Kiss Me in New York

by Catherine Rider

  He might be trying to be funny, but I am not waiting around to confirm this. I move off and run into Anthony, who is backing away from a table with his hands raised in what looks like surrender. When Mistake nuzzles his arm, he uses that as his excuse to turn completely away from the mousy-haired girl — who might be the only twenty-something in here — sitting at the table, flicking through what looks like a travel brochure.

  “I think I may have just gone halfsies on a time-share in Myrtle Beach,” Anthony mumbles.

  “That’s nothing,” I mumble back. “I got hit on by a sock puppet … and Mistake kind of murdered him.”

  He leans down and kisses Mistake’s head. “Good girl.”

  I think about asking Anthony if he wants to get out of here — but when I scan the room and look for The Doug, I see that he’s sitting at the bar, deep in conversation with a woman his age, whose violet blouse is open, revealing a blood-red corset underneath. It’s too dark in here for me to make out the tattoo on her chest, but I can see that it covers all of her skin. Not whom I would have pegged as Doug’s type, but he seems kind of rapt. So I shrug at Anthony.

  “Round Two, I guess?”

  He looks reluctant, but he nods. “One conversation, one kiss, and then we get out of here? Get far away from the Upper East Side?”

  “Deal.”

  *

  “Let me break it down for you, okay?”

  It’s about five minutes since we began Round Two, and I’m already regretting asking Tag — that’s actually his name — why he’s still wearing his Rand-Paul-for-President T-shirt, even with how the election went down. He didn’t think my accent was “beguiling” so much as an invitation to go on (and on and on and on) about “big government” and taxes that are too harsh on “job creators” — concepts we Europeans are “stubbornly refusing” to get with, apparently. I’m sure there are Europeans who can make heads and tails of what he’s saying, but I don’t really understand what he’s talking about. Which really doesn’t matter, because this is more lecture than conversation. I decide my best course of action is to not say much in response and communicate in “mmms” and “uh-huhs,” maybe offer him the occasional “right, right.”

  As I’m doing this, I’m looking for Anthony, but I can’t see him anywhere. Has he got his Jingle Pass? Is he waiting impatiently for me so we can leave? Who might he have kissed?

  I’m on autopilot with the wordless responses when the words “next Tuesday” cut through everything like an air horn. I realize that I’m now nodding, but I have absolutely no idea what I’m nodding to — I just know that it’s happening next Tuesday.

  “Wait, sorry,” I say. “Run that by me again?”

  “Next Tuesday,” says Tag, “I’ll take you to the range. You know, let you get comfortable with the Second Amendment.” He forms his fingers into guns and actually makes little “pew pew!” sounds as he fires them at the ceiling.

  Oh no.

  There’s only one thing for it — it goes against every fiber of my Englishness, but sometimes being blunt and rude is your only option.

  “No.” I move past Tag. “That is definitely not for me. Goodbye.”

  I walk off, fighting the urge to apologize. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod, that was so rude, that was so rude. Then I hear Tag calling after me: Do I have a problem with guns? If I do, apparently I ought to watch I don’t slip on the mess my bleeding heart has made — “You liberal!”

  I stop feeling bad about being rude.

  As I’m walking past the door to the gents’, Anthony charges past me and pushes his way into it. I think that … was he … crying? Oh no, he hasn’t had some kind of Maya relapse, has he? He was doing so well!

  I quickly scan and make sure that no one’s looking my way, so that I can duck into the gents’. I find Anthony hunched over the sink. He sniffs and wipes his eyes. Guess this is how I get to repay him for keeping me together after the party.

  I take a hesitant step forward. “Hey, you okay?”

  He sniffles. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I just need a minute.”

  “Might have been a mistake” — I hold up my bag, even though he can’t see me to appreciate the brilliant pun — “coming here, huh?”

  He doesn’t answer. He just takes a wet, rasping breath.

  “But, seriously, you’ve been doing great tonight. Don’t backslide now, you’re going to be fine.”

  He speaks into the sink, his voice echoing. “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, I mean … you’re upset about M— her again, right?”

  He makes no sound, but I see his shoulders juddering. Oh no, I’ve set him off, and now he’s sobbing his heart out. All that work undone.

  Then I notice that he’s not so much boo-hoo-ing as ha-ha-ing. Is he … laughing? He straightens up and turns around — his face is slick with the tears streaming from his eyes, but he’s definitely laughing.

  “I’m not crying over Maya,” he says, leaning forward and putting his hands on his knees. “I just spent Round Two with a girl named Erin — she brought her cats! All three of them. I’m allergic, that’s all.”

  We both start laughing, the sound so loud and echo-y in the gents’ that Mistake wakes up and grumbles at us, like, What’s wrong with the two of you? I’m trying to sleep!

  The laughter fades away, and we just stare at each other for a few seconds — a weird silence but not all that uncomfortable. “Listen,” he says, and his allergic reaction must be passing because his voice is starting to sound less scratchy. “Making Step Seven’s going to be tough. Everyone seems nice and all, but … I dunno, there’s no one who I’d call my ‘type’ out there.”

  “Same. Let’s get out of here. I’ll tell Doug.”

  I jump and spin around when the door to the gents’ flies open, hitting the wall with a thunderous thud that makes Mistake almost fly out of my tote bag. The first thing I notice is Mrs. Claus — well, a woman dressed like Mrs. Claus — dragging someone into the toilet. It’s Doug, and he’s grinning like a loon and fake whispering:

  “But what if your husband catches us? I’ll never get off the Naughty List.”

  Mrs. Claus pulls Doug in closer as the bathroom door closes. “But then you’ll be on my Naughty List.” I guess she’s found out about Gee-Gee and is getting back at Santa.

  “That sounds like it’s much more fu— Hey, guys!” When he sees us, Doug almost shoves Mrs. Claus away from him.

  “Hey, Doug …” Anthony’s only just keeping it together as he gives Doug’s new lady friend a polite bow. “Ma’am.”

  Mrs. Claus is a rather … buxom woman who looks to be around Doug’s age, and I can only assume she needs at least the last three hours of every day to remove her makeup. Where Doug’s looking at his shoes, she’s just shaking her head — finding this funny more than mortifying. I like that.

  I say that Anthony and I are going to take off, and The Doug marches forward to pull both of us into a hug. “This was a great idea, you guys. So great! Thank you, thank you, thank you.” He kisses us both on the cheek. I could do without the whiskey breath, if I’m honest, but I’m happy for him — and pleased that we crossed off Step Five.

  Anthony and I leave them to it, stepping out of the bathroom. We both pretend we don’t hear a stall door slamming shut, a lock being thrown across. We just put as much distance between us and the bathroom as we can, walking back to the bar and standing behind Mrs. Pink Drink, who’s explaining the rules to two more singles — one man, one woman, both in some kind of comic book–themed T-shirts, looking equally nervous, and I wonder if they’re the only two people who don’t realize how good they look together.

  I turn to Anthony. “Shall we go, then?” I guess I’ll complete Step Seven — hook up with someone else — another time. When I’m back home. I mean, it’s probably about time I started kissing English boys …

 
; He nods, and we start toward the exit, only for Mrs. Pink Drink to remind us that we don’t have Jingle Passes. “Ah, it’s okay,” says Anthony. “Thanks, anyway.”

  Mrs. Pink Drink leans forward on her bar stool, motioning to the thick-necked, burly guy I’ve only just noticed standing by the front door that he’s not to let us out. “I don’t think you understand,” she tells us. “No one leaves here without earning a Jingle Pass.”

  Damn it, from where she is sitting, she can see the whole room — so we can’t even say that we’ve just kissed one of the people we’d been talking to. But then, even in Imaginary Land, I don’t think I could bear anyone knowing I’d snogged Tag — or Sweater Vest. And Anthony wouldn’t have survived a kiss with Erin the Cat Lady.

  He’s pulling me aside as I ask him, “Can she really stop us from leaving? She can’t care that much!”

  Anthony’s just looking at me, his face saying, I have no idea. “There’s something about her that tells me she’ll give us shit if we try to walk out of here un-kissed.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re frightened of making a scene. That’s supposed to be a British thing. You lot are supposed to be all American and forthright and not give a … What, why are you looking at me like that?”

  His face has become very still, his eyes slightly narrowed as if I’m a riddle he’s almost solved.

  “You know, there is one way out of here,” he says.

  “What’s that?”

  He just raises his eyebrows at me. I know we’ve not been apart for, like, the last seven hours or so, but that doesn’t mean I’ve developed the skill to read his …

  Oh.

  I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. Or had I been ignoring the obvious? No — there’s no way my cheeks would be burning the way they are right now if I wasn’t surprised.

  Anthony wants to kiss me.

  Or does he? I seem to have paused so long, he’s changed his mind. “Nah, it’s a dumb idea.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s just to get us out of here. It’s no big deal, right?”

  He says nothing — just closes his eyes for a second (working up courage?), then leans in …

  And gets a faceful of Mistake, the pup rearing up out of my tote bag, stealing my kiss for herself.

  “Get down, you!” I laugh, shoving her back into my bag. When I look back at Anthony, he has one hand over his eyes, and he’s shaking his head, like, Could that have gone any worse?

  I know that if I don’t laugh along, the moment might pass. So I point out to him that Mrs. Pink Drink wasn’t looking anyway and might not have believed us. Also, we’re not under mistletoe, and I know she’s that much of a cow that she’ll disqualify us just for that. Imagine that scene! So, I move forward and take Anthony’s hand, pulling him over to the nearest mistletoe, beside a table where — bloody hell — Tag is chatting up the Tattooed Corset Lady Doug was talking to earlier.

  I position us so that we’re in Mrs. Pink Drink’s line of sight. I make sure she’s looking at us, giving her a nod. Then I feel weird for doing so — like she’s really invested in this moment or something.

  This is it. This is going to happen. I’m now hyper aware of the fact that Anthony’s taller than Colin, and I’m going to have to get on my tippy-toes — unless he’s going to lean all the way down? When I reflexively lick my lips, I notice that they’re a bit dry and chapped from the cold, and I try to figure out how I can ask Anthony for a time-out so I can scrounge up the lip balm in my tote bag when —

  He kisses me. It’s a little more than the peck that I was expecting — softer, deeper, lingering for maybe three seconds before I feel his hand on my elbow, holding me close as he pulls away. After, I purse my lips so as not to make any embarrassing gasps, but with my racing heart, the quickening breaths I take through my nose quickly make me feel light-headed.

  We’re looking into each other’s eyes, and I think we’re both a little stunned by how great the kiss was. Unless, I’m stunned, and he’s just grossed out by my chapped lips. But he’s not making a face, so that’s good, right?

  We snap out of it at the sound of jingle-jangling coming from over by the bar. Mrs. Pink Drink’s holding out our passes. I step forward and take them from her. “I’m glad someone’s having a good Christmas Eve,” she says, and it’s now very clear to me that she’s not a stickler for any real rules — she just doesn’t want to be here. I wonder what her story is, tentatively adding her to the number of lovelorn and heartbroken people Anthony and I met tonight.

  “Charlotte.”

  That’s Anthony, and he’s motioning at me that we should get going.

  “Yes!” Even a full minute later, my voice is still a little high and squeaky, affected by the kiss. His sounds normal.

  I follow him out of Smooch, past the bouncer, who doesn’t even look up from his Sudoku when Anthony drops the jingling passes next to him.

  Anthony leads me a little way down the street, then comes to an abrupt stop in front of me. I just stare at the back of his head, trying to guess at the look on his face. Is he thinking about the kiss? Is he regretting it? He kind of shouldn’t — he was the one doing all the leaning, after all!

  But when he turns around, he’s got a smile on his face. He liked it, I know he did. I smile back at him, make a face, like, I know, right?

  “It’s really pretty out now.”

  I’m thrown. “Huh?”

  He takes my hand again, pulls me to him. “Stand here. Look.”

  It takes me a second to re-center myself and for my eyes to follow where he’s pointing. At first, I wonder what the hell he’s pointing at. But then I see the twinkle of twirling snow, turning golden as it dances around the streetlights on Eighty-Sixth Street. It’s strangely still and peaceful, and this stillness lessens my homesickness somehow. It’s so quiet, so pleasant, I’m not feeling the distance. Only the moment.

  When I realize that Anthony’s still holding my hand, I feel heat rising to my cheeks, feel my arm stiffen against his. He looks down sharply, then pulls away with a mumbled “sorry.” I want to tell him there’s really no problem, but before I can, he’s asking me: “What next?”

  What next? I mean, we can go somewhere quiet, if anywhere is open, and maybe talk about what just happened, what it might mean. After I’ve thought all of this, I realize that he of course means, What’s the next step?

  “Oh!” I let him take Mistake and her leash out of the tote bag, so the little madam can stretch her legs on the sidewalk, while I take out the book again. Only three more steps left, by my count. I find the eighth one and turn the book around so that Anthony can see it: “Do something that scares you a little.”

  Anthony ponders this, and I know that something has immediately come to his mind. But when I ask him, he just shakes his head. “I think we should focus on you now,” he says. “It’s your last night, and there’s only a few hours left for you to do all the steps. So, what scares you, Charlotte?”

  5. DO SOMETHING FOR SOMEONE WORSE OFF THAN YOU.

  7. HOOK UP WITH SOMEONE NEW.

  ~ Chapter Eight ~

  Anthony

  8. DO SOMETHING THAT SCARES YOU A LITTLE.

  One of the worst things about finding yourself Suddenly Single is the Fear that comes with it. The Fear of what tomorrow might — or might not — bring, now that your relationship is over. In many people, Fear can cause a kind of emotional and spiritual paralysis that results in them spending too much time at home, at the expense of looking for someone new. Of course, the thought of “getting back out there” is terrifying, and Fear is totally understandable in this situation. Before you can conquer your fear of romantic disappointment, you must first learn to conquer Fear itself …

  11:10 p.m.

  “Are you sure this is safe? I mean, is it even allowed?”

  Charlotte’s clinging to my right arm, almost jo
gging to keep up with me, because I’m walking fast to keep up with Mistake. I should have figured that the pup would get super excited the minute she laid eyes on Central Park. Even after eleven at night, it’s pretty amazing — to a dog, it must look like Heaven or something.

  All the way here, I did ask myself if this was a good idea. But I couldn’t help it. Outside Smooch, after our kiss — the kiss! — I asked Charlotte what scared her, and she said the only thing she could think of was being out of control. When I told her that was an unhelpfully vague answer, she just shrugged, but all the snow we were staring at gave me an idea.

  “Of course it’s safe,” I tell her now. “This time of night, on Christmas Eve, we’ll have the whole park to ourselves.”

  “These don’t look safe,” says Charlotte, glancing down at the two Flying Saucer sleds I bought for fifteen bucks at a drugstore on our way here.

  I come to a stop. Up ahead, Mistake turns and yaps her annoyance. Charlotte’s looking up at me, her hands gripping the straps of the tote bag over one shoulder. She’s chewing on her bottom lip, but there’s nothing flirtatious about it. She’s scared.

  “Trust me.”

  She nods. “Yeah, I trust you.”

  I hadn’t meant it as a question, but I don’t correct her. “Okay, good, because we’re about to abandon the path.” I give Mistake’s lead a tug and she turns, bounding ahead as we cut across the snow-covered lawn. Charlotte lets out a nervous laugh. “Um, where are you taking me?”

  Mistake stops when we come to a row of bushes, looking back at me, like, Seriously? You want me to go through that?

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” I call, and as the pup scrabbles through the bushes, I cringe at myself. I’m already calling her pet names. What the hell?

  Charlotte uses the sleds to shield her face as we fight our way through the bushes, stopping at a six-foot iron fence. Mistake thinks it’s a dead end and tries to run left, so I yank her back and pull her toward us. She lets me know how happy she is about that.