Kiss Me in New York

by Catherine Rider

When I answer her, I realize it was never in doubt.

  “Where is this party?”

  3. RECONNECT WITH AN OLD FRIEND …

  4. TAKE CARE OF SOMEBODY ELSE — SO THAT YOU REMEMBER HOW TO TAKE CARE OF YOU.

  ~ Chapter Five ~

  Charlotte

  6. GO TWENTY-FOUR HOURS WITHOUT MENTIONING YOUR EX.

  We all know that words have power — but names have even greater power. To create distance between yourself and your ex, you must take away that power. And the only way to do that is through silence.

  8:30 p.m.

  “Hey, I was only six!”

  I blush at the way Anthony covers his mouth to stifle his laughter. I’ve just confessed that I called my first cat Hagrid, because I was huge into Harry Potter — plus, the cat was big and fat and fluffy, so of course any six-year-old would think of Hagrid!

  “Everyone named their pets for Harry Potter characters back then,” I mumble as the 1 train that we’re on pulls into Fourteenth Street station. Three people get on our car, including yet one more Williamsburgy type in a black cardigan. Not knowing any better, he sits opposite Mistake, who wriggles in my arms and growls — the pup really has it in for hipsters!

  I stroke Mistake’s head and whisper at her to calm down. She does. Beside me, Anthony reaches over and scratches behind her ear. “You’re good at settling her,” he says.

  “I have some experience soothing pooches,” I tell him. “My dog, Rocky, kind of hates all men. Except my dad.”

  “You serious?”

  I nod. “It’s a real problem. We walk him in this park near our house, but first my sister Jessica has to do a recon to make sure there are no guys. Maybe he’s allergic to Y chromosomes.”

  “Maybe he just mistrusts anyone not family? Like he sees them as people who might want to join you guys, you know? Competition.”

  I don’t answer Anthony because the only thing I can think to say is that I kind of want to bring Colin home to London, so that I can sic Rocky on him. And if I said that, then I would have failed at our revised, shortened Step Six — having proper conversations without mentioning our exes until we’ve left Katie’s party, which is where we’re headed right now.

  Anthony suggested we give it a trial run, and he went first and couldn’t think of anything for a bit, but then Mistake licked my face, making me laugh, and he asked me about pets I’d had in the past. It wasn’t exactly brilliant conversation, but it got us started …

  Until I ended up thinking about him anyway. And even though I wasn’t mentioning him, I was constantly thinking about not mentioning him, which meant that he was on my mind, and I don’t know if that defeated the purpose or not.

  It’s now my turn to get Anthony started. We’ve got about ten or eleven stops left until we reach 116th Street, our stop. I ask him what his favorite sport is, because he’s a guy and I expect he’ll have an answer — but he says he doesn’t really like sports at all anymore (I’m kind of pleased to hear this). I ask about his favorite movies, and he totally doesn’t surprise me by saying Inception. But I’ve got nothing after that. And we’ve passed only Fiftieth Street. We both stare at our shoes, having finally run out of things to say to each other. Just as I’m consoling myself that we had a good run, Anthony pulls something out of the air.

  “You believe in parallel realities?”

  He might as well have asked me that question in Mandarin, for all the sense it makes to me. He smiles, says that Inception got him thinking of it.

  “How?” I ask him. “That movie’s about dreams, not parallel realities.”

  “Well, yeah, but it’s about the subconscious and I’ve always been kind of fascinated by that. I mean, how often do you dream about the people you know in your actual day-to-day life? You’d think they’d be the ‘stars’ of the movies in your head at night, but usually, they’re not. Most of the time, you’re hanging out with a bunch of strangers you’ve never seen before, who look nothing like anybody you’ve ever met in your life — but they always somehow feel super familiar. You never need a” — his voice drops very low — “‘previously, on Charlotte’s Subconsciousness’ recap to tell you who’s who and what’s going on. In the dream, you always know, don’t you?”

  “I suppose,” I say, with a shrug. Mistake growls at the movement, clumsily turning in my arms as if to remind me who’s really the boss here. “So, what are you saying? That, in dreams, we travel to other dimensions?”

  He shrugs back, his cheeks flushing a little — as if, all of a sudden, he feels like an idiot for bringing up something so … out there. I do my best to keep my expression open, encouraging, let him know that he can say anything — but I worry that the slight smile I put on comes off like I’m mocking him.

  “There has to be some reason,” he says, “why it all feels so familiar when you’re in it. I dunno — maybe I’m just talking out of my ass.”

  His jaw clenches as he looks away. I hate myself for noting a difference between him and Colin — Anthony seems to care what I think of him, and I like that. I nudge his elbow with mine, prompt him: “Go on …”

  He closes his eyes, lightly shakes his head as if saying to himself, I can’t believe I’m actually going to talk about this. “It’s not traveling, obviously — you never go anywhere. But I always wake up and wonder — what if, in the dream, I’m seeing through the eyes of some Alternate Me? Living his life, for a little while? Because there has to be a reason you never dream that you’re someone else, right? You’re always you, it’s just the circumstances around you that are different. There’s no restriction on what you can dream about, but the one thing your mind never does is give you a completely new identity. Why wouldn’t your subconsciousness make you over into a completely new, better person?”

  I’m aware that I’m staring at him now, and I just hope that my face doesn’t show the question I’m afraid to ask him: Is that what he wants? To be someone different?

  Instead, I say: “Huh … Well, okay, let’s assume that is what we do when we dream, so this would obviously mean the Other Us … must be dreaming about us when they go to sleep, right?”

  He laughs, looks at his shoes. I worry that, pretty soon, his cheeks are going to look almost sunburnt. “Forget it. I’m talking bollocks … Did I use that right?”

  I’m not going to let him change the subject. “You just got me thinking … One of the things that always bothers me — and this happens every bloody day — is, like, when I go downstairs to the kitchen to get something, by the time I get down there, I can’t remember what it is I wanted.”

  He nods at me. “And you feel like —”

  “Like I’m waking up or something. Now you’ve got me wondering, what if that’s what it is? Other Me, somewhere out there” — I point at what is supposed to be Another Dimension but is really just the Williamsburg Wanker in the black cardi sitting opposite, trying not to look like he’s totally eavesdropping — “woke up, and it’s that severed connection that has made me all confused? I think that’s a far better explanation than that I’m losing my marbles at the age of seventeen.”

  He just smiles at me, the flush fading from his cheeks. I keep my eyes on his, trying to keep him engaged in the conversation, because his attention is on someone who is not Maya. This is the point of this whole escapade, after all.

  The next thing we know, we’re at 116th Street, Columbia University. We get off the train and exit the station and walk to the Upper West Side address that Katie gave me, where this party is supposed to be happening. I stay close to Anthony and let him guide me, so that I don’t have to do much looking up …

  So that I don’t do any staring at the campus, thinking about what could be …

  What might not be.

  *

  It takes a few presses of the buzzer and me sending Katie an SOS via WhatsApp, but we’re eventually buzzed in, and I lead Anthony i
nto the elevator and up to the fourth floor — the American fifth floor — of a swanky apartment building. I guess I’m in the lead because I’m the one who knows somebody at this party. The elevator lets us out. The door to 5B is open, the chatter of the guests riding a wave of indie music — because, of course — and Mistake paws at my arms as if trying to run away. I soothe her, promising we won’t stay here long, as we walk into a living, breathing poster for the nonexistent J.Crew/Hollister merger. Nothing but crisp Oxford shirts, Fair Isle sweaters and swing dresses — preppy central! Also, they’ve all clustered by the front door, which — with my tote bag and Anthony’s backpack — makes getting into the apartment a bit of a challenge.

  “Oh, my badness!” Katie’s voice slices through the music and the hubbub, a deep kind of rasp that is unerringly commanding. The crowd by the front door seems to part at its sound, giving me a view of Katie, standing in the kitchen at the end of the hallway — counters and cupboards orbiting a black granite breakfast bar. She’s staring at Mistake, and I briefly panic and wonder if it’s a violation of some social code to bring an English bulldog to a Cool Party, but then Katie steps out of the kitchen, hands extended as if to take Mistake, and I am about to hand her the puppy when Katie actually takes hold of me.

  “Let me see you in the light,” she gasps, pulling me into the kitchen. She holds me at arm’s length, looking me up and down. “I like this new you, Lottie.” (She has called me Lottie since my first day at Sacred Heart. I started hating it on the second day.)

  “Just trying something different, you know?” I tell her, cuddling Mistake — Katie’s voice seems to be unnerving the dog. Maybe, if I keep talking, she will calm down. “Thanks for inviting me. A party on Christmas Eve — we don’t do that back home. Is it an American thing?”

  Katie shrugs. “Nah, not really — my family’s Jewish, so we don’t make a big deal out of Christmas at all. This is my cousin’s apartment, and she’s out of town.”

  “Don’t tell me she doesn’t know this is happening?”

  Katie’s laugh is an actual titter. “No, no, silly — I’m bad, but I’m not that bad. Naomi’s always been cool about us having parties when she’s away. She says they’re a way to experience life in fast-forward.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She makes a face — wrinkling her nose, lightly shaking her head. “I actually have no idea. But whatever — free party venue. Speaking of which, want to try this spiked cider that my girl Harriet cooked up?”

  Katie doesn’t even wait for my answer. She’s already picking up a red cup from the breakfast bar, which she then hands to me. I take it, turning to ask Anthony if he’d like one, too …

  But Anthony’s not next to me anymore. My surprise must show on my face, because Katie points to the living room. “I think I saw him get picked off.”

  I wriggle my way past the gay couple canoodling under the mistletoe over the kitchen door, avoid eye contact with a jock type who I think I recognize from Biology … I’m tempted to hold up Mistake as a shield, in case he has any ideas about a “lean in.” Then I think myself a monster for considering using the pup like that.

  I get into the living room and almost heave at the damp air, thick with body heat, layered with the tang of spilled alcohol. I look for Anthony in the crowd and find him in a corner, by the obscenely large TV, which is on, muted, showing a rerun of The Big Bang Theory.

  Katie was right — he’s been picked off. Two girls in super cute flannel shirts and jeans — I warm to them for breaking the swing dress mold — stand in front of him. They have their backs to me, so I can’t tell if they’re from Sacred Heart — but what I do know is that they’ve coordinated their flirting. The one on my left, Anthony’s right, works her braids through her fingertips, like she’s playing a flute. The other — Anthony’s left, my right — has her hands on her hips, staring at Anthony intently, not moving at all. She’s like a mannequin, just with a healthy glow to her complexion.

  “No way are you from Bensonhurst!” says The Mannequin, flicking a slap at Anthony’s upper arm, as if telling him off for lying.

  Anthony grins and looks down at his shoes. I can’t tell if this is embarrassment or if he’s really enjoying himself — just like I can’t tell if this twinge I’ve got in my chest is actual jealousy.

  Then I remind myself, This is good. He needs to get over Maya. But The Mannequin kind of looks like Maya the Sequel, and I think about rescuing him.

  “I am, I swear,” he says to them. “I’ll prove it to you. Check this out.” Then he makes sounds that I think might be words, but it’s hard to tell. All I catch is “Yo.”

  The two girls think it’s hysterical, though. Maya the Sequel says that she loves accents — Anthony’s is “really, like, real, you know?”

  “Yeah, but still,” says the Hair Fiddler, “I’ve never met any guy from Bensonhurst who dresses like this.”

  “I like it.” Maya the Sequel slaps his arm again — such a nuanced, versatile gesture. “Brooklyn boy gone slightly preppy. Tough and preppy.” Then she gasps, stops swaying. “Treppy!”

  The Hair Fiddler gasps. “Love. It!”

  “Right?!”

  Anthony smiles at them. “No, you’re right — that’s not my accent, not really. I am from Bensonhurst, though, I promise.” Then he notices me. “Hey, you ladies want to hear a real accent? Check this out. Charlotte …” He beckons me over, and there’s something about the expressions on the girls’ faces that makes me not want to go over. But I do.

  “This is Bianca” — he points to the Hair Fiddler, then to Maya the Sequel — “and Ashley.”

  The two girls totally size me up for the one-and-a-half seconds they stop gazing at Anthony to look at me. They must conclude I’m not competition. As annoying as I find this, I’m also disappointed.

  “Say things.” Anthony’s looking at me, but with the same expression I give my dog, Rocky, when I want him to show people he can nod his head “yes” and shake his head “no.”

  “What sort of things?” I ask.

  The only answer I get is three Americans badly echoing me: “‘Wot sawt uh fings?’”

  All three of them laugh at their bad impressions, and I start to hope I get deported. If this is what I have to look forward to from next year on …

  Anthony stops laughing long enough to reach for Mistake. “Want me to take her off your hands so you can enjoy that drink?”

  As soon as Mistake is in Anthony’s arms, Bianca and Ashley start cooing — not over the amazingly cute dog, but at how “adorable” Anthony looks cuddling her. They didn’t react to the dog at all when she was in my arms.

  I also can’t help noticing that Anthony has been smiling the whole time I’ve been in the living room, which must be entirely due to Bianca and Ashley. For a second, I feel an urge to snatch Mistake back. Is that all it takes? A couple of hot girls flash their teeth, bat their eyes, and he’s no longer heartbroken? Was he ever heartbroken? Or was I the only one feeling something real?

  But … this was the point. Getting him over Maya.

  It seems to be working.

  Bianca’s pointing from Anthony to me and back again. “So, what is this? This your girlfriend?”

  “No!” says Anthony — a little quick. A little loud.

  “I’m going to go talk to some of the girls from Sacred Heart,” I tell him. “You okay with Mistake?”

  I don’t wait for his answer. I turn around and start toward the living room door. Then I stop dead, my legs feeling like they’ve been turned to concrete, my heart doing its level best to climb right out of my chest, beating out a dubstep rhythm the whole time. I genuinely feel like I might pass out as I stare at a slightly lanky, very pale boy in a black cardigan over a white T-shirt for some band called The National, standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen.

  My ex-boyfriend, Co
lin. He’s here.

  So much for Step Six!

  “You okay, Charlotte?” Anthony tears his attention away from Bianca and Ashley to see why I’m being so weird all of a sudden.

  I turn to look at him, hoping my fake grin covers up the grimace I can feel tugging at my cheeks, but pretty sure I’m just managing a grinace. “Yep, fine, just trying to figure out how I can get past all those people by the door. There’s a lot of them. It’ll be a squeeze. I might spill my cider.” And now I’m rambling!

  He’s looking at me funny, but Bianca and Ashley have converged on Mistake, and I don’t want to distract him from his distraction. He’s moving on, his ex being forced right out of his head — which is great for him.

  Bless his heart, Anthony ignores the two hot girls and focuses only on me, giving me a look that asks if I’m sure I’m okay. I do my best Oh-I’m-fine face when, really, I know that if my expression had subtitles, they’d say: “Uh, no, I’m not okay. Colin, the arsehole I came here to avoid talking about, is here at this party. Yes, of course he’s the one in the skinny jeans — how did you know? I’m totally, totally freaking out, and I kind of want to leave this party right now, but I can also see that you’re having fun, and I don’t know why, but I don’t like that. This is one giant emotional overload, and I don’t know if it’ll be my heart or my head that explodes first!”

  God, I even ramble in my mind.

  But I don’t say any of this to him. Instead, I just keep grinacing and give him a nod, then turn back to the door. Colin’s moved on. I make my way to the kitchen — mercifully, Colin’s not there (he must have joined the front-door crowd). I leave my cider untouched on the breakfast bar, then lean on the worktop at the far wall, trying to get myself together. It’s only now that I’m having this emotional overload that I realize I’ve been doing pretty well these last few hours. Distraction was kind of working — but it won’t work now that I’m sharing physical space with him.

  What is he even doing here? This party is far too mainstream for him. I think the song I can hear coming from the living room is a James Bay song, which should be causing Colin to break out in hives or something. Also, I don’t remember him talking to Katie at school, ever, so why would he even be invited?