Transit Girl

by Jamie Shupak

  “Well, I think I might actually have an idea for you,” he says, and Gemma inches even closer to us, very interested in what he’s about to say. He looks at her, then back to me, and poses his question. “What do you think is the most important trait in a relationship?”

  “Sex,” Gemma blurts out. My mom laughs, and we all shake our heads in unison.

  “And you, Miss Dating Columnist,” he’s looking at me, smiling, anxiously awaiting my answer. “I want to know what you think.”

  I fight through the weight of the morphine in my eyes to look him square in the face. I don’t shrug a shoulder. I don’t bat an eyelash. I don’t hesitate one millisecond as I answer him.

  “Trust.”

  “Shit,” he says. “Then I have a serious problem.”

  CHAPTER 28

  The hot July sun is piercing through the lenses of my Ray-Ban sunglasses, forcing me to squint at the throngs of tourists passing us on the High Line. The sweat—like small children on a waterslide—is sailing from the nape of my neck straight down my back to the ACE-like bandage I have tucked underneath the elastic waistband of my shorts. It’s what Doctor Macaroni recommended I wear for my daily walks with Mom these last three weeks—not only to help support the fused discs postsurgery, but also to protect myself from someone bumping me on the street. We walk pretty slowly—picture grandparents shuffling down the aisle at a wedding, savoring every step of the lifelong anticipation—but there’s still a chance of a renegade toddler or, worse, an overly excited dog accidentally knocking into me.

  So far, so good. I have just three days left before I return to NYNN and while my back is still stiff—doc says it’ll take four to six months to regain full motion—I have successfully weaned myself off the painkillers I was prescribed. Not like I had a choice—I’d never be able to pry myself out of bed at 3:30 in the morning as dopey-eyed as I’ve occasionally been since surgery. So Advil it is. Even though it doesn’t exactly do the trick, I guess Mom’s right when she says, “You just need something to take the edge off.” I shouldn’t be surprised; Mom’s always right.

  Turns out the best medicine has been these walks, because it’s the only time I get outside each day. I’m like a newborn baby who’s not allowed at restaurants or bars—too crowded and unpredictable—nor am I allowed in a subway or taxi yet. A fast, bumpy ride with no seat belt is no place for a newborn—I mean, girl fresh out of the hospital. But the High Line is bumping today, especially near the Standard Hotel, where all the fashionable European tourists stay. We just have to be mindful when we walk, because they tend to stop suddenly like animals on the hunt in the wilderness—creeping low, then aiming their cameras at just the right angle to take pictures of the view across the Hudson River. Hard to blame them, though—the way the sun reflects off the water and hits the glass buildings across Tenth Avenue creates the most stunning flare of color. They ooh and aah at one another’s iPhone screens, then immediately toggle into Instagram to post the photos for their friends across the globe to see. Europeans: They’re just like us.

  Mom and I find a bench right by the People’s Pops stand, and she goes to fetch us our daily treat—one each of the popsicle and shaved ice of the day to share. The guy running the stand knows our entire life story from us stopping here every day for almost three weeks, and today as I look over my mom’s giving him a huge hug—presumably as a goodbye because she’s heading home to Connecticut Sunday, before I head back to work Monday. I wait for her to finish gesturing about my back—her hands literally grab that area on her own body. Then she explains how I’ll be standing for eight hours when I’m on TV—she straightens up like a soldier in combat with her arms flat against her side. I take a page from the passing Europeans and scroll into my own Instagram feed. The last few days there have been noticeably fewer Ben and Sloane “gag-me-grams” as Gemma calls them, and again today, there are none to be found. They used to clog my feed like a piece of corn on the cob stuck in your teeth. It doesn’t prevent you from continuing to eat or swallow, but it’s a nagging irritation that you can’t get relief from until you floss and remove it.

  I shrug and go back to people-watching, not wanting to think about the two of them, but rather my own possibilities. I see a couple with their arms around each other—the guy holds his phone up in the sky and tilts it back towards them to take a selfie, and they both smile. As he continues to snap photos, she leans in to kiss him, then he does the same to her, and eventually they both erupt in laughter. Upon previewing the images—they must have taken twenty by now—they’re back with the phone at their eyeline, kissing once again and smiling.

  It sends me into deep thought about the guys I’ve been with. Whoever said the best way to get over one is to get under another—that person’s a genius. My friends complimented me on my resilience. But resilience is a word that implies bouncing back, with the quick elasticity of a rubber ball. In some ways, I did. But it’s not always so easy. To me, it felt more like a trek that begins in the flinty terrain of sadness, mourning, and shock. It’s tough going, to be sure, but, as in most things in life, in time you learn to cope, to adapt, to keep on looking forward. Gradually, the scenery itself brightens and changes like the transition from winter to spring, as if you’ve passed into another, calmer territory altogether. I can feel myself remembering the warm, fuzzy parts of letting a man in—feelings I definitely want to have again someday.

  “I’m so glad you don’t have your face in that phone of yours,” my mom says, procuring today’s flavors from behind her back. “Do you want to start with the strawberry rhubarb pop, or orange basil shaved ice?”

  I motion to the bright red pop with tiny blue flecks of fruit and begin sucking the bottom edges so it doesn’t drip all over my hand. “I’ve been good about the phone—taking some time off.”

  “You have, and I’m just happy knowing when I leave that you’re in good hands—with Gemma, Angel, and Ben.”

  “Mom, Ben has a girlfriend.” I give her the look—the same one I gave her in the hospital when I wanted her to stop falling for his lines.

  “I don’t know, Guils. He brought you flowers, climbed onto the end of your bed, and stayed an awfully long time for someone who has a girlfriend—or at least one that he likes very much.” I shrug my shoulders, not wanting to argue. It was strange, him asking about the most important factor in determining a healthy relationship. And when he said “Shit, then I have a serious problem,” he had this look of terror in his eyes, like during the climactic scene of a horror movie when the villain is revealed.

  Dun dun dunnnnnn!

  Mom continues despite my lack of attention. “Besides, he sounds better than some of those other fellas you went out with. You didn’t even call them by their real names!”

  Again, Mom’s right. There was Shelf Boy, who helped me explore the boundaries of my sexual prowess while simultaneously raising the level of design in my apartment. But he wasn’t boyfriend material. Not that I wanted one yet. And I never heard from Jack the Brooklyn bar owner again. I’m sure his head has healed from that unfortunate fall from my bed, but I’m not sure about his pride. Poor guy. That drive around the perimeter of the city while he navigated the ins and outs of my body—that was some drive. That was some night. But again, he wasn’t worthy of an explanation to Mom longer than “We had fun, but he wasn’t for me.”

  As she launches into a speech about how much better off I am and how happy she is that I seem so content with everything right now, I stare off into the distance—down the High Line at all the couples walking hand in hand, the flowers blooming from the trees lining the path, the kids stomping in the puddles alongside the fake waterfall. I hear bits and pieces of what she’s saying, but mainly I nod and smile, trying to enjoy these last precious days of peace before heading back to work. I’m cruising at 55, on autopilot. The numbness lasts for just a few moments, until …

  One next text message from Angel.

  OMG, G! SMILEY RILEY? DID YOU GET YOUR INVITE?


  “Who’s that, Guils?” Mom senses my panic as I fumble to unlock my phone and investigate. What is he talking about? He can’t mean Blush’s style awards—I haven’t gotten an email yet. I toggle into Twitter to see what I can find.

  “It’s Angel. One sec … I think …” I’m trying to stall until I can figure out what’s going on. I toggle over to the Twitter app and there it is, at the top of my feed, a tweet from the Toast.

  @NYToast: CONGRATS TO @SLOANERILEY, THIS YEAR’S @BLUSH STYLE HONOREE. WONDER WHO SHE AND MAIN SQUEEZE @BANTERINGBEN WILL BE WEARING ON THE RED CARPET?

  Immediately, I start to shake. My foot hits the brake and I jerk out of autopilot. I text Angel back, but am much more concerned about Ben. He keeps texting me these weird relationship questions, so something must be up.

  WOW, JUST SAW THE TOAST TWEET. NO INVITE YET, BUT AT LEAST I HAVE GEMMA TO DIG UP A HOT DRESS FOR ME AT THE LAST MINUTE. I HAVE TO BE INVITED AT LEAST, RIGHT? GONNA TEXT BEN NOW, I’LL CALL YOU LATER.

  I click out of Angel’s text queue and into Ben’s. My fingers linger over the keys for a moment, unsure of what to say.

  “What happened, Guils? Everything okay?” I turn towards Mom and take a deep breath.

  “Ben’s girlfriend—Sloooooane—is the freaking honoree for the Blush style awards,” I say with my eyes wide open at the thought, shaking my head. “And I haven’t even been invited. It’s all about women in media this year, too.”

  “Maybe they think you’re still out of commission from surgery. And don’t you have that Wrap magazine party then anyway?” Mom, right again. Now I know what to say to him.

  HEY, CONGRATS TO YOUR GIRL. YOU’LL PROBABLY SEE GEMMA THERE—I KNOW SHE’S STYLING ONE OF THE HOSTS.

  Not more than five seconds after I hit send, my phone rings. It’s Ben—that’s weird. I answer right away.

  “I was just going to call you,” he says. “And then you texted me. It’s like a communication jinx.”

  What, does he want my input on what to wear while walking arm in arm with Sloane Smiley Riley?

  “I don’t know what to do, G.”

  He pauses. I can hear him breathing and I can tell he’s thinking, so I give him a little “mmm hmm?” to nudge him along.

  “There’s been some … stuff. I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.”

  “Stuff? Like whatever she uses to apply her fake mole everyday?” He barely laughs, so I keep going. “You mean that trust thing you alluded to after my surgery?” Sometimes it’s not fun being so serious, but I do want to cut to the chase; I don’t want to play therapist to the Ben and Sloane relationship complex.

  “She’s always telling little lies,” he finally mutters. “Like when she tells people how little she sleeps, or how hard she works, or how little she’s paid—she always makes it seem like she’s so much worse off than she is.”

  I give him an “uh-huh” to show him I’m listening, processing, and that he should continue. But it seems to have backfired, because he realizes maybe he’s saying too much.

  “I shouldn’t be saying this to you. I mean, you hate the girl. But I wanted to see if you thought I was crazy.”

  “Why would you be crazy? She’s the one making shit up, right?”

  He chuckles, sounding a little relieved. “It’s just that all the bullshit screams insecurity.” Wait, I’ve heard this line before. When was that though? “And if she’s telling little lies, then what else is she hiding?” There it is—the seed of distrust. “It’s like the truth isn’t good enough—about when she works and when she sleeps and the projects she’s involved in—when in reality the truth is great. No, it’s better than great! I mean, she’s the Blush style honoree.” Thanks for the reminder, I think to myself.

  “So what are you saying? What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. I just needed to get it out to someone who not only knows her, but hello—is the queen of dating advice.” No queen of anything would be listening to this sob story, but here I am.

  As I’m thinking of a response—something witty, something to show I’m above these shenanigans—my other line rings in. It’s Gemma. “Sorry, I gotta take this call, Ben.” I click over and Gemma, who barely waits for me to say hello, is freaking out.

  “G, you’re not going to believe this.” She’s panting. She’s confused. I have no idea what this could be about.

  “What? Tell me!”

  “Sloane Smiley Riley just called.”

  “What? She called you? How’d she even get your number?”

  “I guess off my website? Get this—she must be insane. She wants me to style her for the Blush awards next week!”

  “Wait, WHAT?!”

  “I know, and I don’t want to—I mean, she’s your arch nemesis—but it would be such good money.”

  “No, no … you have to, actually. There’s something going on with her and Ben, and if you style her, you’ll be there with them all night—front-row seat to their drama. You have to do it.”

  “Are you sure, G? You hate her.”

  “I’m sure. Especially because I’m going to be at the Wrap thing that night—I mean, I haven’t even gotten an invite to the Blush thing—so you have to be there. Be my eyes, ears, everything.”

  “You know me. I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  CHAPTER 29

  I feel like an animal out of its cage. After a week in the hospital, three weeks at home, and one very long week back at work, I’m going out for the first time. It’s Wrap’s annual party celebrating the Young Eligible Mediaites list. Wrap—which many fondly refer to as Crap—is basically the tabloid magazine version of Banter that preys upon NYC’s media industry elite, waiting for them to act out and provide them with headlines. They think their high-gloss, heavyweight magazine paper helps their rag masquerade as a much more highbrow publication, that they actually create a list like this for the good of our careers, but they’re not fooling anyone. We’re all in on the joke. We know why they put all of us young, similar types together in a room with an open bar. Well, I’m not going to be the one who gets so drunk she takes her top off and raps along to “Blurred Lines.” Who does that? Still, this list, as eyeroll-worthy as it is, is fun to be on. They pick just ten girls and ten guys, so I was psyched to see I was number four when the list came out last week, though it feels so much more real now with the magazine in my hands.

  Guiliana Layne, Traffic Reporter, NYNN

  Is there anyone else you would want delivering NYNN’s traffic reports every morning? [Answer: An emphatic no.] Guiliana Layne’s work has elicited quite the following—requisite fashion critique Tumblr and all—as she rattles off the up-to-the-minute status of every rail and road in the city with such ease and sass. While Eric Stone may help with the latter, caffeine never does. That’s right, girl doesn’t drink coffee! It may explain the Emmy. And in person? The West Villager with what the New York Toast describes as the “coolest single-girl apartment ever” is adorably cute, utterly charming, and, in her spare time, a dating columnist for cosmopolitan men’s magazine Level. Oh, and lest anyone forget, a viral video star as well. We’re hoping for an encore performance tonight, Guiliana.

  Of course they went there. I roll my eyes and check out the rest of the ladies. I came after Diana D’Angelo, the hot business reporter from the New York Herald, but before Lindsay Cole, the go-to beauty editor of City Glam magazine. Not a shabby placement, I think as I flip to the list of boys.

  Ben Abrams, Senior Editor, Banter

  Nothing like a steamy tryst with one of TV’s hottest babes to get your summer started right. Last seen arm in arm with sexy TV siren Sloane Riley at the HBO premiere of Girls, Banter stud Ben Abrams will be going stag to next week’s shindig. No word yet on whether those ugly rumors leading to splitsville are true, but one thing’s for sure—there will be plenty of pretty young things looking to help our number one bachelor get over her. Not content just sitting around being a gossip golden boy, the new media wunderkind is said to be putting
his writing skills to the test, shopping around a behind-the-scenes-of-Banter book. We would be first in line at that book party. We’ve already seen how he waxes poetic on Twitter using all of our favorite song lyrics. If that’s your kind of romance, then the adorable Mr. Abrams is your man.

  As if it’s not bad enough that he’s number one on the guy’s list, or that she is the lead of his profile, Miss Sexy TV Siren is also el numero uno on the female list. Good news though, she’s at Blush’s big style awards party tonight, so she won’t be anywhere near here. Ben, on the other hand, will be in attendance this evening, at least if the note he attached to the frozen yogurt is true. He texted me asking if I was ready for my first big night out, and when I told him I was a bit nervous, he had frozen yogurt delivered to me. Not just one kind either—he had three of their most popular flavors brought right to my door, along with a note that sounded like he’s had enough of her lies: “This much I know is true. Fro-yo may be frigid, but it’ll warm your partying heart.” There’s something about his cheesiness that I’m starting to find so endearing. But it seems like a grand gesture—not the fro-yo delivery, but the not supporting your woman part, Miss Honoree Herself. Though I can’t be bothered with their nonsense. Not tonight at least. I of course want to know every sordid detail of their maybe-possible breakup on the horizon, as would my “Gossip with Guils” viewers, but I know Gemma will tell me everything. I’m so glad I made her go—because now we’ll get the story, one way or the other. That meant I could play it cool with him and not pry. Instead, after I ate the fro-yo—all three cups of it—and texted him to say thank you and that “I’ve successfully hid behind sass and tequila all year—it’s the best medicine for a broken heart.”