Emma Straub - Modern Lovers

The burger place was getting rowdy. On their walk back to the train, Harry and Ruby stood outside for a few minutes and watched people dance and chug beers.

“I feel like I’m watching a movie,” Harry said. “About people who kill a hobo while they’re drunk-driving.”

“Yeah, and this is part of the montage that we keep seeing in flashback,” Ruby said. “Totally.”

Harry let Ruby carry the smaller tote bag, which was less heavy now that there were no drinks and snacks in it, and he had lost a few of the beach toys, which he was fine with. They were more of a joke anyway, even though he really had liked watching Ruby build a sand castle. It was the kind of thing he wouldn’t have done for fear of looking too babyish, but Ruby obviously never worried about that. They got on the train and sat in a two-seater facing the direction they were going, with Harry against the window and Ruby on the aisle. As soon as they sat down, she let her head drop against his shoulder and put her arm around his waist.

“I had a good time,” Ruby said. “Almost good enough to stop being mad at you for ditching our stupid SAT class this morning.”

“Me, too,” Harry said. He sat as upright as possible and tried not to move, just in case Ruby took his fidgeting as a sign that he didn’t want her there. At the next stop, someone started to sit in the seat next to them, which would’ve crushed Ruby’s knees and made her have to shift positions, so Harry gave the best death stare of his entire life, and the guy moved away.

“I feel like we must smell bad,” Ruby said. “No one wants to sit near us.”

“You do smell bad,” Harry said, softly, into her ear. “You smell like toasted garbage.” He paused, afraid he was taking the joke too far. Everything still seemed precarious, as if Ruby might just sit up and look at him and see the truth, that he was still Harry, just Harry, no one she wanted to cuddle with on the subway.

But Ruby said, “Mmmm,” and snuggled closer. “My favorite kind.” She was asleep in a few minutes and slept all the way until they had to change trains to get the Q home. When they finally got off at the Cortelyou stop, Harry was nervous. Ruby seemed rested and happy after her siesta, and the bridge of her nose was a bit burned, despite Harry’s artistic efforts with the sunscreen. She bounded up the stairs and started walking toward Argyle. Harry stopped.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was quiet — his mother’s office was a few doors away, and he didn’t want to cross in front of it, just in case she happened to be sitting at her desk.

“What?” Ruby said.

“This way,” Harry said, using his head to point behind them.

“Okaaaaay,” she said. “You do know that our houses are both the other direction, right? Did you have some kind of brain injury while I wasn’t paying attention?”

“Just trust me,” he said, and started walking.

Convincing someone to buy him champagne was easy — part B of the plan had been much, much trickier. Elizabeth kept the keys to all her properties at the office, except on weekends when she was having a few open houses — then they lived in a zippered pouch that hung from a hook above her desk. The summer was always busy, and she was running from one place to another every day — right now there were a few houses a bit farther south, closer to Brooklyn College, and one on East Sixteenth Street, a really big house that backed up onto the train tracks. She was showing the two houses on Sunday, and had shown the subway one that afternoon. Harry knew it was a risk to take the key, but he had, and the hardware store made him a copy in five minutes. The house’s owners had moved to Florida. It was just sitting there, with their enormous old-people furniture, all dark, heavy wood and formal dining chairs. One of the smaller bedrooms had had a doll collection, which Elizabeth had shoved into a box and hidden in the basement. The subway running through the yard was enough of a handicap — they didn’t need to give people nightmares, too.

The porch was dark, and Ruby hesitated before following Harry up the stairs.

“Whose house is this?” She was whispering.

“Ours,” Harry said. He knew there wasn’t an alarm, even though there were stickers on the windows and a sign in the lawn saying that there was. According to his mother, that was true for 70 percent of the houses in their neighborhood. Ruby hurried up behind him.

“Are you serious?” she asked, but Harry had already opened the door. He pulled her in and shut the door behind them. “Whose house is this?” she asked again. “You’re fucking crazy!” It was crazy, a little, and he knew that they could get into massive amounts of trouble, and his mom, too.

“I told you. It’s ours.” Harry wasn’t sure if he could pull off mysterious, but he was having fun trying. Ruby was an inch taller than he was, maybe more. She sucked in her lower lip and looked around. “Come here,” Harry said.

“Where?” Ruby asked. She peeked around the corner, into a dark kitchen.

“Here,” Harry said. He took a step forward, closing the gap between them, and kissed her. Ruby was good at it, of course. They stopped and started and stopped and started and stared at each other. Her mouth opened and closed, and she flicked her tongue against his, and Harry let out a moan that sounded like Chewbacca, and he didn’t care. A SWAT team with machine guns could have broken down the door and taken him to a federal prison and he wouldn’t have cared — it was a hundred percent worth it. Ruby pulled away, took his hand, and started walking farther into the dark house.

“Let’s go explore,” she said. All day long, Harry had been trying to convince his penis to stay down, to be quiet, but now it was a lost cause. His erection pressed against his jeans, and when Ruby’s wrist accidentally brushed past it, she said, “Oh, hello there,” which made it even bigger. If this was what came from a life of crime, Harry was ready to sign up.

The house on East Nineteenth Street was going to sell fast — there were three bids after the open house, and now it was a matter of who was willing to pay. Elizabeth loved the rush of multiple bids — they were all under ask, but once buyers knew there was competition, they’d come up, and pretty soon, they’d be sailing over the $2 million mark. The sellers were going to be thrilled. Their condo in Boca had probably cost under a million. This was the kind of money that paid for grandchildren’s college educations. It wasn’t all greed. She leafed through the offers on her desk at work. Deirdre looked over Elizabeth’s shoulder.

“Not bad,” she said. Deirdre had chopped off her hair, so that people would confuse her with Halle Berry, she said. Deirdre was a gorgeous size fourteen, and Elizabeth thought she actually did look like a movie star. She always wore tight sweaters the colors of emeralds and rubies. The O’Connells were dazzled by Deirdre, and Elizabeth didn’t blame them. Mary Ann and her kids were pasty, with freckles all over, even on their arms and legs. Every one of them always looked like they had a very mild case of the chicken pox.

“It’s great!” Elizabeth said, holding up one of the offer sheets. “I really like this couple. Young, friendly. Totally book-club potential.”

“Do your clients know that you’re just scouting for your personal friends?” Deirdre raised an eyebrow and then laughed. “It only works if your friends have big checkbooks! I’d sell a house to an asshole if the check wouldn’t bounce. I like ’em rich and heartless.”

“You do not,” Elizabeth said. Before Deirdre could respond, Elizabeth’s phone rang.

“Holding for Naomi Vandenhoovel,” someone said.