by Tash Skilton
At four forty-five, I bolt out of bed. I don’t have time for a run, but I take the world’s quickest shower, throw on a T-shirt and jeans, and slip out the door with my hair still wet. I’ve just put my key in to lock the door behind me when I hear my enigmatic neighbor yell, “I’m coming out!” Finally, this mystery will be solved! The doorknob turns. I face the other door, waiting with bated breath.
She’s not looking up when she emerges, and her blond-brown hair is covering most of her face, so my mouth is gaping before hers is.
“Aaaaaaaaaaah!” she screams when she finally realizes there’s a human body standing right in front of her. And then, when she realizes exactly whose human body it is: “How did you get into my building?” She’s literally clutching at her heart, and looking at me as if I’m some sort of stalker who might’ve followed her in here.
“It’s my building,” I say.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” she hisses and I don’t know why it bothers me so much that she seems totally offput by seeing me there.
But it triggers an unpleasant feeling in my gut, powering the force of words that come out of my mouth. “I can’t believe you’re the one yelling into the void every time you leave your apartment!”
“It’s not into the void,” she snaps. “It’s because this hallway is so damn small, my neighbor told me to do it as a courtesy so that we don’t bowl each other over. Courtesy . . . maybe you’ve heard of it.”
I snort. “I should’ve known. Who the hell else would actually be scared of coming out into a HALLWAY? Probably the same person who seems to cower at the thought of her own parents coming into town.”
The way Zoey glares at me, I think I may have finally stepped over the line. I’m about to open my mouth to apologize when she suddenly surges ahead, ramming into my shoulder, and zooming past me to go thundering down the stairs.
I know exactly where she’s going. And despite her head start, no way is she getting there first.
CHAPTER 18
ZOEY
My head swells with the theme song for The Amazing Race.
I knew a woman who worked in postproduction for that show. She said the camera guys had to run, too, to keep up with the contestants and get the shots they needed. It cracked me up envisioning entire entourages booking ass in crowded cities, frantically dodging all manner of obstacles at airports and train stations, burdened with heavy, expensive equipment.
Today I’m not laughing.
I’ve learned something about Miles today: He’s the type of person who turns things around on you, takes what you’ve told him and twists it to hurt and belittle you. In other words, the exact stereotype of a New Yorker. Why had I allowed myself to think he was better than that? Was it the HankyBook that tricked me? And if so, why? In retrospect, he probably wanted to infect me with whatever plague it’s carrying. I should’ve known better; the first time we interacted he showed me his true colors. Imagine if I’d really opened up to him! The very idea of it makes me shudder.
Footsteps thunder above me and I take the stairs two steps at a time, almost tripping and falling when my foot lands wrong. Just what my broken toe needs: a sprained ankle to go with it.
He sounds fast. Fuck. I haven’t smoked pot in weeks—shouldn’t that count for something? I don’t expect to sprint like a cheetah, but in comparison to the beginning of the year I’ve been a paragon of health. And wait a second, toking is supposed to expand your lung capacity—I swear I read that somewhere—so what’s the deal with the stitch in my side and my gasping, labored breaths right now? Should I remove my laptop and toss the bag at him to slow him down?
“Did you move here so you could win?” I shout upward. “That is full-on, Shake ’n Bake CRAZY.”
No response. I resist the urge to stop and look behind me. I take the corner at full speed, using my palms to ricochet off the wall. I make it to the ground floor, gasping, my chest heaving, only to see the elevator doors open and Miles dart out ahead of me.
Today of all days it decides to work? For him?
“Can we stop for a second?” I call after him, panting.
He’s already out of the building, and a vision of him soaking wet, wearing an Adidas tracksuit jacket the day we shared the big table, enters my brain. He’s a runner. Of course. This is probably a warm-up for him; he won’t even break a sweat.
Even if he weren’t so athletic, my inability to cross the intersection in anything resembling a timely manner will prevent me from winning, but I’m not about to make it easy for him. Winded and sore, I zigzag through pedestrians on the sidewalk, muttering angrily to myself. Acting—whaddaya know—like a New Yorker.
I don’t think I’ve moved this fast since I was nine years old, fleeing “the fuzz” in Manila with my parents after they released a bunch of weasels in a government building connected to President Estrada. It was widely known he’d benefited from a stock manipulation scheme. This act of rebellion was their “audition” to join an underground group, and they passed with flying colors. (Shortly after, Nana issued her ultimatum: This is no way for a child to live. Come with us to California, or let me have her.)
Speaking of California, if Miles and I were there now, I’d have creamed him in a drag race. He probably doesn’t even have a driver’s license.
As predicted, Miles beats me to the café, but to my confusion, he hasn’t yet gone inside. He lingers on the sidewalk, peering in.
“Is it closed?” I gasp as I near him.
“Worse.” He points.
I look through the window. The pregnant mom and toddler from a week ago are back. Correction: The no-longer-pregnant mom, toddler, and newborn, are back, settled in at our table. Er, my table. The table.
Suddenly the race seems winnable.
“I got this,” I say with a smirk. “We’re practically sorority sisters.”
“Yeah, no, she just arrived,” Miles says. “She’s not going anywhere.”
I frown. “Really? Won’t she have to breastfeed soon?” The newborn is wailing its wee head off. The window partially shields us from the sound, but by the looks of the other customers, it’s pretty bad.
“Sure, but she can do it right there,” he reminds me.
My phone shakes with a rapid-fire flurry of texts. Bree.
Tomorrow’s the big night! Pink or green?
Attached are two images of the different lingerie she’s choosing between. Shit!
I shouldn’t respond. It goes beyond my purview as a ghostwriter, and I don’t have time for this. But the idea of her and Jude bumping pretties jolts my nerves.
NOT YET, I text-scream. YOU’LL REGRET IT, TOO SOOOOON
“Are you having a seizure?” Miles asks, leaning over to see what’s got me texting so madly.
I shove my phone away and glare at him. “Did you seriously move to my apartment building so you could set up shop here every morning?”
He looks disgusted. “How was I supposed to know it was yours? The real question is, why have you only gotten the table sixty percent of the time when you live across the street? How did I get it any of the times?”
“Better question: Why can’t you just let me have it?” I shout.
“Why should I?”
“Because I can’t go anywhere else!” I grit out, shame and anger clenching my teeth together.
“Where were you going to meet up with your parents? Cheese?” he replies sarcastically.
“No, they already booked a place,” I reply testily. “In Midtown.”
Thinking of Cheese makes me think of Jude, who would NOT be shitty to me about my fears, which, by the way, do not include my parents. They’re a whole different subcategory of misery. (Jude, who’s about to get laid, unless I can convince Bree it’s not yet the right time.)
“Now if you’ll excuse me . . .” I nudge his shoulder with mine and enter the café.
* * *
Baby Mama clutches her grande latte with tense fingers. She looks like she’s entered a fugue stat
e; the baby’s shrieks haven’t abated but the mom’s vacant gaze seems to imply she’s on a different plane of existence.
“Tough day, huh?” I ask gently.
“I know nobody wants me here,” she says. “But where am I supposed to go?”
“I hear you. I get it,” I say emphatically, hoping she’ll infer that I have kids stashed somewhere, that I’ve been on the front lines too, and maybe mine are grown or at school or—has camp started yet?
“Do you want some help getting them packed up, or . . . ?” I prompt.
“My coffee’s gone cold,” she mutters, to no one in particular.
“Let me get them to reheat it for the road,” I suggest with a sympathetic nod, and reach my hand out for it.
Her response is to pull the mug closer to her chest as though I’m a threat.
I fold a napkin into a passable bunny and turn my back to them, letting the bunny peek out from over my shoulder. I loved origami as a kid and some of the shapes are imprinted in my brain. The baby goes silent with curiosity. The toddler, Nathan, squeals.
“That’s cute,” the mom says tonelessly. “How did you do that?”
I hand the bunny to Nathan—who promptly lets it unfold, perplexing the baby—and provide her with a tutorial.
After a few minutes of companionable conversation, I nod toward the kids. “They might prefer a jungle-gym type scenario.. . .”
The mom’s eyes flash. “What about what I’d prefer? Besides a time machine or a Swedish massage.”
“Not suggesting you leave now,” I backtrack quickly. “No, no, take your time, just eventually, after you’ve had a rest . . .”
“There is no rest,” she says. “There is no peace.”
“It’s just that some people are trying to work,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
Miles, standing by the sugar and cream area, drops the sugar. Eyes wide, his gaze darts between us. Even without his reaction, I know I’ve screwed up.
“I’m not a pariah. I’m allowed to be out in society!” she says. “And this is not an office!”
“Can I get an amen?” (Evelynn, loudly, by the iced tea dispenser.) “Can I get a hallelujah?”
The baby suddenly burps up whatever it most recently ingested, dousing its onesie.
I’m guilt-ridden, and head to the bathroom to find paper towels so I can help the mom for real, without ulterior motive.
When I return, though, she’s vanished, and Miles sits at the table. I want to scream. I seriously want to scream.
“Practically sorority sisters, huh?” he mimics me, deadpan. “So when are you guys going to be braiding each other’s hair?” He makes a big show of spreading out all his items, making it crystal clear I’m not invited.
Our truce, or whatever the hell was going on the day of the storm, is officially over.
Worse, I have no support for dinner tomorrow with my parents.
Unless . . .
I place the paper towels on the sugar and cream stand and slump over to the smallest table, where I promptly reopen the texts from Bree.
She’s responded to my crazed cock-blocking with the words, Why wait? Tomorrow’s the perfect night!
Because you’re coming to dinner with me and my parents. Their treat, I type back.
Her response is slow to arrive: Huh? That’s nice of you, but rain check. My plans are going forward.
My face feels warm. While I’m suffering through appetizers, she’ll be enjoying Jude’s company, and more. Inviting her to a family dinner was an immature, desperate move, but I wish it had worked. Barring that, I wish I could rewind the last twenty-four hours and get a do-over. A time machine, like the mom mentioned. At least before, Miles was going to accompany me via earpiece to the meal.
Now I don’t even have that.
CHAPTER 19
MILES
I get Leanne’s uncharacteristically Cliffordesque e-mail as I’m unlocking my mailbox and there, as if she summoned it, is a heavy cream envelope with calligraphy boasting my new address, the first piece of non-forwarded mail I’ve gotten here.
I tear it open while I’m waiting for the elevator.
It’s a thick piece of cardstock with a small, classy watercolor flower painted in the corner.
Save the Date for Dylan and Charles’s Wedding Brooklyn Botanic Garden
Well, it looks like I might get a chance to become the world’s least classy wedding guest—per my boss’s directive—sooner than I expected. The date I’m saving is apparently three months from now.
I stare at it incredulously. When Jordan and I were planning our wedding, it was absolutely impossible to find any venue in New York less than eighteen months out. Otherwise—and it pains me to think this now—we might have been married already.
Not to mention, I had actually priced out the Garden and, I mean, insert a cartoonish whistle here. Granted, Dylan and Charles are paying for it on two lawyers’ salaries and not those of a matchmaking copywriter and a holistic lifestyle coach. (And no, the irony of two people whose jobs were to make other people’s lives feel fulfilled, while their own were falling apart, doesn’t escape me.)
I’m too curious not to take out my phone and text Dylan right away.
Got your Save the Date. How did you manage to get a date so close?
He texts back almost right away. There was a cancellation!
I can practically hear his glee at whatever poor couple’s misfortune has led to a canceled wedding. Which is very unlike Dylan, but weddings do strange things to good people.
Can’t wait.
It’s a lie and it isn’t. I want to see my best friend marry the man of his dreams. But the thought of attending a wedding right now is still exhausting and I can’t see how that could really change in three months. I can’t even imagine having a plus-one to bring, unless . . .
My mind flashes to Bree for a moment. I picture her on my arm, beautiful and funny, making snarky references to the Undersea wedding scene while the string quartet starts up Pachelbel’s Canon.
But Bree most likely won’t even be in my life at that point. While, on the other hand, some people seem destined to haunt it for all eternity.
I’m at my own door now and glance over at the closed door down the hallway.
Maybe I should just ask Zoey to be my plus-one. The way things are going, she’ll probably already be there anyway as Charles’s maid of honor.
* * *
At five p.m. the next day, with the Bluetooth headset stowed away in my messenger bag, I knock on Zoey’s door. It takes her a minute to answer and, when she does, she looks surprised to see me.
“Yes?” she asks testily. She’s dressed up in a magenta dress with blue polka dots and navy heels. She has dark pink lipstick on to match and a pair of silver earrings shaped like wishbones in her ear. If I’d seen her passing me by on the street, I might not have recognized her except as another pretty girl in New York.
“Hi,” I say, momentarily forgetting why I came here and instead picturing Charles and Dylan’s Save the Date.
“Hi,” she responds flatly, her hand on one hip. I now realize the polka dots on her dress aren’t polka dots at all, but tiny little typewriters. Cute.
“Your dinner is still on tonight, right?” I say, indicating my bag. “I have my headset.”
“Oh,” she says looking taken aback. “I didn’t think you’d still do that after . . . everything.”
I frown. “Why not?”
“I just figured, after what happened yesterday, our truce was over. So why would you do anything nice for me?” She shrugs.
“Isn’t that all just a game?” I ask.
She looks hard at me for a moment. “Not for me. Not when you choose to throw the one tiny insecurity you know about me back in my face.”
I never did apologize for calling her out on being scared of her parents. “You’re right. I’m sorry about that comment. It was out of line.”
She shrugs. “Whatever.” And then she goes to close t
he door.
I put my hand out to stop it from clicking shut. “But I can still help you.”
“No, thanks,” she says. “I don’t need to give you any more ammo. And my parents . . .” She shudders.
“Come on, Zoey. I wouldn’t do that.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
I shake my head. “No. Promise. It caught me really off-guard that you’ve been my neighbor this whole time. But that was a really crappy thing to say. I’m sorry.”
She looks at me. “And I’m a shithead, Zoey,” she prompts.
“And I’m a shithead,” I concede.
“Whose wardrobe looks like it came straight out of the Smarmy Hipster catalog.”
I look down at my black T-shirt, eggplant blazer, seersucker shorts, and boat shoes before looking back up at her. “I am rocking this.”
I catch the hint of a smile on her lips. “If you say so. Vlad.” She takes her purse from the hook by her door. “I’m only doing this because I need some help navigating the subway. And you owe me for being such a jerk.”
“Fair enough. Where are we going?”
She checks her phone. “A Spanish place on Fifty-Fourth and Ninth.”
“An authentic one, I assume? Not one bought by someone who subscribes to the Smarmy Hipster catalog?”
She flashes me a real smile this time. “One would assume. Oh, and I have one request. No subway transfers.”
“Hmmmm, okay,” I say. “But it might be a bit of a trek cross-town to get to the right subway.” I eye her shoes.
“Fine by me.” And to prove her point she expertly walks away from me. I’ve watched her walk to the end of the hallway before I remember that I’m supposed to be going with her.
* * *
Zoey is quiet all the way to the subway and down the stairs. Her posture is stiff as we wait on the platform, her gaze focused on a distant point. I almost get the sense that she’s repeating a mantra in her head. I wonder if she has some form of agoraphobia.