Kiss Me in New York

by Catherine Rider

  “It’s okay, really,” he whispers.

  Without thinking, I lean my head on his shoulder, and something about the comfort of doing this must relax me enough to start weeping into his field coat. Mistake wriggles in my arms, whining and desperately climbing up my chest, because it seems to be very important for me to get face licks.

  They do actually make me feel a little bit better.

  “She’s worried about you.” I can hear the smile in Anthony’s voice. Feel him shift slightly, his head turning toward mine, his nose brushing against my hair.

  His arm against mine stiffens, as he catches himself. His head turns away from me as he whispers, “So am I.”

  My cheeks flush, but I think that’s just from the crying. I reach up to wipe my nose with the back of my hand, then stop myself. Am I that comfortable with a boy I met less than six hours ago?

  “What is it?” Anthony asks me.

  I give him the honest answer. “I’m just realizing what a complete idiot I’ve been.”

  I run through the story: Colin and me, at the fountain at Lincoln Center, a clear night that wasn’t too cold, the hand-in-hand running through tourists, me telling him how I felt … saying I loved him.

  I feel Anthony’s head nod against mine. “But he didn’t say it back.”

  “I thought that he did … I thought that, because I loved him, he had to love me back. You know?” Screw it. I wipe my nose. Sniffle loudly, grossly. Cry some more. “But I guess you were right in the airport … Maybe I don’t understand love … Maybe I never d-d-d —”

  I shut up, because if I don’t, I’ll probably sob. I grit my teeth, make that wet, inward sighing sound you do when you’re strangling a wail. Were it not for Anthony letting go of my hand and putting his arm around me like a brace, I think I’d actually let go, and start properly crying, with shaking shoulders and everything. I’m almost proud of myself for keeping it down to simple sniffles and single tears — a respectable form of weeping. Mistake just burrows into the crook of my arm, and I clutch at her as if drawing power.

  This might be the most bizarre group hug ever seen on the Upper West Side.

  Anthony — bless him — gives me a long minute to get myself together. When I’ve calmed down, he says:

  “Listen, whatever it is, whatever you’re trying to … I don’t know, hold in … don’t. You’re seventeen. It’s okay to cry when you have a reason.”

  I wish he didn’t say that — permission drags open the floodgates a little more, and I put my face in my free hand, feeling lines of tears and snot quickly run down my wrist. Anthony holds me to him, tighter. My heart’s still hurting, but a relaxed calm comes over me at the same time, enough of a calm to get me to admit something.

  “I guess I shouldn’t have prewritten my New York Story.”

  He speaks into my hair. “What do you mean?”

  Sniff. Sniff. Sigh. “I mean, I came here with the Story already written in my head. I was going to have the best time, because I could be me — or a version of me I don’t get to be back home. And by being that ‘me,’ I was going to” — I feel like I might literally choke on the next words — “attract somebody. I’d been failing at that all through school, but I’d convinced myself I wasn’t the problem, the problem was that I belonged somewhere else. I just needed to be in a place where I did belong, and then someone would get me. Now, I feel like an idiot, because if I hadn’t got so wrapped up in what I imagined would happen, maybe I’d have paid more attention to what was happening. But that’s me, I guess … Never in the moment, never impulsive.”

  “And that’s why you want to be impulsive today?”

  I laugh, hoping he doesn’t notice the flecks of spittle splattering his field coat. “Pretty lame, huh? I can be impulsive when there’s next to no consequences.”

  His fingers quickly squeeze my shoulder twice — an encouraging, comforting gesture. “Don’t sell yourself short. That impulsive decision not to go to the hotel got you stranded in Manhattan in the middle of the night, and you’re currently risking hypothermia sitting still for so long. I’d say that’s a consequence.”

  “Yeah, I suppose …”

  We lapse into silence for a few seconds, until Anthony asks me: “You really feel like you don’t belong back home?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “I’m starting to think, maybe it’s not so much that I feel like I don’t belong back home, more that I …” I shrug, to show I at least know that what I’m about to say might be lame — and even kind of childishly selfish. “I guess part of me wants more.”

  “That’s not something to feel bad about.”

  I lean away so that I can look at him. He keeps his hand on me. “So, what now?” I ask. “Take the next step?”

  “You know, I was thinking maybe we take a time-out from the book. In fact …” He pulls away but keeps his arm around me. He looks me up and down. “I don’t think we need a time-out. I think we need a reset. I mean, you look amazing in this outfit, but …”

  He looks away, and his teeth clamp on his bottom lip. Seeing him shy, after he’s just intimidated my ex-boyfriend into becoming a jittery, squeaky fool, is a bit disconcerting.

  I lean forward, cursing myself for sniffling still. “What?”

  His lips curl in a rueful smile. He shakes his head, as if not believing what he’s about to say. “I was just going to tell you that, actually, I think I liked your original look better. Now that I’ve gotten to know you a little bit, it feels more … you, I guess.”

  I look down at myself and nod. “Yeah, I guess I haven’t done this tough girl look any sort of justice. Okay … Let’s reboot, then.”

  I look up and down 116th Street. “It’s after nine on Christmas Eve. Everything’s closed, right? Where can we go to change?”

  “I guess we could go to a bar. They’re pretty much the only places open.”

  I tut. “I’m underage, even back home. And so are you.”

  He takes his arm away from me to reach into his inside pocket. Takes out a driver’s license and shows it to me. It’s a recent picture of him, but the license says it’s about two years old, and that Anthony is twenty-three, nearly twenty-four.

  I’m impressed. “That looks a lot more convincing than some of the ones I’ve seen at Sacred Heart.”

  “I know a guy” is the only explanation he gives me.

  “Well, that’s great for you, but I only have my passport, and that has my real date of birth on it.”

  “The place I’m thinking of doesn’t card hot girls.” He puts the ID back in his pocket, keeps his arm to himself. I’m more aware of its absence than I should be.

  “We can go to a bar,” I say, “but I’m not sure alcohol is the best idea for me right now. Not after …” I trail off because, damn it, I don’t have to fail Step Six any harder than I already have.

  “Sure.” He gets up, dusts some snow off his shoulders. “All I want is to be somewhere warm. We can have one drink, get ourselves together and then keep stepping.” He holds out his hand.

  I shift Mistake from one side to the other so that I don’t reach for him with the hand I used to wipe my nose. “Where are we going?”

  “To my favorite dive bar.”

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

  (Kind of.)

  ~ Chapter Six ~

  Anthony

  9:35 p.m.

  Most of Hell’s Kitchen has gentrified enough to need rebranding, but the streets behind Port Authority are still worthy of the name. Because of this, I stand protectively close to Charlotte as we walk along Fortieth Street, willing my arm not to slink around her shoulders, holding her to me. She’s not Maya, she’s not my girlfriend, she’s not anything …

  Well, that’s not actually true. She’s not nothing. I don’t know what she is, but she’s not nothing. And it’s ni
ce to feel this again — the closeness of someone who wants to be close to you. I don’t remember the last time I felt that way with Maya.

  “I know you said this place was a dive,” Charlotte says, as the neon-blue sign for the bar looms into view. “But should I do something about our dog?”

  “Yeah, probably a good idea to keep her hidden,” I answer, and as Charlotte wrestles and wriggles Mistake into her tote bag, I realize she said “our” dog, and I can tell from the way she doesn’t look at me after she’s gotten Mistake hidden away that she’s realized it, too. But it’s only weird if we actually talk about it, so I don’t talk about it.

  As I predicted, my fake ID and Charlotte’s looks get us right past the bouncer — who is far more interested in the epic text message he’s writing, anyway. Charlotte opens the door, and we head inside. I can’t help stealing a look at what the bouncer’s writing. I catch at least two “Sorrys” and one “I messed up, and I gotta live with that.”

  At least some people who cheat actually feel bad about it.

  Not only is Ice Bar a dive, it’s also about as dead as Elvis tonight. There’s a lanky guy — who I guess is in his midthirties — sitting in the classic elbows-on-the-bar, head-over-whiskey pose that I’m surprised to see in real life. At a booth in the back, a forty-something woman (who might be a Goth, but it might also be the light in here) is staring at two wineglasses in front of her. Hers is half full, the other is empty, as if whoever she was with earlier drained it and made a quick exit. Brutal.

  At another booth, a jock-type guy is flicking through the photos on his phone, lingering on each for a second, then moving to the next. Behind him, a twenty-something couple — one of those annoyingly perfect ones, each so good-looking they actually start to look like siblings — are sitting across from each other, limply holding hands and staring at the table. A breakup’s happening. Bing Crosby is finishing up about being home for Christmas, but that seems to be a problem for everyone in here. Charlotte can’t go home, and everyone else — including me — is probably dreading it.

  “I’m not sure this is going to do much for our moods,” Charlotte mumbles.

  I shrug. “Well, at least we can take comfort in the fact that we’re doing better than most of the people in here."

  She shrugs back and mumbles, “I guess.”

  I let her know that we can duck into the bathroom and change — and if it’s still dead when we’re done, we can take off.

  She agrees, as Bing makes way for George Michael’s “Last Christmas,” and I realize that this might totally be my song next Christmas. The difference is that Maya didn’t so much give my heart away — the very next day — as see how far she could throw it. Emotionally, that girl’s got some arm on her.

  I catch Charlotte’s eye and can tell from the slight smirk on her face — half pain, half humor — that she’s thinking the same thing as me. Of all the songs to be playing as we walk in …

  I look to her. “Meet you back out here?”

  Charlotte nods, and we both head to the bathrooms, which are scarily pristine for a bar that otherwise looks like it’s survived a nuclear war. The first time I saw the bathroom here was at the start of the semester when my college buddy Tom and I were test-driving our fake IDs. I’d had a few beers by the time I headed to the bathroom, and I freaked out, thinking that I’d either gone into the ladies’ room (as they’re supposedly much nicer, as a rule) or a whole new bar. Tom got worried because I didn’t come out again for five whole minutes.

  I change quickly, mindful to keep the bought clothes carefully folded, although I’m maybe not as confident in our chances of returning them as I told Charlotte. Well, my chances of returning them, I remind myself, because I’m the one who’s still going to be here to make the trip back to Macy’s. She’s going home — for Christmas — tomorrow.

  Once I’m changed, I tuck the folded Macy’s gear back into my backpack and eye myself in the mirror, wondering, what the hell am I thinking, bringing a nice girl to Ice Bar?

  But my stomach isn’t churning from worry that I’ll get back out there and Charlotte will have taken off. This is weird — I mean, do I not care what she thinks? I took Maya to far classier places than this and spent half the time thinking I was going to be dumped at any moment — particularly if a place was as dead as Ice Bar is tonight. Maya could never appreciate a quiet establishment. There always needed to be other people … because then there’d be a better chance of finding a replacement for me? (Damn, Anthony, let it go.) But I’m not panicking about what Charlotte thinks of this dead dive bar in Hell’s Kitchen.

  I guess I’m just that comfortable around her.

  Charlotte’s already at the bar when I go back in, once again wearing the clothes she had on when we met. They are definitely more her, but how did I lose a quick-change race to a girl? How long did I stare at myself in the mirror? She’s taken a seat three stools down from the guy hunched over his whiskey, with Mistake dozing on the floor next to her, in her tote bag. I instinctively put my body between her and him, although I don’t know what, exactly, I’m shielding her from.

  “Want a Coke or something?” I ask her.

  She shakes her head, but she’s smiling, and I’m so psyched to see it — after she was sniveling less than twenty minutes ago — that I’m ready to buy her whatever she wants. Except I have no idea what she means when she says she wants “a drink with a little brolly in it.”

  She cracks up at my clueless look and explains that a brolly is not another cute British curse. “Y’know, a parasol. An umbrella.”

  “I know what a parasol is,” I tell her, motioning to the bartender. “It was ‘brolly’ that confused me.” I order a beer for myself and a virgin mojito for Charlotte. It doesn’t come with a little parasol, and when the bartender moves off, she makes a face at me.

  “Not that kind of place,” I say.

  She taps her fingers on the bar, thinking. Then she reaches for a coaster, checking that it’s dry. She folds it a couple times, then balances it on top of her straw. She leans back in her stool.

  “There.” She grins at me. “Since we’ve already improvised so much today.”

  The makeshift umbrella falls off, and we laugh, and I’m about to make a joke about neither of us being able to do anything right today. But I stop myself from doing that.

  The playlist has shuffled to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

  “What?” Charlotte’s looking at me as the song fades out. She clearly caught the look of disdain I always get whenever I hear a cover of the song.

  “They wimped out,” I tell her. “The last lines are supposed to be different, and much more depressing. It talks about muddling through life until the fates allow us to be together.” Oh, crap, I’m so close to actually starting to sing the song.

  “I didn’t know that,” Charlotte says.

  “Most people covering the song now change the last verse. I guess they think the original is too sad or whatever. But I dunno — sometimes that’s what Christmas is about. Muddling through, doing your best to keep it together when all the fake happiness around you just reminds you that you’re not happy.”

  “Is that what your family does? Muddle through?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I’m aware of my fingers tightening around the beer glass — I’m thinking about what she was saying after we left the party, about her hopes for New York becoming the place where she belonged, and what she said at Washington Square, about the idea of “home,” a place I still don’t want to go to right now …

  I seek refuge in my beer, taking a big gulp and letting the moment pass. After a pause, I’m confident enough to look back at Charlotte, but she’s looking at me with what I think is pity, because I guess she’s filled in enough of the blanks. Then I see her hand start to move.

  She’s reaching for me. For my face. Is she making a move? I don’t even kno
w what I want to do about it if she does. But I gotta figure it out, because something might be about to happen …

  She flicks the tip of my nose.

  “Beer foam,” she says. We both laugh, though I can also feel this weird tension in my chest starting to release. Am I … disappointed?

  The moment is kind of shredded by the sound of loud, wet sniffling. I look down to where Mistake is lying, thinking that the pup might be sick or something, but she’s still asleep, snoring.

  Charlotte leans to look past me, farther down the bar, and then makes a face.

  “I guess that proves what you were saying,” she whispers to me. “Christmas is a time for muddling through.”

  I turn and look. The guy three stools down, bent over his whiskey, is not just a morose, moody drinker — he’s wiping his eyes and nose with the backs of his fingers. His shoulders are quivering like he’s being electrocuted gently.

  Charlotte and I share a grimace. I have a feeling we both might know something about what he’s going through, too. Then I ask Charlotte what she wants to do now. After we’re done here, does she want to go back to the airport?

  She frowns at me over her mocktail. “What about the steps? We’ve only done …” She looks to the ceiling, mentally ticking them off. I try not to stare at those dimples and wonder why they draw my eye the way they do. “Five. That’s just half.”

  “Well, I thought that you might be done with the book. That last step kind of blew up in our faces.”

  She almost sprays mojito all over me. “You think?” She sets her drink down, looks for a napkin. Doesn’t see one. She shrugs and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Something Maya would never do — at least, not in front of me. “I was kind of enjoying it up until the party, though. And besides, I’ve still got plenty of hours to kill before my flight. I’d rather spend them seeing as much of the city as I can, rather than brooding in the airport, thinking about a certain pranny.”

  I laugh. “Please keep bringing the British curses! They don’t make any sense at all, but I’m loving them.”