Naomi and Ely's No Kiss List. Rachel Cohn

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СКАЧАТЬ what dating Naomi was starting to feel like.

      I called her and hung up when it answered without ringing, because what good would it be to leave a third voice mail message? What good is it ever to leave a third voice mail message?

      I was just standing there, trying to figure out how long I should wait. Then Ely’s door opened and he came out in his bare feet, carrying a garbage bag to the chute. He took one look at me, smiled, and said, “Let me guess.”

      We’d never really made it past comes with the territory territory. He wasn’t really into me, because he thought I was boring, and I wasn’t really into him, because he thought I was boring. But when Naomi wanted us to hang out together, we were fine. I got to be the innocent bystander. I wasn’t jealous of him – how could I be, when he was gay? No, I was jealous of them – the way it was like they had grown up watching all the same TV shows, only the TV show they always kept referring to was their own life together, and each episode was funnier than the last. Every now and then, Naomi (and even Ely) would make the effort to explain one of their references to me, but the act of explaining made it even more awkward, even more obvious. My only comfort was that eventually the night would end and Naomi would go home with me, not him. I knew Ely didn’t think I was worthy, but I had a feeling he’d never think anyone was worthy of Naomi. Just like she’d never be happy if he was with anyone else. In old-movie terms, you had to think of it like this: Fred Astaire had a wife who wasn’t Ginger Rogers, and Ginger Rogers had a husband (actually, a few of them, I think) who wasn’t Fred Astaire. But was there ever any doubt who their true dance partners were? I could be Naomi’s boyfriend, sure. I could be the one she slept with (or didn’t). But I was pretty certain I’d never be her dance partner.

      Ely asked me if I wanted to come inside, and I figured why not. I mean, I figured this would give me a reason to leave a third message, and would give Naomi a place to find me when she showed up. It was much better than waiting in the hallway.

      No one else was home. I was curious to meet his parents; Naomi had alluded to them enough for me to put the story together. I know it’s wrong, but I always pictured his mother, the one Naomi’s father had the affair with, to be attractive. It made more sense that way, at least to me. And Ely was attractive, too. It’s not like I didn’t know that, although I really didn’t think it meant anything to me. It wasn’t like I felt it, the way I felt it when there was a hot girl around. Like Naomi, who was not only hot but actually happened to like having thoughts. I’d found, in my very limited dating and only-slightly-less-limited friendship experience, that there were a lot of people who treated thoughts like they were a nuisance. They weren’t intrigued by them. They didn’t go out of their way to prolong them. But Naomi valued the fine art of thinking. The only hitch was that I didn’t know what she was thinking. I imagined Ely would have a better idea.

      We went into one of those rooms that’s lined floor-to-ceiling with bookcases, where the books have been sitting on the shelves together for so long that they look like they’ve merged into one multi-spined line.

      “Can I take your coat?” Ely asked. I handed it over and he threw it on a chair. Which should have been obnoxious, but the way he did it – like he was laughing at himself more than me – made it almost charming. I sat down on the couch and he hovered in front of me.

      “Can I offer you a drink?”

      It would make more sense, perhaps, if I’d decided yes. But I said no.

      He said, “Good. Brandy can get you in trouble, I hear.”

      “Who’s Brandy?” I asked.

      “My mother’s brandy,” he said.

      I was confused. “I didn’t think you had a mom named Brandy,” I said.

      Now he looked confused. “I don’t.”

      “But you just said she’s Brandy?”

      He laughed. “She’s more ginny than that.”

      “She goes by Ginny?”

      “You have to stop,” he said, really laughing. “You’re killing me.”

      I laughed now, too, still confused. “But who’s Brandy?” I asked.

      “I told you – MY MOTHER’S!”

      At this point, he was absolutely cracking up, and I found myself laughing right beside him. He was turning bright red, which made me laugh even harder. Anytime it started to subside, he would yell “WHO’S BRANDY?!?” and I would yell “YOUR MOTHER!” and we would break back down into eye-tearing, bladder-threatening snorts and whinnies. I was keeled over, wiping my eyes. He sat down on the couch next to me and laughed and laughed and laughed.

      You have to understand: I don’t laugh often. Not out of choice. I just don’t get the opportunity. So when I do, it’s a dam bursting. It’s something opening.

      “Knock knock!” I said.

      “Who’s there?” he asked.

      “Orange!” I said.

      “Orange who?” he asked.

      “ORANGE YOU GLAD TO SEE ME!” I screamed.

      It was the funniest thing either of us had ever heard.

      “What did the mayonnaise say to the refrigerator?” he yelled to me.

      “YOUR MOTHER!” I yelled back.

      “Close the door, I’m dressing!”

      We went on like this for at least twenty minutes. Every joke we’d ever heard in third grade was dredged up for a command performance. And if we met a pause, we just yelled “ORANGE!” or “YOUR MOTHER!” until the next joke came.

      Finally we needed to catch our breath. We were still on the couch. He was leaning into me. I looked at his bare feet and decided to take off my shoes. As I did, he said, “The other shoe drops.”

      And I said, “No – that was just the first.”

      He looked at me and it honestly felt like the first time he’d ever seen me.

      “I like you,” he said.

      “Try not to sound so surprised,” I found myself replying.

      He leaned his head so far back that he was looking at me upside down. I actually thought, He’s even attractive upside down. And I couldn’t even feel attractive right-side up.

      “It doesn’t matter if I’m surprised or not,” he told me. “It matters that I like you.”

      We heard the elevator stop outside. Gingerly, Ely jumped up and looked through the peephole of his front door. I took off my other shoe.

      “Just Mr. McAllister,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

      I understood the “Don’t worry.” Because I’ll admit: I didn’t want it to be Naomi in the elevator. I wanted to stay like this. I wasn’t just enjoying Ely’s company; I was enjoying my own as well.

      “Let’s listen СКАЧАТЬ