Kiss Me in New York

by Catherine Rider

  She had to have known that guy before she left. And since she did know him, that means she’s been cheating on me for a while. And if she’s been cheating on me for a while, that means I am better off without her. I know that all of this is true …

  So, why do I feel like I’ve swallowed a mouthful of broken glass?

  The cab takes us into the city, and when we pass some dive hotel on Thirty-Ninth, the horny couple suddenly yells at the driver to stop. I guess they both must have roommates, or maybe they live with their parents. They give Charlotte and me apologetic looks, then throw a third of the fare at the cabbie, get out of the cab and wrap their arms around each other as they walk toward the hotel, giggling.

  But one of them must say something wrong during the fifteen-feet walk from the curb to the hotel, because they start fighting again. I hear the word “ex-boyfriend” as the cab pulls away, and my chest clenches. That’s what I am now.

  Maya’s ex.

  The cab stays on Thirty-Ninth, heading west toward Hell’s Kitchen, where I told the cabbie to take me. I wasn’t planning on hitting Manhattan at all, but right before I got in the cab, I made the mistake of checking Snapchat and saw a post from Maya, at a coffee shop in Bushwick, announcing that she and this new guy, Ash, had “finally” agreed that they’d now be exclusive. From the angle of the video, and the way the frame wobbled continuously, I could tell it was shot on a selfie stick. A goddamned selfie stick.

  For the briefest of seconds, I actually felt a little less shitty about getting dumped.

  I decided that if Maya was hanging out in Brooklyn, I was going to take cover in another borough and hit up Ice Bar, on Fortieth Street in Manhattan. It’s a total shithole, but my fake ID has never been questioned there — and Maya’s not going to unexpectedly show up. She’d never set foot in Ice Bar. For one thing, its low lighting and drab color scheme make taking a decent selfie an impossible task.

  Charlotte’s going to the village — I guess she’s hoping there’s a Story there.

  I’m rubbing the kink out of my sore neck. “That was kind of excruciating, huh?”

  I don’t know why I’m bothering to talk to her. The look she gives me suggests she doesn’t really want me to.

  “But I guess you Brits are so polite that, even if it got all Cinemax in here, you wouldn’t say anything.” I’m about to explain what Cinemax is, but she looks away from me. It’s on me to keep the conversation going, I guess. “So … how come the village?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Well, I mean …” What do I mean? Why did I ask that question? What does it matter to me where she goes? “I know you’re supposed to be on a flight home right now. The village can’t have been in your plans, and I know you’re looking for a Story. What do you think you’ll find there?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, all right?” Now she looks at me. “I was out of line, talking to you like that at the airport.” I point to the damned roses, as if they’re a replay of my humiliating breakup. “My head was kind of all over the place.”

  “Sounds like it still is.”

  “Maybe. I guess I’m bugging you a little because I’m worried. I don’t like the idea of a young girl walking around the city alone at night.”

  She looks at me, her gaze softening, for a second. Then her eyes narrow and she turns away. “I can look after myself, thank you.”

  “I’m sure you can. Just … it’s cold and dark. And if you’re not from here, New York can be like … I don’t know, some sort of monster. It might eat you alive, you know? Especially with that Downton Abbey accent you’ve got.”

  She makes an indignant noise, as though I’ve seriously insulted her. “I do not sound like —”

  We both jump at the sound of a car horn blaring, because it comes from our cab, our driver. He mumbles a curse as he changes lanes, shaking his head at what I guess is the subpar driving of the cab just in front of us.

  Before she can finish her protest, I raise my hands in apology. “I just meant, for anybody, it’s not the smartest idea to be wandering around the city at night, waiting for something to happen. Because most likely, whatever happens is going to be something bad. Trust me, I have cops in my family. At least think about what you want to do — that way, you know, you … stay out of trouble.”

  Charlotte sighs and reflexively tucks a lock of her wavy dark hair behind her ears. The rhythmic, slowly sweeping glow of the streetlights we pass illuminates her face — I can tell her pale complexion is a year-round look, not just a winter one. She takes out the self-help book. She turns it over in her hands.

  “Yeah,” she says. “You’re probably right. I admit, I haven’t thought too much about what I was going to do. I just wanted to keep my mind off …” She doesn’t finish, and I guess she’s trying not to think about the guy who dumped her. “I’ve just never been away from home at Christmas before, and if I’m going to be spending it alone, half the world away from my family, I may as well make a Story out of it.”

  She keeps saying that. I’m starting to wonder if she actually means it, or if she’s just trying to convince herself.

  I point to the book. “What’s Step One?” She squints at me, like, What does that have to do with anything? I explain: “There are ten steps in that thing, right? So, I’m guessing, there are instructions, suggestions: they might give you something to help get you started. Maybe …”

  Charlotte opens the book and turns to the first chapter. She lifts the book really close to her face, because it’s dark inside the cab, which is starting to finally pick up some pace. She reads aloud: “‘Do something you stopped doing because your ex didn’t like it.’” She flips through that section, skimming whatever else it says, then closes the book and shakes her head. “I was only with him for a term — a semester. I might need time to think on that one …”

  I can feel the smile on my face as I think to myself that, maybe, I can help her with that. Because I don’t need long to remember that there was something I stopped doing because Maya insisted that it was nonnegotiable.

  I don’t give myself any time to question whether this is a good idea or a bad one. “You hungry?”

  1. DO SOMETHING YOU STOPPED DOING BECAUSE YOUR EX DIDN’T LIKE IT.

  We all “tweak” or “modify” our personalities a little when starting a new relationship. That’s just natural. But before you know it, you’ve totally and utterly given up on a hobby or stopped eating a favorite food. While you’re loved up, you can make your peace with this because you’re doing it for your partner, to make them happy.

  But now, that partner is an ex …

  *

  4:05 p.m.

  I redirect the cab to Bleecker, and we get out at John’s — which, I tell Charlotte, serves the best pizza in Manhattan. I start to walk toward the entrance — then realize there’s a question I should have asked before I told the cabbie to stop here.

  “You like pizza, right?”

  She nods, makes a face, like, Are you serious right now? Of course I like pizza. Who doesn’t like pizza?

  We take a step toward John’s, and then she stops. “Your roses.”

  I turn and see the cab’s taillights disappearing down Bleecker. I shrug. “Maybe his next fare will be a guy in need of an emergency Christmas gift.”

  Ten minutes later, we’re two bites into our shared pizza, and I’m regretting playing it safe and ordering a medium.

  “This isn’t bad,” she says, between chews, unaware of the stringy strand of mozzarella hanging from her bottom lip. I gesture to her chin, and she wipes her mouth with a napkin, muttering thanks and grinning.

  I don’t think Maya would have found that funny. Thinking about it, she’d have gotten mad — and probably found a way to blame me. But then, she’d never eat pizza, so this scenario would never happen — so I should not be th
inking about it.

  Charlotte takes another bite, this time much more carefully. She looks at the wood-paneled walls, where hundreds, maybe thousands, of New Yorkers have scratched graffiti over graffiti. Names, shout-outs to certain neighborhoods. One diner even left a phone number.

  “I wonder,” she says, in between chews, “who was the first customer to think, ‘You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to etch something on the wall.’ And what did they write?”

  I shake my head, still reviewing the graffiti. More names, letters dug deep into the wood like open scars, are around one of the framed photos hanging on the panel: a black-and-white shot of a young couple, walking hand in hand down some street downtown. Just above it, some asshole had scratched the word LOVE.

  I look away, back to Charlotte. “No way to know now, I guess. People have probably been scratching at the walls here since FDR was president. Maybe before.”

  “I guess that’s one thing that never changes.”

  “What is?”

  She raises a finger at me, signaling that I should sit tight and wait for her answer, because she’s literally bitten off more of her slice than she can chew. After about ten seconds, she’s still nowhere near finishing, and she rolls her eyes and shakes her head. I get the feeling that she’d smile if she were capable of doing so with a mouthful of pizza.

  “What never changes,” she says at last, “is people reaching out to other people.” She gestures at the wall. “I mean, the thing that all of this … graffiti … has in common is that each one was made by someone who wanted someone else to listen to them. Doesn’t matter if it’s someone in particular” — she reaches up high and taps a fingernail against one of the etchings, the name Robyn carved deep into the panel, then her hand falls to just above the table, to a random phone number — “or potentially the whole neighborhood. Everyone who wrote something on this wall probably just wanted someone to listen to them.”

  I decide not to reply to that, because I can think of only one thing to ask: Is that how she feels? The guy who dumped her, broke her heart — was that his problem, that he didn’t listen? Didn’t hear her?

  Charlotte puts down the remains of her slice, wipes her hands on a napkin. “So, your girlfriend made you give up pizza? That’s rough.”

  “Not just pizza,” I tell her, picking up my second slice and kind of hoping she doesn’t want more than two. Total fail ordering a medium. “Meat, dairy and eggs.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “She’s vegan. Well, she has been since she went to college. Insisted that I support her.”

  “What a load of bollocks.” I have no idea what “bollocks” means, but it makes me laugh and wince at the same time. British curses are so freaking cute, the way they sound PG and R-rated all at once. “How was she going to police that, if she was all the way in California?” She picks up another slice, takes a big bite.

  “When we’d be on the phone, she’d say she could hear the meat in my voice.”

  Aaaand now we have a choking situation. But just as I’m making to stand up and ask if anyone in John’s knows the Heimlich, Charlotte waves a hand at me to sit down.

  “I’m fine,” she says, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “I’m fine. Just …”

  “What a load of bollocks?” I venture. She’s laughing again, and I hold up my hands in apology for putting her at risk a second time. Then I think, Wait. “Did I say California?”

  She pauses, mid-chew, face frozen. Her voice is muffled by a mouthful of pizza. “You must have done. Either that, or I made a lucky guess.”

  I nod, finish my second slice and decide that now’s the time she starts writing this Story of hers. Either that, or I just really, really want to change the subject. “Come on, then, English. You must have thought of a Step One by now.”

  She ponders this, shrugs. “The only thing I can think of is biking. Back home, I’d ride my bike everywhere, but when I got here, I was a little uncertain. You know, what with you lot driving on the wrong side of the road and everything. And I’ve never been that coordinated anyway, so I was nervous at first. But I was going to at least give it a try, because I loved it — and I hate the subway — but Colin was like, ‘Hell, no, it’s too dangerous. New York drivers don’t give a …’” She grimaces and shakes her head. “Never mind. Yeah, cycling would be the thing. If I take up my spot at Columbia, I’d like to be comfortable riding around Manhattan.”

  There are three slices of pizza still on the plate between us, but, suddenly, I’m not all that hungry anymore. I reach under the table for my backpack, heavy from the spare clothes I brought with me, because I was expecting to spend the holidays with my girlfriend and her family.

  “Come with me.”

  *

  4:35 p.m.

  I’m leading Charlotte down Bleecker, which is more deserted than I’ve ever seen it. The bare tree branches are dusted white with snow, which is falling heavier now, so the storefront awnings shield nobody. All the un-dumped people are heading back to girlfriends, boyfriends, wives, husbands, I guess. Taking partners home to meet the parents, seeking approval, making things official. That’s what I was supposed to be going through tonight. I was supposed to be among the people not on Bleecker right now. I should probably get out of the cold, go home and hang out with my family, but I just can’t face them, because I know that my dad will go out of his way to hold up this incident as proof of the thing that he’s always saying to me.

  You just ain’t got Luke’s street smarts, Anthony.

  He never says this to belittle me or anything — my dad has just always thought of me as a little too imaginative — too soft — for the big, bad world. But the worst thing? Tonight, he would be right. I have to be a moron not to have seen that Maya was bad news. So, no, I’m not going home just yet, and if this Stranded Brit wants to run around trying to write herself a great Story to help her get through a breakup, I have no problem with that.

  Maybe it’ll help me get through mine.

  “Where are we going?” Charlotte asks.

  “You’ll see.”

  I stop at Bleecker and Mercer, pointing to the Citi Bike station, which is full, twenty or so blue bikes. Christmas Eve.

  “Are you winding me up?” Charlotte raises her eyebrows at me. I notice that she actually has eyebrows — Maya’s were so thin they sometimes looked like a trick of the light.

  “Why not? It was something you stopped doing, right?”

  “Munching on a meat feast and risking death on a Boris Bike are not the same thing.”

  “Who’s Boris?”

  “Doesn’t matter. The point is” — she pivots to gesture to the traffic, which is kind of stop-start right now, bumper to bumper — “it looks a bit dangerous.”

  “So, we’ll wheel them up to the bike path by the Hudson. The only traffic you have to worry about will be other bike riders. Come on, what do you say?”

  She looks from me to the row of bikes, then down at the sidewalk. She’s frowning, so I hit her with the thing we — kind of, sort of — have in common.

  “You want to kill time, right?”

  She nods. No frown — she’s thinking about it.

  I cock a thumb in the direction of the bikes.

  “So, come on, then … Let’s ride this out.”

  She rolls her eyes, groans, leans her head back — but she’s grinning, snowflakes nestling in her cheek dimples.

  “That was so bad,” she says with a laugh. “But all right, why not?”

  I rent the bikes, and we walk them along the cobblestoned streets to the West Side Highway, which we could not do on a normal day, because we’d be a hazard to pedestrians. But on Christmas Eve, it feels like we have the downtown area mostly to ourselves. At the bike path, I stop, get on, look to Charlotte.

  “You ready?”

  She hooks her tote
bag over one of the handlebars, then swings her leg over the saddle. She looks a little … not nervous but uncertain. I can tell it’s been a while.

  “I suppose so,” she says. “But you’d better take the lead, at least at first.”

  And so I set off, guiding her along the path. Every six or seven pedals, I can’t help looking over my shoulder, to check that she’s still with me, that she hasn’t wiped out.

  “Getting the hang of it?” I call, after we’ve ridden about six blocks.

  “Yeah!” she calls back. “It’s just like riding a bike.”

  I slow to let her draw level. “We’re tied at one for lame jokes.”

  She winks at me. “Where are we heading?”

  “I dunno,” I admit. “I was just riding. Wasn’t thinking too much about where.”

  “Didn’t you say earlier that wandering around aimlessly was a way to get in trouble?”

  “Yeah, for you,” I tell her, “because you don’t know the city. But me, I can wander just fine —”

  “On your left!”

  The voice is almost simultaneous with the bike that appears from nowhere, flying past Charlotte — on her left. It startles her, and she swerves right, wrestling for control, but I can tell that she’s going to topple over. I reach for her with my left hand, taking a handful of her sleeve to help her stand while our bikes collapse beneath us.

  It all happens in probably less than two seconds, and I’m now very aware of how tight I’m holding her, how close we’re standing, how heavily we’re both breathing. She’s looking up at me, her face frozen, startled, and the fact that I have no idea what to say makes this whole thing even more awkward than it probably should be, so I take a big step back from her …

  … and trip on my fallen bike, landing right on my ass. I curse, then I laugh. What the hell just happened?