by Tash Skilton
Oh, mama. His accent IS delicious.
It’s my second time listening to the recording. I’m lying in bed, lights out, eyes closed, window open a crack, letting Jude’s words pour over me as night envelops the city.
“So, without further ado”—he chuckles endearingly—“welcome to Hell’s Kitchen. Let’s start our morning with a trip to Holey Cream on Ninth Avenue. What better way to begin the day than building your own doughnut, right? Don’t skimp on the toppings—that’s the best part. And be sure to order some ice cream on the side …”
His voice lulls me into a sense of peace. It’s after midnight and I’m drifting on a cloud of contentment.
For the first time since I arrived in New York, the tear that slides down my cheek is one of happiness.
I’m still glowing the next day, Saturday, because Jude’s favorite place in all of New York is close to my apartment, only ten blocks away! The High Line apparently runs along the Hudson River, the area I’d made a mental note to explore after my taxi went past it on the way to Porchlight the other week. With a “companion” guiding me, this’ll be a snap.
It’s seven a.m. and I’m dressed in yoga pants, a sports bra, and a tank top, the unofficial uniform of LA. I’m pumped. I’m elated.
I’m out of shape.
I learned from listening to Jude last night that the High Line park opens right now, and it’s invigorating to know I’ll be one of the early risers taking advantage of it. After exiting my apartment, I stretch my arms and legs out, and head toward Gansevoort Street in the Meatpacking District. Jude claims that’s the best entrance from which to experience the High Line.
Eventually, it dawns on me I’ve gotten turned around. In fact, I’ve walked in the complete wrong direction and now I’m on Avenue B. The place I’m supposed to be is now eleven blocks away, not ten, and it’s eleven avenues, not blocks. Turns out avenues are not the same as blocks. Turns out avenues are about the size of five blocks. I’ll have to walk an hour just to get to the beginning of the tour!
I curse at myself, then take a deep breath and remember it’s my first time actively exploring the neighborhood, and that anything I see today is more than I’ve seen since I came here, which can only be good. I grit my teeth and march up to Fourteenth Street. I pass Union Square Park and the New School, and I’m glad I take a moment there to stop and catch my breath because the windows look like rippling liquid. I snap a photo—my first tourist photo!—take a big swig of water, and continue on my way, renewed.
At last I’m at the “proper” entrance to the High Line, and Jude’s voice is waiting for me there, like armor protecting me. I pop my earbuds in, fire up the recording, and tune out the noises and chaos. Jude regales me with a brief history of the elevated railway, and the effort to “save” it in 2000 and turn it into a public space in 2009. The history fascinates me. From its beginnings as a train line to an elevated promenade, this place speaks highly of the locals and their desire to preserve a worthy piece of history by renovating the industrial area into a mixed-use park.
The biking and jogging trail widens or shrinks along the water, depending on what else shares the space. It’s relaxing and breathtaking all at once. I’m not impressed with the Standard Hotel (LA’s is better), but I’m pleasantly surprised by all the artwork along the walk, from sculptures to murals and mosaics. No need to go inside art galleries when so much is free and visible to those of us passing by. There’s even a project called Mutations scattered on video screens throughout the walk that warms my LA heart.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever have kids, but if I do, I’m taking them to the Pershing Square Beams,” Jude’s voice intones, leading me on a detour. “In fact, the Pershing Square Beams might be the only reason to have kids. Basically, they scooped out the concrete deck so people can see the original steel beams and frames and walk on them.”
It’s impossible to resist, and soon I find myself taking part, testing my balance along the beams of the sunken, rectangular gridwork, between which sit little gardens.
It’s delightful, and I’m so enthralled by Jude’s voice, his calm reassurance and the effort he put into the tour, that I don’t even notice I’ve walked a mile and a half by the end of it. Now I’ve got to walk back, ugh … Yet the smile on my face never drops.
I’m rewarded by a snack he suggests at an Israeli joint called Seed + Mill at the Chelsea Market. They specialize in Nutella halvah, aka my new favorite dish.
When I get home, I shower and check the time—it’s only eleven thirty, so I can’t call Bree yet. I’m antsy, waiting for the minutes to pass. I’m also unnerved by how much I enjoyed listening to Jude, and pretending his tour was for me, and not her. How on earth could Bree abandon it after just a few minutes? Why wasn’t she riveted? Or at the very least, more appreciative?
12:01 p.m. and I’m FaceTiming her again. She looks tired when she answers; want to bet she watched the new eighteen seconds on a loop all night? (Like I’m one to talk, having listened to the walking tour on repeat …)
“You’ve got to give him another chance,” I tell her, cutting to the chase.
“Are you sure? Because, like, the part I listened to was a tour of my own block. I mean, it was fine, but I live here. I know the area well, I don’t need a—”
“But the effort! The time! You have to admit that someone who goes to all that trouble deserves a second chance.”
She purses her lips and wrinkles her nose, and for a split second of insanity, I pray that she’ll disregard my advice. She really doesn’t deserve him, if she’s that uncertain.
But then she smiles and nods. “Okay, you’re right. Let’s set up another meet.”
“Great! Yes.”
We chat a little more before I end the call. I flop backward onto my couch bed, knowing I should be happy, I should feel relaxed, rejuvenated, and recharged, but the truth is I’m experiencing my own version of the three Rs: relief, regret, and resignation.
CHAPTER 11
To: All Tell It to My Heart Employees
From: Leanne Tseng
Re: Confidence
Team,
A big congratulations is due to Stella Gonzalez. She’s only been freelancing with us for two months, but she’s the winner of our “out-of-the-box/not out-of-the-box idea challenge.”
You might have missed it on our site, but all Tell It to My Heart clients now have a money-back guarantee. If they’re not satisfied we’ve helped them find a great match within eight weeks, they get a full refund. It’s great peace of mind for them! It also speaks highly of you! That’s right. We can only do this because we believe in the quality of our work and our employees. That being said, we did have to carve out a small financial caveat. Please note that if one of your clients activates a money-back guarantee, the company will absorb the loss. If a second one is activated, however, then the money will unfortunately have to be docked from your pay.
But, just keep doing what you’re doing … i.e., giving 100% to each and every client … and all will be gravy.
Congratulations again, Stella!
Yours,
Leanne
MILES
I can pretend that Leanne’s memo is the main reason I went so many unpaid hours beyond Jude’s TITMH package to write that walking tour. Or that I felt threatened that Stella would take over the only staff writing position Leanne can afford right now. But the truth is I started working on it before the memo even came through.
The day after that disaster of a date, I took myself to Bree’s neighborhood and self-assigned a leisurely stroll, making a voice memo of places of interest as I did. I kept my eyes peeled because that was exactly the point: to show her something she might not have noticed before the tour. Not because I was keeping an eye out for the recipient of the tour herself. Of course not.
But I was a little unnerved at how intently I seemed to not be looking for her. Or how every flash of blond hair made me do a double take. Which was why once I had a solid idea of what I
wanted to include, I took myself to Café Crudité to write out the actual script.
It took me two days to do it, mainly because I was interrupted by another new client—Clark—and had to go through his questionnaire and set up an initial meeting with him. Though at one point, another flash of blond hair at the café distracted me too.
But it wasn’t Bree. It was my nemesis au lait, whose hair isn’t even fully blond at all, but a confounding mixture of dark and light which—given the very little I know about her—actually seems somewhat appropriate. It was starting to get weird that I didn’t know her name, since she had become such a fixture of my time here. But I couldn’t very well go up and ask her now. “Hi, I’m Miles. Would you mind telling me your name? My inner monologue is running out of clever nicknames for you. By the way, has anyone ever told you your dimples are an exact fifty-fifty ratio of sexy and sweet? Thanks!”
She did, unknowingly, give me a little motivation for the tour though. I thought of how she didn’t know the city at all, about how disdainful she seemed of it in our brief interactions, and I got inspired to make it lead to the High Line. It was my absolute favorite place in the city, the place I thought could make even Legend fall in love with New York. Especially once Jude got his hands on it. Or, er, tongue around it. Together, we really were the perfect man. Perfect for Bree, anyway.
Jude was a pretty good sport about the tour. He delivered the file back to me within a few hours and I got the honor of sending it along to Bree.
And then we … waited. I figured it would take her a while to listen to it. Maybe she wouldn’t have time during working hours. But then five o’clock rolled around. And then six. By midnight, Jude’s Game, Set, Match inbox was still empty.
Hmph.
I wasn’t super panicked about Leanne’s new policy of docking our pay if a second money-back guarantee comes through.
But, by the next day, I’m a little panicked about it.
Especially when I get home in the afternoon to a notice taped up on Dylan and Charles’s door. At first, I think it might be a take-out menu (which, I admit, I get a little excited about. I’ve been in a bit of a rut with my dinners lately). But then I see it’s yet another classified section of the Metro newspaper, with every available apartment circled in a particularly violent slash of thick red marker.
Honestly, now I’m pissed.
I get it. I’ve been invading Charles’s space. But I feel like I deserve a little credit for trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. And it’s not like I want to be here. It’s not like it was my choice to get kicked out of the apartment I shared with my exfiancée. Or to find my job in such a precarious position. Has Charles truly never been down and out? And if he has, hasn’t he had some kind person—maybe even what some would call a friend—help him get back on his feet?
Probably not, since he’s such a miserable person that only sweet, optimistic Dylan would be able to see the good in him at all.
I tear the notice off the door and stomp in, where I hear his unmistakable heavy footsteps in the kitchen. I rage in there.
“What the hell is your problem?” I yell.
“Excuse me?” He looks up at me, stunned, his hands full of two of my Chinese take-out boxes, which he’s pouring out onto a plate.
Was I going to eat them? Probably not. But are they mine? Hell yes.
“If you want me out of here so fucking badly, maybe you shouldn’t also gorge yourself on my food,” I add.
He looks down at the food and then up at me. “You’ve got to be kidding …”
I slam the notice down on the counter. “I get it. I may not have a law degree, but I’m not an idiot. You want me out of here. I’m working on it.”
“Are you? It sure doesn’t seem like it.” Charles’s face has started to get blotchy and red.
“How would you know?” I bite back. “I’m never here.”
“You’re here enough,” he roars. “Enough to ruin everything.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? Because I deigned to put a bead of sweat on your goddamn Ikea rug?”
“No,” he says, and now he’s actually shaking. A couple of pieces of rice escape the carton in his hand and end up on his precious floor. “Because I bought a goddamn ring for Dylan the day before you moved in here and now I’ve had no chance to fix up the apartment like I wanted to, or to ask him anything because you will never. Fucking. Leave.”
I stare at him, stunned. “You … you’re going to ask Dylan to marry you?”
“You bet your ass I am,” he roars. “Whether you think I’m good enough for him or not.”
I have no response to that. And the next words that come are actually from neither one of us.
“Oh … oh, Charles.”
We both whip our heads to see Dylan standing in the hallway, his hands on his mouth, and the mail he had carried up all over the floor. Apparently, neither one of us even heard him come in.
“Is it true? Are you going to propose?”
Charles’s entire face is a frown. “I … yes. I was going to. But not like this.” He gestures to the half-open cartons on the counter, and the food on the floor and, of course, me standing in the middle of it all. But he doesn’t look at me. His eyes are fixed on a point on the ground.
Oh, God. Now I feel like such a shithead.
“Do it,” Dylan says, as he rushes over to Charles and takes his hands. “Ask me.”
Charles looks up at him. “Really? But I was going to get food from Chez Nous. And there were going to be candles. And that Nick Drake song playing on the stereo.”
“I have a good imagination. I can pretend all of that is happening,” Dylan responds. “Just ask me.”
Charles takes one brief glance my way, but then his eyes slide past me to a side table in their living room. He walks over to it and opens up a small drawer in the back that I’ve never noticed before. He takes out a ring box.
Then he walks over to Dylan and gets down on one knee in front of him.
“Dylan … I’ve honestly never felt love as crazy as this. Or as perfectly sane either. Everything with you makes sense, in a world where so few things usually do. I don’t have to argue a case with you, or make anyone try to see my side. There’s only one side here—our side. I want you to brighten my Northern Sky forever. Will you marry me?”
Dylan gives a yelp and then he sits himself down on Charles’s knee. “Of course I will!” he says, before he takes Charles’s face in his hands and kisses him passionately.
Charles starts to laugh. At least, I think that’s what that is. It’s a sound I’ve never heard from him before. “Really?” he says. “Are you sure?”
“Of course, you idiot!” Dylan says in between laughs himself. “I love you more than anything.”
“And I love you more than anything,” Charles says. “Don’t you at least want to see the ring?”
Dylan grins as he stands up from Charles’s knee and takes the ring box. He smiles even wider. “It’s gorgeous.” He takes it out of the box and slips on the thick platinum band. I can see a diamond sparkling from within it. “Isn’t it beautiful?” He turns to me and shows me his hand.
I smile at him, a genuine one even if Charles will never believe it. “Yes. It is. Congratulations! To both of you.” I turn to Charles then, intending to apologize.
But this isn’t the time for that. Charles has put his hand on Dylan’s back, and he suddenly dips him, and starts to furiously kiss him. Dylan responds.
I spend another second with a sappy smile on my face, watching them, before I realize that, er, I definitely need to let them have this moment alone.
I scoot around them as quietly as I can, pad down their hallway, and leave.
It’s only when I’ve walked half a block that I realize the classifieds section is still clutched in my hand.
Well. Now seems as good a time as any to look for a new apartment.
I think about finding a bar or café to go sit down, but then I come across somethin
g better.
Staples.
I walk in and head straight over to the most comforting aisle there is, the aisle of a thousand Post-its. Few things in life make me more zen than knowing that one can take notes on an almost infinite variety of shapes, colors, and sizes of sticky paper. Ever since I was a kid, the sheer possibilities for organization—the thought that no matter how unpredictable life gets, there are tools to neatly catalog it—have been massively appealing.
The whole store is pretty deserted, and there is no one there to ask me what the hell I think I’m doing as I place my back on the metal shelves and slide down to the floor.
I lean my head against a pen display (fine point, 0.7 mm, and comes in five colors. I should give one a whirl before I leave here). So Charles and Dylan are going to get married. I realize that’s the first proposal I’ve ever witnessed that wasn’t my own.
But my own proposal to Jordan certainly had a lot of witnesses. It happened at the fancy Mexican restaurant where we’d had our first date. I called ahead to set everything up: the peonies on the table, the ring placed inside a beautiful chocolate rose on top of her flan, and the bottle of Veuve Clicquot afterward. I got down on one knee as soon as they brought the dessert out, so happy to present the ring that had been burning a hole in my pocket for weeks. So happy to watch Jordan’s face.