a brownstone meant he had to embrace his bourgeois status), and many suggestions that we test my travel skills by jetting around the world (“We could take your book and see if it works!”).

  I was used to men who had their pick of available women, so Graham’s full-court press was definitely flattering. And there was certainly something appealing about his Scottish charm. Sending a few flirty messages of my own while I was away for Christmas—dropping hints that I hoped to see him again—I decided it couldn’t hurt to see where this went.

  When I got back to New York, I surprised Graham by showing up at his door.

  —

  IT WAS AFTER midnight on New Year’s Eve—really, New Year’s Day—by the time I stumbled over to Graham’s house. Fueled by champagne and the depressing moment when all the single people watch all the couples kiss, I had walked there after leaving a party at a friend’s house ten blocks away.

  His front door was open and I could see lights on inside, but I hesitated on the sidewalk across the street. I hadn’t told him exactly when I was flying back from Michigan, and now I was having second thoughts about my last-minute surprise. Why would anyone leave their front door wide open late at night, in January, with drunken revelers wandering around?

  There were shades covering the windows, but I thought I could see people inside—maybe the heat was cranking so they were letting in some cool air. Or I could just interpret it as a sign: The door is open, all you have to do is walk through.

  My New Year’s resolve was wavering and I was freezing. If I was going to do this, I had to make a move. Just then I saw Graham through the doorframe, at the far end of the room—I quickly ducked behind a tree. But I was facing a long subway ride to get home, with no chance of catching a cab. The thought of that journey, combined with the effect of too much champagne, propelled me across the street and up the stairs.

  Graham’s back was turned, so I made it through the door and across the room without him noticing my entrance. Standing behind him, I reached around and covered his eyes with my hands. The shock of my cold fingers may have startled him more than my presence, and as he spun around, I barely finished saying “Happy New Year” before he kissed me—this time leaving no doubt about his intentions. His enthusiastic reaction overcame any of mine.

  Later, I asked him why he’d left his door open.

  “I was waiting on first footers,” he said.

  “First footers?”

  “In Scotland, when people walk by and see your door open you welcome them in and ring in the New Year.”

  What he neglected to mention about this tradition was that ideally, the first person to enter your home after midnight on January 1 was supposed to be a tall, dark-haired man bearing gifts for good luck. Blonds, redheads, and women should be sent away, lest they bring misfortune to the household.

  Unaware of this superstition, I spent the night and most of the next day.

  In the haze of that alcohol-tinted first sleepover, I chose to overlook a few details that clashed with my idea of a grown-up life. There was no food in the refrigerator, Graham’s bedding looked like it had been discarded from a college dorm room, and the general housekeeping could be summed up with the word disarray.

  He apologized for the clutter in an email he sent just after I left, with the subject line www.you&me.com.

  You completely took me by surprise last night - smarty pants! I’m still thinking about it ’coz it was the last thing I expected and I got a bit embarased coz I’m Not really used to that sort of thoughtfulness these days. and sorry it was messy and I was a bit scatterbrained…It was a treat to wake up with you this morning.
/>
  G xxxxx

  I attributed the messiness to bachelorhood and the part-time presence of his teenage son. Any other reservations I pushed aside. I had just spent the past year holed up writing a book—I was ready for a break. Getting involved with Graham wasn’t a fling, but it was definitely some kind of escape.

  —

  AT FIRST, OURS was an obsessive, indulgent connection, which excluded the rest of the world. If I woke up craving a chocolate croissant, Graham would bike to every bakery in the neighborhood until he found one, returning with lukewarm cups of coffee and a bouquet of some budding vine, chosen because it didn’t look like flowers. He never wanted to be ordinary—which was a big part of his appeal.

  He had just renovated his bathroom and put in a claw-foot tub, which we christened with hot baths for two after scouring nearby stores for bubbles. He paid attention to details like candles and music and pieces of colored fabric thrown over a lampshade to create a mood. I made sure we had clean towels.

  But I had my spontaneous moments. One night, late, it snowed. We had just taken a bath and were in the kitchen making tea, naked except for our towels. There was enough snow on the back deck to make snow angels, I pointed out. He dared me, so I stepped into the frigid air, stretched out in the fresh powder, and spread my arms and legs wide to create wings and a skirt.

  The snow was still falling, swirling through the light shining on the deck and melting on my skin, now barely covered. Laughing, tingling, alive, I got up and dashed inside. Graham was standing by the stove, warming his towel over the flame. When he turned toward me holding the corners wide to wrap me up, he didn’t realize it had caught fire—until I shrieked and threw it outside.

  I was caught up in his intensity, but I hadn’t completely abandoned myself.

  “Tell me you love me,” he said, lying on top of me but not looking at me, his breath warming the place where my neck sloped into my shoulder. I kissed him instead; it was too soon for those words. Too soon for me, at least—we’d only been dating a couple of weeks. Graham had no reservations about how he felt.

  When I was at my apartment, he would email me photos of himself, self-portraits that were childishly sentimental yet professionally composed. In one he was holding a heart over his chest that he’d cut out of construction paper. In another, he’d written our initials in black marker on his arm. At my desk one morning, I clicked to play a song he’d sent just after I left Brooklyn: “Nobody Does It Better,” the Radiohead version. My whole body flushed, still lit up from the previous night.

  “Couch? Floor? Bed?” Graham would whisper in my ear, kissing me at the door when I arrived at his house. It became a routine, each of us adding increasingly uncomfortable options to the list.

  “Table?”

  “Stairway?”

  “Desk?”

  “Sink?”

  Our clothes were usually off before either of us said much else.

  Music became a way Graham communicated whatever he was feeling, making me CDs labeled with themes for all the songs he chose. “S Is for Suzie,” featuring twenty-six songs with my name in the title, or a mix called “Scottish Minute,” a reference to Graham’s tendency to show up late when we had plans—with songs like “Wait a Minute” by Ray J and Lil’ Kim.

  I wasn’t sure if Graham was more interested in expanding my musical tastes—as a teenager, he took the overnight bus to London to see punk bands; my first concert was Air Supply—or if he wanted me to glean some deeper meaning from each collection he made. One CD was an eclectic mash-up of artists: Nouvelle Vague singing “This Is Not a Love Song” by Public Image, followed by Johnny Cash covering U2’s “One.”

  I expressed my affection by cooking for Graham—lasagna, risotto, cookies, and pies—and by commuting back and forth to Brooklyn, more than an hour each way. I preferred staying at Graham’s house, and so did he, but I worked better at mine. My book was coming out soon and I was busy dealing with the galleys, so it’s fair to say that Graham was a welcome distraction at a stressful time.

  He tried to be sensitive to the boundaries I set up, determined to keep one foot firmly planted in my other world of deadlines and responsibilities and bills. But each message he sent chipped away at my walls. “Let me know if you’re tied up with work and stuff later or if you want me to kiss you,” he wrote.

  “Both,” I wanted to reply. I liked all the attention, but I wished Graham would slow down. A long email, titled “this n that,” summed up how he was feeling about our future together—just a few weeks after I showed up at his door.

  He wrote it late one night at his computer upstairs, printing out a copy and slipping it under my pillow when he finally came to bed. I was already asleep, barely registering his body nestling up against mine, so I read it when I woke up the next day. The time stamp on the email version was 4:46 A.M.

  okay, don’t know what to say so straight up……i wasn’t really expecting this. yes i definately led you on, flirted, peppered phone calls and conversations with wee inuendos. basically i got a real crush on you and i liked it. i love your company, your humor, the way you talk to me……almost everything but now i’m getting scared ’coz i don’t know what you want……I know you plan on travelling after being tied down with the book for so long - that’s great you deserve it. i just don’t wanna fall in love (’coz it’ll happen) then watch you head off - but more so i don’t want to make you sacrifice anything that you’ve been thinking of doing. i don’t really know what your thinking so i’m throwing my cards on the table - early on. of course I want to be with you i feel fucking great with you - it feels like we’ve been together ages……actually i’m at the point of almost deleting this and coming to bed but i won’t ’coz it’s important-ish. i could really simplify this.

  susan calls graham for pic

  graham obliges and flirts with susan

  susan falls for graham

  graham’s already fallen for susan

  susan is on graham’s mind

  graham is a bit confused about relationship when

  he should really just relax and see what happens.

  susan needs to tell graham this in a nice but

  assertive way (if she wants).

  i think you’ll know what i mean. I don’t want someone so good coming into my life only to leave again. unless i can work on taking it as it comes - and not to give or expect too much too soon. i’ve had a long time off and got comfortable in that space but now i realize how much better it can be.

  and don’t think i’m expecting a vow of commitment or anything like that. i’m just trying vainly to let out what’s on my mind in a more coherent manner than if I blurted it out…..i’m sure you’ve pretty much guessed all this so you can throw it back at me or give me some constructive critisism whatever you fancy - i can take it.

  love,

  graham

  He’d added handwritten notes to the copy he printed out, and some of the words were highlighted with little question marks—where his email program’s spell checker had suggested replacements. It made Graham’s letter seem even more vulnerable and earnest.

  Still, I was touched by everything he wrote. Despite his tattooed arms and rough Scottish accent, Graham had a schoolgirl’s sensitivity—all these feelings swirling around, sometimes spilling over or misunderstood. I was attracted to that passion, but wondered if I could navigate such intense emotions over the long haul. My temperament was much more even-keeled.

  “Thank you,” I told him, after reading the printout he’d given me. We were still in bed, Graham pressed tight against me.

  “Sorry for the weird formatting,” he said. “And all the typos—I’m not a good speller. I know I’m probably saying too much and you’re gonna tell me it’s too soon….”

  I kissed him to stop him from talking—a rare time when that actually worked.

  “You don’t have to apologize,” I said. “It’s a beautiful note. But I wish you wouldn’t worry about me selling my apartment and movin
g. First of all, I’m not as impulsive as you, so if I ever do anything like that you’ll have plenty of notice.”

  That made Graham smile. He had called me the least impulsive person he’d ever met, which annoyed me at first, but I knew it was probably true.

  “And when I said I wanted to travel—of course I’d rather be traveling than stuck at home in front of a computer. But I’ve got a book coming out so it’s not like I’m going to take off anytime soon.”

  “We should go somewhere,” Graham said, seizing the opportunity to press his case for a vacation—or a holiday, as he called it. “I keep telling you, I’ve got all these miles on United—we could fly business class. We’ll pick somewhere warm, lie on the beach, get a tan. Maybe find you a red bikini.”

  “Business class?” I joked. “You really are a yuppie. I might have to find someone to travel with who’s a little more down-to-earth.”

  After years of interviewing people, I was good at redirecting conversations, so I was relieved when Graham didn’t press me to respond to his note right away. Because as much as I appreciated all the heartfelt things he wrote, I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the cards he was throwing on the table. Even though he’d quit drinking, I still wasn’t sure what had led him into rehab—or whether that problem was likely to rear its head again. So I felt like I needed to communicate that, gently, when I replied to his message later that night.

  Back at my apartment, I probably spent as much time as he did carefully crafting my email, beginning with a reference to the song “Collide,” by Howie Day.

  Don’t dis my not-so-edgy musical tastes, and don’t take the lyrics too literally, but the idea of two people colliding is sort of how I feel about all this. I didn’t really see it coming either, but I guess there was a moment when I felt like I’d regret it more if I didn’t take that leap and see what happened, even though I knew it wasn’t going to be uncomplicated, and that your world is much more chaotic than mine.