Ghosting

by Tash Skilton

  “Didn’t anyone explain the building rules to you? You gotta announce your presence every time you step out into the hall-way.”

  “Er . . .” I’m getting flashbacks to hearing Zoey-before-I-knew-she-was-Zoey yelling “I’m coming out!” on a daily basis. “Right,” I say. “Sorry again.”

  “Don’t sweat it, kid,” she says. “You’re When Harry Met Sally, right?”

  “Um. Miles,” I say. I know Mary Clarkson has famously been an advocate for legalization. Maybe she’s stoned.

  “No, I mean your essay.”

  It takes me a second to remember the weird essay I had to write to get this apartment. My eyes widen. “Wait . . . that went to you?”

  “Always invest in real estate. That’s my best piece of advice.” She thinks for a second. “Also, third act problems are almost always first act symptoms. But that may not pertain to you.” She gives me a firm tap on the shoulder. “Hmmmm. Muscly. Good writer. Handsome. You might do very nicely for her.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I think I really ought to Google her and make sure she hasn’t recently been accused of erratic behavior. Mary Clarkson is a national treasure and we are all responsible for making sure nothing terrible happens to her.

  “Her, uh, who . . . ?”

  She nods her head in the direction of Zoey’s door. “Don’t be a star-bellied sneetch. Invite her to a frankfurter roast.”

  “A star-bellied—?”

  “Seuss, PhD, the early years, originally printed in Redbook magazine, though I assume you’re more familiar with the collection it appears in, the aptly named Sneetches and Other Stories?”

  I have a vague memory of some cautionary tale about snobbery on a beach or something, but I don’t have the guts to ask whether a “frankfurter roast” is metaphorical. Before I can form any other words, she saunters away, tossing a “See you around, kid,” behind her back.

  “Bye,” I say in a daze.

  Mary. Freaking. Clarkson.

  I take a second to collect myself before I practically skip out the door and across the street to Café Crudité, visions of mermaid costumes dancing in my head. As soon as I’m close enough to see past the glare, I spot the telltale arm warmers through the big picture window and grin. Even the bell that goes off when I open the café door seems to sound extra jaunty as I walk over and plant myself in front of Zoey. She seems to be absorbed in her work so it takes her a second to notice me.

  When she finally looks up, I say, “You actually know her.”

  “Um, hi,” she says. “And what? Who?”

  “Mary Clarkson!” I say. “I saw her come out of your apartment. You weren’t kidding about knowing her.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Why would you think that I was?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “She’s just . . . Mary Clarkson.” I flail my arms as an ineffective way to give those words their due significance. “And I thought maybe it was just part of our banter or something.”

  “Banter. Right,” she says humorlessly. “Well, despite how lame you think I am or whatever, yes, I actually do know her. Because I actually did have a life and a meaningful job and connections before I came to this godforsaken town.” She looks back at her laptop and stabs a couple of keys.

  “Come on, Zoey. New York isn’t all bad, is it?”

  “I’ve yet to be convinced otherwise,” she mutters.

  “I mean, look, it can be tough. But it can also be wonderful. In New York City, every neighborhood, every single one, has its own vibe, something about it that’s unlike any other neighborhood.”

  She gives me a strange look. “Is that line from a brochure or something?”

  “It’s from life, Zoey. I mean . . . have you ever even been to the High Line?”

  “Believe it or not, I have,” she says.

  “On a spring day? Near sunset? With New York City itself glittering beneath your feet? And autumn in New York! You haven’t even ever experienced it. Sure, it only lasts like eight days, and is also the title of a subpar Winona Ryder/Richard Gere flick, but it’s going to be the most glorious eight days EVER. The leaves in Central Park turn actual colors! The air is genuinely crisp! The light is golden!”

  Zoey gives a slight laugh. “You really, really love it here, don’t you?”

  “What’s not to love?” I grin at her. Maybe it’s my celebrity sighting euphoria, but for just this one moment, I’d do anything for her to feel a little of the wonder I feel for this magical city that can break you, and jostle you, and ice you out—both literally and figuratively—and yet, keep you deeply and eternally under its spell. And that’s when I realize that maybe I’ve never completely been brokenhearted, cynic Miles, because this city is the one thing that I’ll be in love with forever.

  “There’s plenty not to love,” she says, and rolls her eyes, though she seems to mean it a tiny bit less. “And I think you’re just being nice to me because you found out I know a celebrity. And not just any celebrity, but your teenage crush.”

  “No way.”

  “Really?” she says. “You and your hand never spent some time getting to know each other beneath a poster of Duchess Quinnley?”

  “I . . . didn’t say that.”

  She laughs.

  “My point is . . . that’s not why I’m being nice to you,” I try to recover.

  She gets another gleam in her eye. “Oh? Was it the kiss? Have I replaced your Mary fantasy? I’m hot stuff, right?” She waggles her eyebrows.

  I want to have a witty comeback. Instead, I think I might actually be blushing, though—luckily—my darker complexion tends to hide it pretty well.

  And then, thankfully, I’m saved by a buzz. I look at my phone. It’s Jude.

  “I have to take this,” I say.

  “By all means,” she responds, and then goes back to her laptop, as if this whole exchange has been nothing but . . . banter. My own word comes back to haunt me as I fling the door open and take Jude’s call outside, away from prying ears.

  “Hi, Jude,” I say, trying to sound like a professional and not a thirty-one-year-old man who has just been flustered by a little innuendo from a girl.

  “Hey, man. How are you?”

  “Good. How’s it going?”

  “Great.” He laughs on the other end. “Actually, that’s why I’m calling. It’s about Bree.”

  “Oh?” Through the café’s picture window, I can see Zoey slam her laptop shut. She starts to gather up her belongings.

  “Yeah, I think we’re going to take this thing completely offline.”

  Bree. I feel the slightest pang at her name but then again, it could be the warm exhaust that a passing city bus just blew my way. “You’re saying you want to close your account?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  “Okay then, it’ll be down by end of business today. And hey, I’m happy for you, Jude. That’s great.”

  “It is. She is. I’m really happy. And I want to thank you.”

  “No problem. It’s my job,” I say, as the bell jangles next to me and Zoey walks out. She nods briefly when she looks my way, but then crosses the street without a glance back.

  I feel compelled to follow her. Unfortunately for me, Jude feels compelled to wax poetic about how much he thinks I may have changed his life.

  “I really think she might be the one,” he says. “I mean, the other night we took it to another level, if you know what I mean. And, by God, that girl has got everything. Absolutely everything.”

  “Right,” I say, as I watch Zoey hail a cab, get in it, and leave.

  “Turns out she’s into costumes in the bedroom too,” Jude says and it sounds like he’s actually physically settling in somewhere to give me the full details.

  I walk myself back into the café and take my own seat at the now empty big table. I guess I may as well make myself comfortable too.

  CHAPTER 26

  ZOEY

  I’m weirded out that Miles ran into Mary. It was only a matter
of time, I guess, what with her letting herself in and out of the apartment, but I can’t help feeling that two worlds have collided and I’ve lost something in the process. Worse, he’s being suspiciously nice to me now.

  Our discussion of the High Line and its mutually agreed-upon splendor had me itching to experience it again, so I bailed from Crudité pretty quickly to do just that. I need some air, and it’s become my go-to place for gathering my thoughts.

  I stroll at a brisk pace (am I going native?), lumbering in my combat boots and muttering to myself (definitely native) until I make a conscious effort to slow down and take in my surroundings. Instantly, Jude’s voice fills my head—I have his tour memorized at this point—calming me down and helping me analyze recent events more clearly. And there’s that line about each neighborhood in New York having its own vibe. It must be from a tourism campaign or something. Why else would Miles have said it the exact same way?

  An hour later I return to my apartment, shower, and change clothes, my thoughts still circling back to Jude. Besides the chats that I never should have saved, his walking tour is all I’ve got left of him. I scroll through my phone, wondering if there’s any way to justify one last contact with him.

  Guiltily, I flick through Instagram. I never outright followed Bree on IG, but I know her handle (“Breeast94” for “Bree Beast,” but of course it looks like a misspelling of “Breast” because that’s my ex-client for you!) so it’s easy to locate her feed. As if I needed any more reminders that she’s in lurve, her most recent post is of her and Jude, time-stamped last night, snuggling on her couch. She’s holding up the latest re-release of Undersea, the one she waited in line for all night, with the apparently riveting, never-before-seen, extra footage.

  Her caption is strange to say the least: “can u fathom he hasn’t seen undersea since childhood?! wuuut! someone needs a spanking! #rightingsomewrongs #datenight”

  Great, now I’m picturing her spanking him with the Blu-ray case.

  But hold up. He hasn’t seen the film since childhood? What in the name of Quinnley’s hairdo is she talking about? Jude was extremely adept at discussing the movie. I was the one who flailed for dear life whenever the topic came up. Thinking back, though, the way Bree described her IRL interactions with Jude, he almost seemed like a different person from the one I “knew.”

  Though I guess if you met me and then met Bree, you’d realize pretty damn quick that we’re not exactly twins, so . . .

  Wait. A. Mother-Loving. Minute.

  My fingers shake as I close out Instagram and tap my phone contacts.

  Because how exactly does a semi-recent transplant wax so very poetically and authoritatively about his adopted city?

  Aisha picks up on the fifth ring. The words fall out of my mouth like a toxic oil spill. “Sorry-to-bug-you-I’ll-make-it-quick-it’s-just-I-need-to-ask-you-something.”

  “Hey, Zoey, you okay? You didn’t drink the rest of that rotgut from Clifford, did you?”

  “What does Miles do? What’s his job?”

  “He’s the top ghostwriter for Tell It to My Heart. I thought you knew that? He and I both worked there before Clifford took off and stole the rules of engagement. The handbook Miles wrote.” She chuckles.

  The words I need to say are lodged in my throat. “Do you have any idea if he, by any chance, put together a walking tour for a client recently, or anything”—I cough frantically—“of that nature?”

  “Yeah, he put a lot of thought into it. I’ve never seen him so invested in a client before. He scripted out a whole intricate thing and had his client record it, which was kind of amazing because the client has a Scottish accent.”

  My phone slips out of my hands.

  Her voice calls out, “Zoey?”

  Instead of squatting and picking up the phone like a functioning human would, I opt to join it where it fell. Boneless, my body drops down and I ooze like a slug toward it, my cheek mushed against the hardwood floor.

  “Okay thanks, talk soon, bye,” I mumble in the general direction of the phone.

  This can’t be happening.

  Miles is Jude. JUDE IS MILES.

  Our late-night chats come rushing over me, swirling around my brain as I remember how they made me feel: like a teenager with a crush. How the ding of new messages from him made my heart beat faster. How cared about the walking tour made me feel; STILL makes me feel. Even though it was never meant for me.

  This whole time it was Miles’s words in Jude’s voice. Or was it Miles’s voice with Jude’s face? I’m so confused.

  Miles can’t be Jude. Because that would mean . . .

  Okay, calm down. Let’s go about this rationally. I need to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt. (Prove it where, Zoey, in the Court of Love?) Before I can think through the consequences of what I’m doing, or what kind of domino effect it might create, I log in to the chat service I last used with Jude. Or rather, “Jude.”

  “Thinking of you,” I type, fingers tripping over each other. I attach a sound file, and press send.

  My first choice was “California Dreamin’ ” by the Mamas & the Papas, followed by Katy Perry’s “California Gurls,” but both of them feel too on the nose. Eventually I settle on the Beatles’ “Drive My Car.” Fuck you, Miles! LA eats NY!

  I stand on shaky legs, move to our shared wall, and push my ear against it. A moment later, I hear the telltale burst of music. Beep beep, beep beep yeah.

  It’s all too much. In a sense, I kissed Jude! Jude’s brain, anyway. But I also kissed Miles and now they’re one and the same! What does this mean for our friendship, er, enemyship?

  Nothing. It means nothing. I may have been desperately crushing on Jude, but that doesn’t mean Miles was crushing on Bree/me. He was just doing his job.

  My phone lights up with Mary’s picture. Dazed and out of it, I pick up. “Hello?”

  “Did you get my belated birthday present? I dropped it off this morning.”

  That must have been when Miles ran into her.

  I guess I don’t respond quickly enough because she adds, “Check the coffee table.”

  An envelope sits there, inside of which is a gift certificate for two massages at a chic hotel spa in Brooklyn. Her play with my margin notes has vanished. Maybe she chucked it in the trash. Maybe she shredded it. Clearly, it was too embarrassing to continue existing in the world.

  “It includes a one-night stay,” she explains.

  “Thank you,” I stammer. As usual, Mary is outrageously generous. Perhaps it’s her way of softening the blow that she thinks I’m a hack?

  A massage sounds glorious, but there’s no way I’m traveling to another borough. The only reason I made it to dinner with my parents was because Miles literally held my hand.

  “Don’t thank me yet. There’s an addendum to the gift, and it’s time sensitive,” Mary says ominously.

  “What do you mean?”

  “As promised, medicine for your anxiety is on its way, arriving any minute now.”

  For the second time in twenty minutes my hand goes slippery and the phone nearly tumbles to the floor. I clutch it and whisper, “You didn’t.”

  “Oh, but I did. It’ll be delivered to Hotel The with your name on it within the hour. It’s en route from Geoffrey’s as we speak.”

  “No, no, no,” I moan. “What if a sniffer dog finds it?”

  “Do you know a lot of five-star hotels that employ sniffer dogs? You’re going to want to be there before the staff gets their hands on it, I’d imagine.”

  “You know it’s illegal here, don’t you?” I groan.

  “For now. They’re inching their way toward legality. Maybe by the time you arrive, the law will have changed!”

  “Not helping. Why would you do this?”

  “I figured you might need an incentive to get across town. Looks like I was right,” she adds brightly.

  “You couldn’t have sent me fresh avocados? Because I miss those, too!”

  “Fresh avocado
s don’t reduce stress or lower your inhibitions.”

  “This is adding to my stress. Exponentially! How am I supposed to get to Brooklyn?” I pace in a loop around the couch, my breath speeding up. “I don’t even know which subway lines to take.”

  “You could always ask that winsome neighbor of yours to escort you.”

  “Miles-High Hair?”

  “Oooh, you’re at nickname status? Nice.” She makes some type of satisfied clucking sound.

  “Asking him for help would be haphazard as fuck.”

  She laughs. “I don’t think I’ve heard you swear before.”

  “What are you talking about? I had to swear every time I answered the phones for Mary, Fuck, Kill.”

  “But you wouldn’t. You’d strategically swallow the middle. And now look at you, raining down f-bombs like a real-life New Yorker.”

  “You don’t understand,” I say, quietly. “I can’t ask him.”

  “Why not?”

  “The thing is—it turns out—uggh! He’s different than I thought, and I can’t decide if I hate him or—the . . . opposite of . . . that. So even if I agreed with you, which I don’t, it’s way more complicated than that,” I say.

  “Uncomplicate it. Go next door and ask him. And Zoey? Tick-tock. Unless you want to be called down to the precinct to answer for your crimes.”

  She hangs up.

  Panicked—I now have less than an hour to get to Brooklyn and intercept the package—I take a deep breath and shout, “COMING OUT!”

  Pulse skyrocketing, I step into the hall. It seems longer than ever, as though I’ve already smoked the pot and everything’s slower and stretched out. Yet somehow my feet propel me forward until I’m outside Miles’s door. I grit my teeth and knock.

  The music within cuts off. My shoulders tense, and my breath hitches.

  He opens the door, his expression blank.

  “What’s up?” he says, leaning against the doorframe.

  “Code Green,” I gasp. “I wouldn’t bother you if it weren’t an emergency. . . .”

  CHAPTER 27