Joy Ride

by Lauren Blakely

  —Stop flirting with him.

  * * *

  —Really. I mean it.

  * * *

  —Don’t tell me it’s tempting.

  * * *

  —Woman-up and stop.

  * * *

  —Tomorrow. Stop tomorrow.

  * * *

  —No more innuendos. No more double meanings. No more metaphors for sexy times.

  * * *

  —Discuss other things with him.

  * * *

  —Ideas: hedgehogs, should guys be allowed to wear tank tops, merits of crunchy vs. soft-shell tacos, where do all the mismatched socks go, and how does David Copperfield pull off that crazy guessing trick.

  * * *

  —GUYS SHOULDN’T BE ALLOWED TO WEAR TANK TOPS. PERIOD. EVER.

  15

  When Henley and I board the Staten Island Ferry the next day, I decide this will be a good time to practice not checking her out, not staring, not wondering how she’d look if I peeled those sinfully tight jeans off her lush frame.

  I think instead about the boat. How big it is. How many people it can hold. How hot the engine gets. Not how lovely she looks as she walks across the deck to the railing, her hair a little different today, with lush waves near the ends.

  We grab a spot by the big yellow metal railing, parking our elbows on it. We have a round-trip to Staten Island and back to figure out where to start on the car. We chat for a few minutes about basic features of the Lambo as more passengers board. Soon, the boat pulls away, and the breeze lifts her hair. It’s long and wavy, and I want to run my fingers through those curls. Right now, though, her hair smacks her mouth, so she grabs a hair-tie from her wrist, and pulls it back while we talk about options for wheels and hubcaps.

  As the ferry chugs across the water, cutting a path in its wake by the Statue of Liberty, we stop talking and watch the water for a few minutes. It feels natural and easy. She stares into the distance, as if she’s contemplating deep thoughts. It’s a new side of her. I’ve seen her fiery side, I’ve seen her flirty side, I’ve even seen her vulnerable side in snippets, and now I’m seeing something calmer. It’s fascinating because it’s so not her. Like watching a cat walk on its hind legs.

  “I like big boats so far,” she announces.

  “Good to hear.”

  She raises her chin in Lady Liberty’s direction. Her hands wrap tightly around the railing. “Do you ever think about how David Copperfield made that disappear?”

  I jerk back, surprised by her random question. “I can honestly say I’ve never thought about that.”

  “I have,” she says in an almost wistful tone. “In this one special he made the statue completely disappear. Poof. I get that it’s magic and illusion, but I want to know how he did it. Did you ever see his show live?”

  “No, but I went to Penn and Teller in Vegas with my brother when he graduated from med school. Those guys rock. Chase and I were determined to figure out how they pulled off every single trick.”

  “That’s what seeing Copperfield was like for me.” She leans against the railing. We’re surrounded by people—tourists and locals. Some snap photos, others stare at the sea, and still others tap, tap, tap away on their phones. A mom with a big blue shoulder bag holds her young son’s hand as he gazes at the water. “We went to see his stage show when I was a teenager, and I was dying to know how he did this crazy trick where he selected random people in the audience and then had them reveal facts about themselves, like they’re wearing green boxers, or their favorite number is forty-nine.”

  I haven’t seen that show, but I get the concept. “And the answers are actually inside a locked box that’s been on the stage the whole time?”

  “Yes! Exactly. And I tried to work out if the audience members could be plants, and if not, then how and when did he or his crew get the information from them into the sealed boxes within the three minutes they were on stage, with the boxes hanging from the ceiling the whole time. Maybe it’s the engineer in me, but I was dying to know how he did it.”

  “I’m the same. Chase is, too. After we saw Penn and Teller, we were determined to figure out this one trick where they put an audience member’s cell phone inside a fish and somehow the phone rang from the fish.”

  “Ooh, I want to know how that’s done. Did you find out?”

  “We tried. It drove us insane. At the show, they put the phone in a bucket on stage, then twenty seconds later, the phone rang in a box on an empty seat in the audience, and in that box was a fish and in that fish was the phone. After the show, we got on YouTube and looked up all the videos we could find of the fish in the phone. Every single one, I swear,” I say, recalling the plethora of search permutations we plied Google and YouTube with to find the answers. “Was it a real dead fish or a fake dead fish? Did they record the sound of the phone ringing and then play that back? We had to know. And we thought we could figure it out.”

  “The mechanic and the doctor, after all,” she says, tucking a few windswept strands of hair behind her ear. “Please, please, please tell me how they made a cell phone ring from inside a fish. The answer has to be online somewhere. Did you find out?” She wobbles for a moment. I dart out a hand, curling it over her hip to steady her.

  “Thank you. Darn sea legs.”

  Nice legs. Gorgeous legs. Strong legs, I want to say. But I don’t. “You’d think the answer would be somewhere on the web. And we did unearth a few details here and there, but there was always some missing piece.”

  “That’s how the Copperfield show was for me, too,” she says, shutting her eyes briefly and drawing a deep breath. She opens them. “You can make these logical conclusions about how he did a trick, and you can make assumptions, but then . . .”

  I pick up the thread. “But when you get to the heart of the illusion—how he pulled it off—there are always some parts that will never make sense.”

  “Maybe it’s a sign that we’re supposed to just enjoy magic shows more?”

  “Or maybe our enjoyment comes in trying to figure it out.”

  “I do like that part.” She smiles faintly, then she presses her fingertips against her temples. “I think I’m getting a headache.”

  I furrow my brow. “You need something for it?”

  She winces and closes her eyes again. When she opens them, she tips her forehead away from the water. “Mind if we go inside? I just want to sit down for a minute.”

  “Let’s go,” I say. She walks ahead of me, slower than usual. Must be those sea legs.

  When we reach the doorway to the interior of the ferry, she sways and shoots out an arm to grab the wall. I slide in instantly, wrapping my hands around her shoulders. “You okay?”

  Her hand flutters to her forehead, but she doesn’t answer. I guide her over to the seats, and she plops down with far less grace than I’ve ever seen in her. “My head,” she moans as she drops her forehead into her hands and yanks out her hair-tie, letting the chocolate strands spill over her shoulders. “Everything is moving.”

  Oh shit. I think I know what’s going on now. “Henley, do you get seasick?”

  “I’ve never been on a ferry, remember?”

  “Have you been on a cruise or a boat?”

  “Not since I was a little kid. Remember? I like roads.”

  “Me, too. But even so, I think you’re seasick.”

  She raises her face. There’s a sheen of sweat on her forehead, and her skin is pale.

  “Henley,” I say, genuinely worried.

  “I think you’re right.”

  “We’ll reach Staten Island soon. We’ll have to get off there and re-board,” I say, reminding her of the ferry rules. “But we’ll get on the next ferry back to Manhattan like we planned. Won’t be too long from now.”

  “Okay,” she mumbles, then she leans closer to me, resting her head on my shoulder. She breathes softly, a sweet and mournful sound. I reach across and stroke her hair.

  I tell myself I’m doing this for reas
ons other than sheer physical want.

  I can say that because it’s the truth.

  I love her hair, but more than that, I want her to feel well. That’s a strange little shift from the last few weeks when she’s most decidedly been on my Least Favorite People list.

  I’m not sure which list she’s on now.

  “Max,” she says, her voice a whisper. “I don’t think guys should wear tank tops.”

  I laugh as I stroke her hair. “I don’t even own a tank top.”

  16

  “Sweetheart.”

  A blond woman, her hair in a low ponytail and crinkles in the corners of her eyes, taps my shoulder. She holds the hand of a young boy, who has light locks, too.

  “Yes?”

  “Would you like something for your girlfriend’s seasickness?”

  “Oh, she’s not my—”

  Henley lifts her face off my shoulder and blinks at the woman. “Do you have something?” Her voice is weak. She’s been resting on me since we got back on the ferry after re-boarding in Staten Island.

  “Dramamine. My son gets motion sickness, too. I keep it with me, just in case.”

  “I’d love one,” she says, and holds out a palm to the woman.

  “Take two,” the mom instructs, as she reaches into her big blue shoulder bag and grabs a box. She taps it against her palm and a few pills spill out. She hands a pair to Henley. “They’re chewable. They work best if you take them before you get on a boat, but they should help ease the symptoms some.”

  Henley sighs deeply. “You’re a lifesaver.” She pops them in her mouth and chews.

  “They taste yummy, don’t they?” the boy asks.

  Henley nods with wide eyes. “Like I’m eating an orange.”

  “I love them.”

  His mom squeezes his shoulder. “Ben, they’re not candy.”

  Then she turns back to Henley. “Seasickness is the pits. As soon as I saw your face out there on the deck, I had a feeling. The weird thing is you’re actually better off staring at a fixed point in the distance than sitting down. The fact that you were looking at the statue might have helped prevent it from being worse. Vomiting is no fun.”

  A look of horror fills Henley’s eyes. “Lady Liberty was watching over me.”

  “She was indeed. Feel better soon.”

  “Thanks so much for stopping to help,” I say.

  “Bye-bye,” the boy says, and they return to the deck.

  Henley waves to their backs and says, “Yes, my non-boyfriend appreciates you very much.” She pats my thigh. “Good thing you clarified right away that I’m not your girlfriend.”

  I roll my eyes. “I see the motion sickness hasn’t dampened your fire.”

  “Why, of all the things you could say, would you say that first?”

  I sink back in the chair, dragging a hand through my hair in frustration. “You’ve recovered quickly, haven’t you? You’re all piss and vinegar again,” I say, crossing my arms and wishing the Henley who’d rested her head on my shoulder was back. This is the Henley who hates me.

  But wait—why the fuck do I want that sweet version of her to resurface? We’re enemies. We’re rivals, and whether she has motion sickness or not doesn’t change a thing.

  “I’m more honey and cinnamon. And I’ll have you know I’m an excellent girlfriend.” She nudges me. “Want to know why?”

  “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

  “One. I won’t ask my man to give up poker night with his friends. In fact, I’ll make you some of my amazing sandwiches and then make myself scarce so you can hang with the guys. Two. I don’t nag. Three. I’m super independent. Four. I believe in mutual respect, and five—” But there’s no five, because she slams her palm to her forehead and moans. “Oh God.”

  I snap to attention, forgetting the current battle. “You okay, tiger?”

  “My head hurts so much,” she says in a whimper. “Everything is spinning.”

  I don’t think. I act.

  I take her in my arms, wrapping them around her slim shoulders. I don’t know that this is a cure for a headache or her dizziness, but it’s all I can do. I gather her close and brush my hand over her hair. “We’ll get you home, tiger. You can tell me number five on the way.”

  She tucks her head against my chest. Her face is buried in my shirt, her cheek against my pecs. “Max,” she says softly, “sometimes it’s fun to give you a hard time.”

  “You definitely give me a hard time,” I say, and the double meaning is not lost on me.

  “Max?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re tall.”

  “I am.”

  “Are you six-three?”

  I nod against her hair. “Nailed it.”

  “Max?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Your chest is really firm.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Max?”

  “Yes, Henley?”

  “That’s a nice feature in a non-boyfriend.”

  “Feel free to make full use of it.”

  And she does for the next ten minutes as the vessel slows near the tip of Manhattan Island. By the time it docks, I have a warm spot on my shirt from her cheek, and I don’t want to get up.

  “Can I just curl up and sleep on you all day, please?” she asks.

  “That’s number five in what makes a good boyfriend. Letting you sleep here all day.”

  A tiny laugh falls from her mouth as she sighs against me. “I like number five.”

  “Me, too,” I say, bringing her closer, since she seems to need it right now.

  We stay like that for a little longer as the other ferry-goers rise and shuffle off the big boat.

  “How’s your head? Still dizzy?”

  She nods against me. “A little, yes. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  When the tinny announcement sounds over the loudspeaker that it’s time to exit, I help her up, keeping an arm around her the whole time. Her boots click loudly against the metal ramp as we join the crowds leaving the ferry, slowly making their way to shore.

  She inches closer to me, her side pressed to mine. I wrap my arm tighter around her shoulder, protecting her from a businessman jostling his way down the ramp in a rush. She sighs then loops her arm across my lower back, her hand curling over my side.

  This feels way better than it should.

  When we reach the sidewalk, I tug her out of the way of the crowd. She looks up at me, opens her mouth, and yawns, the hugest yawn I’ve ever seen, and it comes with a soundtrack as she murmurs something that suggests sleep is imminent.

  Then it hits me. Dramamine makes you drowsy as fuck. I need to get this chick to her apartment, stat. I hail the next cab I see, making sure to beat out the other guys trying to snag one. I’ve got a woman to take care of, whether she’s my girlfriend or not.

  17

  “What’s your address, tiger?”

  She snuggles into my shoulder and says something I can’t make out. All I hear is SoHo.

  “Where to?” the cabby asks again as he peers at me in the mirror.

  “Henley, where do you want me to take you?” I buckle her in.

  “Home,” she says in the faintest voice as she slumps against me.

  “Where’s home?” I try again, more insistent this time.

  The cabby taps his meter.

  “It’s fine, man. I’ve got this.” Then to her, I ask once more, “Where’s home?”

  “So . . .”

  “SoHo?” I try.

  And I get nothing else. I let out a long stream of air and scrub my hand over my chin. There’s only one place I can take her now.

  I give the cabby my address in Battery Park City, not far from here. He revs the engine, knocking Henley forward, and I’m sure this is when she’s going to wake up. She’ll snap to it, blink open her eyes, and say, “Are you a crazy man, trying to take me into your lair? Take me to my house, now.”

  But the chick snoo
zes through it.

  She stays deep in slumber as the cabbie brakes at a light, as he slaloms through lunch-hour traffic, and as he turns onto my block in a wild arc.

  Even when he reaches the building and stops the car, she stays sound asleep. I glance down at her. Her long lashes flutter over her skin, and she looks as if she’s dreaming. I wonder what’s going on in the faraway land where she is.

  I grab my wallet and flip it open, fishing out some bills.

  “Keep the change,” I say to the driver, then I open the door, unbuckle my former apprentice, and lift her out of the car.

  She’s still asleep.

  My God, it’s like when your drunk friend conks out at a house party in college. Only then, you leave him there, and someone draws a penis on his face. But that’s his fault—the acknowledged consequence among dudes for the crime of crashing in public. Every guy knows the rules, and every guy should stay the fuck awake if he wants a cock-free face.

  There will be no Sharpie dick on this woman’s cheek.

  I scoop her into my arms, since that seems kinder than a fireman’s carry. Call me crazy, but I’ve got a feeling she’d rather be handled like a princess than a victim.

  I shut the cab door with the bottom of my work boot and rope her arms around my neck. I cross the sidewalk and push the building door open with my elbow. I smile at the concierge at the desk, and Edgar shoots me a curious look.

  “It’s time for her afternoon nap,” I say, deadpan.

  He simply nods and scurries to the elevator to press the button for me to the penthouse.

  Henley’s head flops against my shoulder, but she snuggles in closer as we ride up. When I reach my floor, I hoist her a little higher, doing my best not to wake her as I dig my keys out of my pocket. I manage to grab them without jostling her, then I head down the hall and open the door to my apartment. Afternoon sunlight streaks through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and I wonder if that’ll rouse her from the land of nod.