Backlash

by Geneva Lee

  “Ready?” he asks, adjusting my Burberry scarf against the wind.

  “I am.” I’ve managed to figure out exactly how to work the money situation. It’s the oldest trick in the arsenal: play dumb. After our run-in with the homeless man, it shouldn’t be a hard sell.

  I deploy my plan for the first time at the metro station not far from his apartment. It’s easy enough to pretend I don’t know what I’m doing at the automated terminal selling MetroCards, switching the setting from one to two unlimited level cards while Sterling isn’t looking.

  “I got you one,” I say proudly. “Is it enough?”

  “Lucky, this is an unlimited card—for a month. We’re only here for a week,” he says with a laugh. “Let me help you next time.”

  Maybe my plan is working a little too well.

  We board the subway in Queens and take the purple line over to Manhattan. From there, we walk a few blocks to Rockefeller Square. We watch the ice skaters—mostly tourists in bright, puffy coats—attempt to stay upright. It’s particularly fun to watch parents get pulled down by their children, both collapsing with laughter on the ice. My stomach grumbles, and I’m reminded of his plan to eat everything. “Didn’t you say something about food?”

  “Yeah, I did. It’s a couple blocks away. I just thought we’d take a minute here. I’ve actually never bothered coming here before,” Sterling says, his brow furrowing sheepishly.

  “I can cross Rockefeller off my list now. But I want Sterling Ford’s New York. Not everyone else’s. Now take me to food!” I tug on his coat, ready to leave the tourist side of the city behind.

  We hold hands as we walk, and after another few blocks arrive at a park lined on one side with food carts. “You ever had Dosa?”

  “Dough-what?”

  “Do-sa. It’s a stuffed savory pancake from southern India. I come here just for these,” he explains.

  I sniff the air. One aroma, blooming warm and spicy, rises above the others. “Is that what I’m smelling? It smells incredible.”

  That’s actually understating it. The scent of chilies and cinnamon wafts toward us, and I can feel my stomach start doing flips. I am pretty sure the length of the line we’re in means the food will be worth it—but not if I die of hunger first. Luckily, the line moves more quickly than I would have guessed, and within ten minutes the man behind the counter barks, “Order?”

  “Two Special Pondicherry,” Sterling says.

  We stand to the side, watching the cook make our dosa. He scoops a bubbly white paste from a chilled vat in his cart, then uses the flat bottom of the scoop to distribute the gloppy batter in a large circle on his griddle, before repeating the whole process. Next, he grabs a bottle and squirts bright yellow liquid on top of the rapidly browning batter.

  “That’s clarified butter,” Sterling says, and I turn to see him looking at the dosa exactly how he looks at me whenever we’re alone.

  “Wow” is all I can find to say. He means it when he says he loves food.

  The dosa begin turning deep brown, and the cook reaches into his small fridge and takes out an industrial size vat of what looks like neon-yellow mashed potatoes and green vegetables. He puts two huge scoops on each dosa, then carefully rolls the pancake around its filling. Then, unceremoniously, he flips the dosa onto tiny, folded cardboard trays lined with napkins and hands them to us, already taking his next order.

  We find a park bench nearby, and Sterling hands me my dosa, which overhangs its cardboard tray by a half foot on either end. Steam wafts up from it, warming me and making my mouth water.

  “How did you find this place?” I ask, waiting for Sterling to take a bite so I can see how it’s done.

  “In New York, people look for lines,” he explains, torn between taking his first bite and gratifying my curiosity. “They make fun of it in ads and stuff like that, but it’s true all the same. If you see old, young, poor, rich, and immigrant people lining up for food, well, you should probably eat it.”

  He flattens one end of his rolled pancake enough to get it in his mouth and takes a huge bite.

  So much for needing pointers.

  “And you saw a line here?” I prompt before taking a huge bite of my own.

  The flavor is almost beyond my comprehension. There are so many spices, so many distinct flavors, it doesn’t seem possible it could all fit in one bite. The pancake is much crispier than I expect, shatter-y on the outside edge, but moist and springy inside. The filling reminds me of mashed potatoes, but only in texture. The flavor stings and soothes in equal measure. It’s dizzying.

  “Yeah. It’s two p.m. now, so this is as short as his line gets.”

  “Holy shit, Sterling.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s like everything I ate before this moment was saltine crackers.”

  “I know.”

  “Why isn’t this everywhere?”

  “That, I don’t know.”

  We eat mostly in silence, but I can’t help noticing how all the people leaving the dosa cart nod at us as they pass by, like we’re members of the same secret club. And for the length of our meal, at least, I don’t feel like an obnoxious, ignorant tourist, I feel like a New Yorker.

  “What kind of dosa was this, again?” I ask, writing myself a note on my phone. I want to see if Felix can make it when I get back.

  “Special Pondicherry.”

  “Got it.”

  He chuckles as he takes my trash and finds somewhere to toss it, then takes my hand and pulls me to my feet.

  “Where to next?” I ask.

  We take the subway again, this time the yellow line. After just two stops we hop off at the 23rd Street exit, and when we emerge on street level, I discover we’re in the Flatiron District.

  “This is a very posh area,” Sterling explains. “Publishing, advertising, Fifth Avenue shopping runs that way.”

  He indicates a direction, but between the height of the buildings and the disorienting effects of traveling underground, he might as well save himself the trouble. I’ll never keep it straight. It feels like I’m in a concrete and glass canyon. Everywhere I look there is a whole world to discover. Did I really imagine that after this I would tell people I’d seen New York? Which New York? Two people could live here for a decade and never do the same thing or eat at the same place.

  And as I feel my world getting bigger, I realize how much smaller it makes Valmont and my life there. I planned to get a semester under my belt at home and then study abroad, but now there’s Sterling. How can he be content in that sleepy college town, coming from this? If the world contains all of this—not through the pages of a book or a lesson in class—how can I ever be content to live out my life in Valmont?

  Impossible.

  Sterling watches as I spin like a top, shepherding me before I bump into oblivious, harried natives, and pointing out things I might miss. We go for a few more blocks until we reach The Strand. I’ve heard about it, but it’s hard to believe it contains miles of books—until we step inside. We take an elevator to the fourth floor, where they keep a collection of rare or collectible books of every age, description—and price.

  I don’t buy anything, partly because I don’t want to flash money in front of Sterling, but mostly because I don’t want to lug heavy books around New York. After a half hour of flipping through antique books, Sterling decides to move on, plopping a copy of The Sun Also Rises back on the table with a wistful sigh.

  “I’m going to run to the bathroom,” he says. “Meet you downstairs.”

  As soon as he’s gone, I buy the book and tuck it into my purse. I’ll give it to him for Christmas, so he can’t be mad.

  It turns out that separating was a terrible idea, because it takes us twenty minutes to find each other again. He’s carrying a brown paper sack when he finds me.

  “Reading material for the plane home,” he says. “I can’t be left in a bookstore unattended.”

  “Noted.”

  “Can I put it in you
r bag?” He reaches for the flap.

  “Let me!” I grab it and carefully tuck it next to his present so he can’t see.

  He leads me around another corner, and we find ourselves under massive scaffolding that covers one side of the street completely, even blocking the signs above businesses. We duck into a shop selling artisan meats and cheeses, and it takes me a moment to realize we’re actually in a sort of shopping mall devoted to, well, eating.

  It dawns on me where we are. “Wait, is this…”

  “This is Eataly,” Sterling says.

  The day we visited my mom’s grave together, he had told me about it. I push away a stab of sadness at the memory and focus on the moment. Mom would want me to make every day in New York a diamond. She loved the city, but never went after the disastrous family trip when I was four.

  Eataly is a rabbit warren of artisan food, wine, and cooking gear. It’s vaguely like a department store, but decorated like Old Europe, stuffed to the density of a Valmont football game crowd, and, best of all, sells everything from mini jam jars to entire casks of wine.

  You don’t just buy a cutting board here, you buy an African rosewood one crafted by a guy in Italy who makes three or four a year—and only if he feels like it. I understand this kind of luxury, even if this example is beyond my imagining.

  For a moment I wonder why we’re here, since it’s so expensive, but the reason soon becomes apparent. They are aggressively sampling, hoping to move inventory in the last two days before Christmas. We hold hands, both of us grinning stupidly at each other as we pop whole new ways of experiencing the world into our mouths. My favorite is a cheese called Taleggio, which spreads like soft butter and tastes like the secret lovechild of brie and cream cheese.

  I discover something about Sterling at Eataly. Whenever I take a bite of something, I notice he’s almost nervous. At first I think it’s because he wants to make sure I’m having a good time, but before long I realize he’s studying me with the same careful concern he uses when we’re alone. He wants me to enjoy this as much as he does.

  But despite how much we’re eating—more than I ever have, in fact—I want more. I’m ravenous for Sterling’s New York. I don’t want to go back to Valmont with regrets. I don’t want to wonder how good the weird-looking buns in the Chinese corner stand are, or why a shop sells only baguettes. I want to know.

  And that means trying everything.

  And maybe that’s why, after stumbling groggily back onto the street, and with Sterling holding a small bag of things I just couldn’t help buying, I make a decision: for the rest of the trip, when I see something that scares or intimidates me, I’m going to try it.

  Why not?

  24

  Sterling

  She is completely fucking insane. Like, different person insane.

  And I’m pretty sure I created this monster.

  My carefully planned day has flown out the window—not that I’m disappointed. Ten minutes ago, we ate frog legs from a stall in Chinatown while holding NY-style soft pretzels in the other hand. I dragged her onto the subway after, and as I gave her a kiss, we both had to stifle oily, smoky burps. We were nearly hysterical with laughter, and—this being New York—no one even seemed to notice.

  I’m nearly broke now, but I would consider robbing a bank if it kept this incredible day going. How often do you know, while it’s happening, that you’re having experiences that will last you the rest of your life? I’ve never felt that before. The stuff in my past—I wish I could forget a lot of it. I always imagined that if I got married or went on a trip to Europe, those memories would be the kind that last. Big, huge moments. The kind you’re supposed to remember. I had no idea it could just… happen.

  But that’s what it’s like with her. She keeps saying my New York, but it sure seems like it’s all hers now. I steer us to Greenwich Village, with a vague eye on seeing if my favorite falafel place is still there. In New York, you just never know.

  We climb the stairs up from the subway stop, emerging onto relaxed streets. It’s a different side of the city than she’s seen so far. Not as much bustle. It’s a nice change of pace.

  “Oh, it’s looove-ly,” Adair coos—taking one look at the ample shade trees, their branches bare for winter and strung with lights, the cobbled alleys, the sleepier vibe—and falls in love with Greenwich.

  “Planning your new life?” I tease, pulling her to me and kissing her beneath her ear.

  “Tell me you wouldn’t like to live here,” she demands, pecking me on the cheek.

  “I would not like to live here, Lucky. Hate to break it to you.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s expensive, for one thing.” I have to yell the words after her, because she is already off at breakneck pace, headed down a pedestrian-only alley full of red, cobbled bricks that match most of the buildings lining either side of the way.

  “Exactly my point,” she calls over her shoulder, refusing to slow down. “It’s expensive because everyone wants to live here. Because it’s awesome.”

  “For some.”

  “What’s not to like? Look,” she points at a Middle Eastern cafe, “they like hummus. We like hummus.”

  “True.” I can’t fight her, not when she’s like this. Plus, hummus is delicious.

  “Look, a sex shop. They like sex. And we like sex.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  It’s too late. She walks in like she owns the place.

  I dip in right behind Adair, who has stopped dead in her tracks with her back to me.

  “Hiya,” a shop girl calls to us, striding out from behind the counter. She’s got purple hair cut down to a severe bob, incredibly good ink, and the sort of perky disposition you expect in a kindergarten teacher on the first day of school—if Kindergarten teachers sold vibrators.

  “What brings you in today?”

  I can’t see Adair’s face, but I know she is overwhelmed because I’m overwhelmed. I’ve lived in New York my whole life, and I’ve never actually gone inside somewhere like this.

  She backs up a few steps, careful to keep smiling at the clerk, and holds her hand out, searching for mine. “Oh, not much? I’m out with my boyfriend and I don’t think he particularly wanted to come in here.”

  The clerk gives Adair the slightest eye roll and smiles knowingly. “That’s too bad. We have lots of ways to have fun here.”

  “I bet,” Adair agrees, like she’s talking about the weather or something.

  The fuck? They’re best friends, already?

  “Well,” the shop girl waits for a suitably meaningful pause to develop, “I won’t pry. Let me know if you have any questions. And you should. I don’t even know what some of this stuff is for.”

  Adair finds my hand at last and leads me back into the narrow canyon of vice.

  “You don’t have to pretend like you want to be in here, you know,” I say, trying not to sound judgmental while keeping my eyes on her. Finally, she sighs.

  “Come on, lover,” she says, pulling me along after her, out the door.

  “Do stop in again. Maybe when you’ve had a chance to loosen him up?” the shop girl calls after us.

  “Sooo… why don’t we stick to eating?”

  “Embarrassed, Ford?” she asks, even though her cheeks are faintly pink.

  “I just don’t think we need any help in that department.” I eye the colorful window display. “Unless you’re planning to replace me?”

  “Never,” she promises.

  We don’t get far before she slows down.

  “How far have we walked today?” Adair says before waving away her own question. “Let’s find someplace to sit down and eat, okay?”

  I gawk at her. “More food?”

  “Are you judging me?”

  “Never,” I promise.

  I pull out my phone and check the listing for Levantine, my favorite falafel place. It’s still there, just a couple blocks away, and open for another couple of hours. “I know ju
st the place.”

  “Lead on, Ford.” She points the way—although it is the wrong way—with the authority of a career general.

  “Lucky, you are just full of surprises today,” I marvel.

  “Yeah, and it’s all your fault. Showing me new things and what not.”

  “Good thing there is always new stuff to try,” I say, using my hand to crush her body against mine.

  “You can say that again. Now feed me or lose me forever.”

  25

  Adair

  Dinner with Francie is a casual affair, since I’m still stuffed from eating half of what New York has to offer. She tells me stories at the kitchen table, Sterling objecting every few seconds, until she looks at the clock on the microwave.

  “I’ve got to be up early,” she says.

  “Are you working?” I can’t help being surprised. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and I’d expected to spend the day with her.

  “Tomorrow and the next day,” she says with meaning. “Nurses don’t get holidays.”

  This, however, is news to Sterling. “I thought you got time off.”

  “Two more shifts and then I have three days to spend with you,” she promises. “It’s better this way. I get holiday pay, and I had Thanksgiving off. Fair is fair.”

  She stands up and ruffles his hair affectionately before stretching her arms over her head. Looking down, she shakes her head. “I never even got out of these scrubs. I’ll be out of the bathroom in a few. You two going to stay up longer?”

  “We’ll head to my room. I don’t want to keep you up.”

  “Your room?” I repeat. “I thought I was sleeping on the couch.”

  Sterling and Francie share a look.

  “Why would you sleep on the couch?” he asks.

  “You don’t mind?” I question Francie. Even now, a few months from getting married, after living together for a year, my brother and Ginny sleep in separate rooms when she spends the night. It’s how things are done in Valmont.

  “You can sleep on the couch if you want, sugar, but it’s not very comfortable,” she warns me before disappearing up the stairs.