He opened the door. She was carefully sliding her feet into ballet flats. “You don’t have to go.”
“I’m going,” she said.
“When are you coming back?”
“I have no idea.” And she left.
In the elevator, Lola checked her Facebook page. Sure enough, there was a message from Thayer Core. He left her messages regularly, although she rarely responded. From her Facebook page, he’d found out she was from Atlanta and, from the photos she’d posted, seemed to think she was a party girl. “Hey Southern Girl,” he’d written. “Let’s hook up.” “Why?” she’d texted back. “Because you’re crazy about me,” he wrote. “All girls are.”
“IDTS,” she responded. Which meant “I don’t think so.”
Now, however, might be a good time to take Thayer Core up on his offer. The best way to get back at a man was to make him jealous, although she wasn’t sure Thayer Core would make Philip squirm. Still, Thayer was young, he was hot, and he was better than nothing. “What are you doing?” she texted Thayer.
A reply came back immediately. “Torturing the rich.”
“Let’s hang,” she wrote. He texted back his address.
His apartment was on Avenue C and Thirteenth Street, in a low brick building with a dirty Chinese restaurant below. Lola rode a narrow elevator to the third floor. The hallway was tiled with large squares of brown linoleum. A door opened at one end of the short hallway, and a bristled man in a stained wifebeater stared at her briefly and went back inside.
Another door opened, and a pimply-faced kid stuck his head out. “You here to see Thayer?” he asked.
“Yes,” Lola said. “What was that about?” She indicated the occupant of the other apartment.
“Pay no attention. The guy’s a drug addict. Probably jonesing for his dealer to bring him a fix,” the kid said casually, as if thrilled to be in possession of such knowledge. “I’m Josh,” he said. “Thayer’s roommate.” The apartment was all that Lola had been expecting and worse. A board atop two plastic crates made a coffee table; in one corner was a futon with eggplant-colored sheets, barely visible under a pile of clothes. Pizza boxes, Chinese food containers, bags of Doritos, a bong, dirty glasses, and a bottle of vodka littered the counter that separated the tiny living room from the kitchen area. The place smelled of dirty socks, nighttime emissions, and marijuana.
“Are you Thayer’s new girlfriend?” Josh asked.
“Hardly.”
“Thayer’s juggling three or four girls right now. I can’t keep track of them, and neither can he.” Josh knocked at a flimsy wooden door in the middle of a makeshift plywood wall. “Thay?”
“What the fuck?” came a voice from inside.
“Thayer’s a serious writer,” Josh said. “He’s probably working.”
“I’m going to go,” Lola said.
Suddenly, the door opened and Thayer Core came out. He was taller than Lola remembered, at least six-two, and was wearing madras pants, flip-flops, and a ripped pink Lacoste shirt. Ironic preppy, Lola thought.
“Hey,” Thayer said.
“Hey,” Lola replied.
“I was telling Lola that you’re a writer. He’s a real writer,” Josh said, turning to Lola.
“Meaning?”
“I get paid to write shit,” Thayer said, and grinned.
“He’s published,” Josh said.
“You wrote a book?” Lola asked.
“Josh is an idiot.”
“He’s a writer for Snarker,” Josh said proudly.
“Give me your stuff, Josh,” Thayer said.