Ghosting

by Tash Skilton

  “I think you’re right. No kale muffins, though.”

  “Pool our resources?” he suggests.

  Two starving artists empty every pocket, purse, and wallet, placing our wrinkled dollar bills and a handful of coins onto the table. Miles systematically organizes them and announces that between us, we’ve got $14.87.

  “There’s only one item on the menu we can afford,” I point out.

  “Black bean and quinoa bowl it is,” he says, snapping the menu shut.

  “I’ve never tried it.”

  “Me neither. It looks pretty good, though.”

  He orders it and returns the menu to the holder on the counter.

  More silence. I should ignore him and get back to work. But what he said a moment ago gnaws at me. My writer-brain is curious, eager to collect a story that might be useful for a character one day. The odds that he’ll tell me something juicy are slim, but it’s worth a shot.

  “You said it was one of the worst days of your life. Personally, or professionally?” I ask.

  “Both. Times ten.”

  Now I’m dying to know. I tilt my head in a manner that’s intended to convey openness and warmth. He takes the bait:

  “I’d just found out my fiancée was pregnant and I wasn’t the dad.”

  My mouth falls open.

  “Want to guess who the dad is?” he says, loudly.

  “I . . . I’m so sorry—”

  “Yoga Doug. YOGA DOUG. And who can afford therapy, right? I mean, I was actually considering starting an anonymous Twitter account so I could air out my grievances into the void. You know, for free.”

  I almost smile despite myself. “That sucks. Yoga Doug sounds like a Yoga Douche. Still doesn’t excuse your behavior toward a stranger, but I understand it better . . .”

  “What about your behavior?” he protests. “Demanding way more than your allotment of snacks? Ordering me around like you owned the place? What was that all about?”

  I was hangry and I hate it here would sound pathetic, especially in contrast to what he’d been dealing with that day, so I shrug, which is very mature of me.

  “Like I said, I’m in a better mood today,” I say. “As it turns out, some New Yorkers are extremely thoughtful. None of the ones at this table, mind you, but—a new friend, he, um, showed me around and gave me some advice on great restaurants. Really took the time to think about what I might like.”

  Minimal Bluff. But who cares, it’s not like I’ll ever be talking to Miles again. Barring another flash flood, perhaps, but even then, I’ll think twice.

  “A friend?” he repeats. “Or a ‘friend’ trying to take advantage of your naïve transplant status from Swamptown, USA?”

  What on earth is he babbling about? “Swamptown? Where is it you think I’m from?”

  And why has he formed an opinion about it either way?

  He leans back in his chair. “If I had to guess, I’d say Florida.”

  I gasp. “Get out.” I point to the door. “I rescind your invitation.”

  He stands, stunned. “What did I . . . ?”

  “Sit down.”

  He does, looking perplexed. “To be fair, your outfit’s a little—eccentric . . . to put it mildly . . .”

  “Who cares about my outfit! Do I look like someone who would tolerate hanging chads?”

  “That’s a little before our time.”

  “It’s still a topic of conversation among my friends.”

  “How old are your friends?”

  “Ancient. For the record, I’m from California,” I sniff proudly. “The Best Coast.”

  “That’s debatable. Aren’t you about two seconds from falling into the sea or getting blown up by nuclear weapons? In between throwing yourselves bloated award shows every weekend, that is.” He does an obnoxious little song-and-dance from his seat. “ ‘Hooray for Hollywood’ . . .”

  “You seem nice, Miles,” I snap. “This has been oodles of fun.”

  “What can I say? I’m in a good mood, too. Found myself a new apartment, in a sick location, for an even sicker price.”

  “That is good news,” I pipe up. “The other side of town, is it, near an entirely different café?”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t mind either way—considering my sixty-five-percent success rate”—I tap the tabletop lovingly—“but you’d be better off. I was only thinking of you.”

  Evelynn brings the black bean and quinoa bowl over. She stares at us for a moment, then says drily, “You guys finally figured out you could share the table, huh? What did it take, three weeks?”

  “Ask Zoey here. She keeps a record.”

  “We’re only sharing it for today,” I correct her. “Inclement weather and all.”

  Her expression doesn’t change. “Uh-huh.”

  She leaves, and Miles and I peer down at the bowl of food we’re apparently sharing.

  “Can we have a separate bowl?” I call to Evelynn’s back, which stiffens.

  We await her return in silence, but when she swings by our table again, she’s empty-handed. Wordless, she lifts the bowl up to reveal a plate underneath and pivots away again.

  “It’s smaller than I expected,” Miles remarks.

  “$14.87 doesn’t buy what it used to.”

  I scoop approximately half the quinoa onto the plate.

  “I know we discussed your greed earlier, but could you at least try to make it equal?” Miles asks.

  “What are you talking about, your portion is clearly larger,” I respond.

  There’s a gleam of humor in his eye. “Does Evelynn need to come back and intervene?”

  “That sounds like the title song in a musical. ‘Intervene, Evelynn!’ ” I sing, to the tune of “Hello, Dolly.” What is happening?! He just sang “Hooray for Hollywood” and now I’m channeling Broadway? Whatever, who cares.

  He shifts the bowl and the plate so they’re side by side and peers skeptically at them. I can’t stop an annoyed snort from escaping.

  “For fuck’s sake, pick one,” I gripe.

  He slides the plate closer to him and pushes the bowl at me.

  “Ladies first.”

  “What am I, your food taster? Seeing if it’s poisoned?”

  “You do seem violently determined to keep this table. I don’t know what lengths you’ll go to.”

  I place a forkful of black bean quinoa on my tongue. My eyes widen and I contort my face as I force the food down.

  He looks nervous. “Well?”

  “It’s . . . fine,” I choke out unconvincingly, reaching for my glass of water and taking a hearty swig.

  His nose wrinkles. “That bad, huh?”

  “No, nooo,” I hedge. “You’ll probably like it. Why don’t you take a nice, big, enormous bite and find out?”

  He looks mournfully down at his food. “Great.”

  He digs his fork in and scoops out the smallest possible portion, gingerly raising it to his mouth.

  A moment later, sounding surprised, he says, “It’s delicious. It’s really, really good.”

  I giggle, unable to pretend any longer. “I know.”

  “Why’d you try to trick me?” he sputters.

  “I thought if I made you think it was gross, you might set it aside and I could take it home later.”

  “You’re like . . . a con artist. Are you sure you’re not from Florida?”

  “Seriously, if you say that one more time . . .”

  He devours another couple of bites. “Just answer me this. What’s with your arm warmers? And your boots? Nothing about your ensemble makes sense. It’s like you’re dressed for two different countries, like your top half is at war with your bottom half.”

  I’m not sure I like the idea of him contemplating my top and bottom halves. Though God knows I’ve contemplated all of him from the moment he arrived in his clingy wet clothes. A blush threatens to overtake my face again.

  “On cool days, it’s nice to h
ave the arm warmers on outside, and on hot days, when they crank the a/c all the way up, it’s freezing inside and I can’t type if my wrists and fingers are cold. Either way, I need them.”

  “Also to hide your commuter tan?”

  I stare at him. “How do you know about my commuter tan?”

  Now I’m pretty sure he’s the one who’s blushing. He tries to play it off with a shrug. “You had the arm warmers off once. Your right arm looked pale compared to your left. I assume from wasting away your life inside a car all day.”

  He’s right, of course. Not about wasting away my life but about how the lopsided tan came about. My left arm out the driver’s-side window naturally got more sun while driving to work each day.

  “At least the sun shines where I come from,” I shoot back, nodding to the dire weather outside.

  Miles is clearly determined to get back to why he finds my sense of fashion perplexing as opposed to, say, why he’s been staring at me so keenly that he knows my tan lines. “And the boots?”

  I let him squirm a little before I answer. “My first week here, someone stepped on my foot and broke my toe. I can’t risk it happening again.”

  “Pro tip: Some women wear sneakers to commute and then put on high heels at the office.”

  “Are you honestly suggesting I change into high heels while I sit at a café?”

  “It’s basically your office, though, isn’t it?”

  “I haven’t gotten any work done since you sat down,” I point out.

  He mimes zipping his lip and throwing away the key.

  Twenty minutes later, as I sit staring at my blank screen, I have to admit it wasn’t his words that were preventing me from working; it was his presence.

  It’s hard to concentrate with him sitting here. He’s probably judging my every breath and movement, finding them lacking in some way.

  Florida, I scoff. How humiliating.

  The next time there’s a flash flood, I’ll splash home in my apparently ridiculous boots. There will be no repeat offer to share this table, I guarantee you.

  Right. Back to work. I’ve somehow made it to page three of my screenplay, but now I don’t like the setting. Or the characters. Or their dialogue.

  Why can’t the finished script magically appear on my screen so I can fix it instead of having to write it? Why can’t I skip ahead to that part?

  Reflexively shifting my laptop so Miles can’t see the screen, I check Bree’s account for any new messages.

  There is one unread one.

  GreatSc0t: It was my pleasure. If I may be so bold as to ask, what toppings did you get on your doughnut?

  I had thanked Jude for the walking tour, wanting him to know that I—I mean, Bree—was still interested. But I hadn’t mentioned meeting up again yet, knowing that a little suspense couldn’t hurt at this point since he was clearly so interested.

  Now seems as good a time as any.

  TheDuchessB: I could tell you, but maybe I’d rather just show you sometime. ;-)

  I’m thinking about what to follow that up with when I get a ping. He’s online.

  GreatSc0t: You name the time. I’m there.

  I have to double-check Bree’s schedule. Before I can write back, I get another message.

  GreatSc0t: Choose wisely re: the time. You may not have lived until you’ve had a butter pecan/rainbow sprinkle /Boston creme doughnut at 2 a.m. on a school night.

  TheDuchessB: Rebel.

  I’m grinning at my screen and I don’t even care that Miles might notice and make fun of me for it. But a quick glance his way reveals that he’s far too absorbed in his own work.

  TheDuchessB: I’ll get back to you with my sched soon.

  CHAPTER 13

  MILES

  65 percent of the time? Zoey has beaten me to the table 65 percent of the time? That’s ludicrous. I clearly need to up my game. Though it’s nice to know her name, finally. I mean, for psychological warfare purposes.

  The bad news is, I now live across the street from Café Crudité. Bad news for Zoey, obviously, because her stats are about to take a major nosedive. Miles-High Hair, is it? I’d like to see Zoey Scaredy-Toes beat my commute now.

  There’s only one word for my new apartment, by the way: spectacular.

  I got a response within an hour of submitting my essay with instructions to take my security deposit and first month’s rent to an old-fashioned smoke shop on Avenue B, where it took me a minute to find the small, old Polish man camouflaged amongst the large selection of bongs (beautiful glasswork, I noted) that were stacked on the front counter. He didn’t respond to my hello, just stuck his hand out for my envelope with the checks, looked them over briefly, and then handed me two keys in return.

  I admit I was slightly nervous about what I’d walk into when I put the key in the door. After all, I had done this whole thing sight unseen and the rent was ridiculously cheap. I was expecting some catch: maybe vermin, maybe dead body chalk lines—neither of which was a deal breaker, by the way.

  What I walked into was a revelation. A bright, airy, true one-bedroom. The kitchen and bathrooms both had some once-neon pink tiling that were somewhat eighties chic, but everything was functional. The living space was definitely big enough for a couch and a dining (or, let’s be real, pinball) table. Wall to wall, the bedroom could fit a full-size bed and a dresser. I was on the fourth floor and the building even had an actual elevator! It wasn’t working when I got in, but that was hardly the point.

  If there was a catch, I didn’t want to know what it was and, quite frankly, I’d probably be fine with it. As I’d established with Bree earlier, haunted apartments were all the rage anyway.

  What the what?! It’s a text from Aisha, but I don’t know what she’s freaking out about. I send her back a question mark.

  I take it you haven’t read Leanne’s e-mail yet . . .

  I saw it come in but since I’m about to run out of my apartment to grab my table, I haven’t opened it yet.

  But Aisha’s text piques my curiosity. I take out my phone as I walk to the front door. I’m just about to click on Leanne’s subject line when I hear a deep voice ring out in the hallway, “I’m coming out!” Ah, my mysterious neighbor. Not sure if they’re a big fan of Diana Ross, auditioning to be an off-brand Price Is Right announcer, or possibly making sure the building knows their sexual orientation at all times, but despite the fact that we’ve never met, I’ve heard that greeting every single day that I’ve lived here. You gotta love New York.

  I read Leanne’s message once.

  By the second time, I probably no longer need that cup of coffee. I’m up.

  I text Aisha back exclamation points.

  Leanne . . . and GILES . . . are . . . , I write.

  Boinking. Yes, it would appear so. Now everything makes SO MUCH SENSE.

  She’s right. Not just all of the little favors Giles has been doing for the company, but also how much more relaxed Leanne has seemed in the past month. I mean, writing an e-mail about her love story with Clifford?!

  I half expect to get an “unsend” e-mail—one of the most pointless functionalities in Outlook—or maybe even a follow-up message from her once she realizes her mistake. Then again, I also half expect her, in a typical baller Leanne move, to just let it stand, daring any of us to make mention of it.

  Either way, I don’t have too much time to ponder, because it’s five fifteen a.m., and I need to get over to the café.

  I hurry across the street, putting my hand out to warn a speeding taxi to let me by, and am just about to open the door when I sense movement by the picture window.

  Un. Fucking. Believable.

  The café has been open for all of fifteen minutes. How the hell did she beat me here? Is she sleeping in the back alley? Is she secretly Evelynn’s roommate?

  She smiles sweetly at me—dimples set to “maximum destruction”—when she sees me walk in, then makes a big show of opening her bag, uncapping her pen, and marking something on her craz
y chart.

  What a waste of a perfect smile. For a second, I wonder what I’d do if she were my client. She’s beautiful, obviously. She’s intelligent. But she’s also clearly unhinged. Could I copywrite that away?

  Probably, I think to myself with a smirk. I’m really good at my job.

  Scaredy-Toes Zoey rolls her eyes at me, almost as if she can hear my thoughts. I clear my throat, feeling uncomfortable at the idea, and vow to ignore her for the rest of my time here. I get my drink, find the table farthest away from the Table of Champions (damn it! . . . now she’s got me calling it something idiotic), and open up my laptop to get to work.

  TheDuchessB: Will you take “Random Questions” for 100?

  I smile at my screen. This will make it easier to swallow my defeat today.

  GreatSc0t: Always.

  TheDuchessB: What’s your most embarrassing misheard lyric?

  I think about it for a second, but the answer comes pretty quickly.

  GreatSc0t: You know that Blues Traveler song “RunAround”? It was on the radio a lot when I was a kid . . .

  Though, on second thought, was it? Jude is a few years younger than me . . .

  TheDuchessB: I know it.

  Oh, well. Luckily, she doesn’t seem to be doing the math.

  GreatSc0t: I always thought it said, “Use your violin to speed things up.” And I figured it was about a magical violin that could make things go in fast-forward.

  TheDuchessB: Wow . . . that might make it a better song, actually.

  GreatSc0t: I used to dream about owning said violin. Especially during naptime.

  TheDuchessB: Not a fan of taking a leisurely sojourn in the middle of your day?

  GreatSc0t: As a three-year-old boy? Er . . . no.

  TheDuchessB: And now?

  GreatSc0t: If I’m taking a midday sojourn . . . I prefer to have company. ;-)

  There’s a lag in her response. Maybe that came across as too sleazy. I quickly start typing up a damage control message, but I don’t get to send it.

  TheDuchessB: Sooooo . . . are you still down for meeting up?