Transit Girl

by Jamie Shupak

  “Tequila and a karaoke video on Banter, right?” Cute. I love a guy with a witty comeback.

  I’m glad he seems to be coming back from his brief but cringeworthy escape to crazy-couple town. But I’m hesitant about how close I want to let him get to me right now. He asked to meet up for a drink before the party, but no way was I doing that. Even though he was so sweet with me—and my mom—after my surgery, and it felt so natural, him there with my family, I feel like he’s just strategizing for a replacement girlfriend or a rebound girl. And I don’t want to be either of those things, not yet with him at least, and definitely not tonight. I don’t want to give him the wrong idea—him or anyone else for that matter, and by anyone else, I mean Darren Clark.

  Darren Clark, Sideline Reporter, NFL Network

  The bedheaded, bespectacled sports talker just moved to New York City after discovering lead in the water at his Los Angeles abode. Sorry, Darren—we contaminated the pipes so we could get a better look at you. And we have no regrets. You want a guy who is passionate about the environment, can extemporize for hours about blocking the pass rush, and teach you how to Dougie? Look no further than Darren Clark, sideline reporter for the NFL Network. He landed on the scene as a SportsCenter intern just two years ago, and word is he’s already being groomed for a spot at the anchor desk. Score! Obvious bonus points: box seats while you watch him work. Ladies, we say buy: He’s lean, green, and if our daydreams are accurate, a machine in the sack.

  I was sold years ago—or whenever he first started showing up on the sidelines of the games I watched each Sunday. Then when Wrap released this list, it almost felt like a sweet twist of fate. So I’m on a mission to meet Mr. Clark as I walk into the backroom of MercBar. I’m with my friend Lacey, an outdoor workout reporter for Fit in the City magazine, who nudges me when she spots Ben at the corner of the bar. I knew Lacey would be a perfect wingwoman for this mission because first and foremost, she’s hot. You want to hate her, because you can see her toned abs through her skintight black Alexander Wang dress that hangs perfectly from her strong, toned shoulders, and the definition in her calf muscles looks like it could cut through a filet mignon. But you can’t, because she’s hilarious and has the absolute cutest laugh you’ve ever heard to accompany her many jokes. Between each giggle is a small snort, as if Miss Piggy looked good in head-to-toe Lululemon. Every guy on the dude list will want to be around her, I figure, which increases my chances of a meet-and-greet with Mr. NFL Network. She’s also the girl who will go with you to the bathroom, even when you’re just going to touch up lip gloss or plot out your next move at the bar. Being dialed into the whole Ben, Sloane saga will help, but more important, Lacey knows I have my eye on Darren. As we’re closing in on Ben, I grab for my phone, which is vibrating through the clutch I have tucked under my right armpit, between my bicep and boob.

  One new message from Twitter.

  Direct message from: @JakeSpears: HOLLER IF YOU NEED TO BE RESCUED TONIGHT. I’M AT BOND STREET SUSHI, JUST ROUND THE CORNER.

  “Is he for real?” I ask Lacey, showing her the text on my phone.

  “Just play along without being rude,” says Lacey. “The dude runs Banter—you don’t want to be on his bad side.” Did I mention Lacey’s also smart? Girl knows her way around the men. But this situation’s a little different. I can’t in good conscious play along with his antics anymore. I’ll let him wait it out while I think of a reply. I look up just as Ben’s made his way over to us.

  “Put that thing away,” he says, pushing my phone down. “I have shots waiting for us at the bar. You said tequila was the best way to …”

  “Chilled, I hope,” Lacey says, cutting him off. I told you she was good. One of our main missions tonight is to prevent him from going down that path—the one of wanting to talk love, Sloane, romance, or us. So we take the shots. And then to keep him quiet, we order two more rounds of cold Don Julio, chasing each down with a Corona Light. My phone buzzes again just as I return my third shot glass to the bar with a thud. Careful to keep it out of Ben’s view, I take a peek.

  One new message from Twitter.

  Direct message from: @JakeSpears: DODGING ME? YOU KNOW YOU’D HAVE MORE FUN OVER HERE.

  The cocky thing was sexy for a while, but this is now absurd. First he tries me, then Gemma, and now what, back to me? My phone buzzes again.

  One new message from Twitter.

  Direct message from: @JakeSpears: YOU DON’T WANT THAT SPAWN ANYWAY. YOU NEED A REAL MAN. BOND STREET. BE HERE. 15.

  I need to get back to the action in front of me, so I don’t respond. He’ll never stop writing as long as I do. So I’m done with him, and toggle out of Twitter. There aren’t any style award updates from Gemma yet anyway.

  “Do you always come to parties and spend the whole time on your phone?” I look up at the sound of a familiar man’s voice standing very close. My eyes are dead even with his chest. One eye for each nipple, perfect. In a “Guess the Chest” contest, I would say Lance Armstrong or even Matt Damon in one of those Bourne films.

  But nope, neither of those—it’s Darren Clark. “Do you usually stand over women to intimidate them before so much as a hello or introduction of any kind?” I quip back, smiling wide and extending my hand.

  “I know,” he says, mirroring my flashy grin. “I’m Darren.” We shake hands much longer than usual and it’s obvious that my Twitter spying these last seven days was not one-sided. “I’ve been told to look out for you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I heard you like to write about guys who do dumb things on dates.”

  “Well then don’t do anything dumb,” I say without hesitation, realizing I’m already suggesting a future something with him. Then I look down and release my hand when I see that our fingers are still interlocked.

  “I think we already lost your friends,” he says, motioning to Lacey, who slid down the bar to talk to some of the other bachelors, and Ben, who walked away toward the bathroom. I hope he finds someone else to talk to when he gets out of there, because I will not let him cock-block me tonight. As Darren orders us each a draft Blue Moon, I tuck my phone back into my bag, knowing very well I won’t be checking it anytime soon. “Cheers,” he says, clinking his glass to mine.

  “To what?” I ask, hoping it’s something like to us making out tonight.

  “To hitting all the green lights.”

  Well played, Darren. I like a guy who does his homework, I think.

  We stand there talking through another two Blue Moons and maybe a shot of Don Julio in between—who can remember at this point—occasionally rubbing elbows half by accident, half on purpose. Each time we agree on something, he touches my arm or my shoulder in a way that says I want to keep touching you. I can barely remember what we talk about. I think I tell him about my rabid obsession with the Patriots, how I grew up watching them, and how I think Bill Belichick is the hottest man alive. I might have also told him how I once tried to get Bill’s attention on the sidelines when I had tickets on the fifty-yard line. I’m not sure. But what I do remember very clearly is how he wraps his arm around me. I can feel his bicep crushing into my shoulder, so I step away and make him flex it for me and divulge his entire workout routine. This guy’s surrounded by pro athletes on a daily basis, so he knows his bench press from his plank. As we turn around and put our backs to the bar so he can demonstrate his triceps push-up, I notice the bar has gotten exponentially more crowded. I catch eyes with Ben who’s on his way over to us, and can tell by the look on his face that Darren and I have been alone in our own world for a while.

  “Are you gonna introduce me to your new friend?” Ben says, squeezing through two girls to get closer to us. He looks pissed … jealous even.

  “Ben!! This is Darren, he works out, errr, works for the NFL Network … Darren this is Ben, Sir Banter himself,” I say, trying not to slur my words.

  “She’s quite the Pats fan,” Ben says, clearly trying to insert himself as someone close to me. �
��Careful she doesn’t start asking you for tickets when they’re in town.”

  “Oh, you should totally come,” Darren chimes in, putting his hand on my shoulder again. Ben glares at his arm. “I could introduce you to everyone and show you around the field and locker room.”

  “You should see me kick a field goal,” I say, putting my hands down between my legs, holding an imaginary football, then swiftly kicking my leg in the air and losing my balance. Ben grabs one arm and Darren grabs another, lifting me back to equilibrium.

  “Maybe it’s time to get some fresh air,” Ben says.

  “I’ll be right back, Darren. Youshouldwait right here,” I slur, unable to separate my words, and pound the bar with my fingertip at the same time. I shoot him a face that says no big deal, I got this, and follow Ben’s lead.

  The air outside on Mercer Street does feel good once we finally make it through the crowd to the front door. There are girls click-clicking along the sidewalk in their high heels and groups of guys behind each one, following them to whatever bar they end up at. We sit on the stoop of the Zadig & Voltaire store next door, and Ben doesn’t waste a second, launching into the speech I’ve been trying to avoid all night.

  “Guils, you don’t want another Boom Boom Room night. You’re wasted, you should go home. Let’s get in a cab and call it a night.”

  “You are not the boss of me, Ben. And besides, that night became what it was because of you,” I say, jabbing my pointer finger into his bicep, noticeably less firm than Darren’s. “And Banter. And you wouldn’t do that to me again. No way, José.” I say, drawing a very sloppy X on his arm with my finger and giving him a shove.

  “Oh really, and why is that?”

  “Because you’ve already hurt me enough this month. Isn’t there some sort of limit on amount of heartache you can dish out per day?”

  “What are you talking about? How on earth did I hurt you? I would never hurt you, Guils.”

  “Oh bullshit,” I say, feeling all the Blue Moon and Don Julio rushing through my bloodstream like water gushing out of a fire hydrant. “You and Sloane. Fucking. Riley.” I punctuate her name with three more jabs to his chest.

  “Guiliana,” he says, turning to look me in the eye now. Whenever he says my full name, he means business. He grabs each of my arms with each of his hands and sighs. “That’s …” and he pauses, staring at me. He looks like he wants to say something. He looks like he’s in pain—sad, even. “Why would that hurt you anyway?” That’s definitely not what he was going to say, but I’m too drunk to start deciphering right now. I have Gemma to fill me in later anyway. “You have so many guys, you go on so many dates, you don’t give a shit what I’m doing and who I’m tweeting at.”

  But now he’s fired me up. “Ugh, because it’s Sloane. And because I got you into Bruno Mars and I’m the one who sang that song to you and I’m the one who …”

  “Pretty girl, pretty girl, pretty girl, you should be smilin’ …” He interrupts my drunk rant in a slightly off-key baritone. He looks desperate for me to join in. I look at him, then to the street, where for a moment, there’s no one walking by. It’s like the opposite of the lyrics he had been tweeting publicly to Sloane, because right now no one can see, no can hear; it’s just us. This is truly intimate, truly personal, truly … special.

  I can’t help but smile, laugh, and join him in the song. It feels really couple-y, really natural, like I really like him. I’m also really drunk, which is why I’m more screaming than singing: “Treasure, that is what you are. Honey, you’re my golden star. You know you can make my wish come true …”

  Suddenly, I remember Darren—and his biceps—waiting inside.

  “What’s wrong? You love that song,” Ben says when I abruptly stop sing-shouting.

  “I do, of course I do. But I need to get back inside. This isn’t right—you and me—when there’s still you and Sloane.”

  “But … there’s …” and again, it’s like the words are right there on the tip of his tongue. But he can’t get them out. He looks like he’s struggling. “You’re right. There’s still me and Sloane.” He does not sound convincing.

  My phone buzzes and I reach to see who it is.

  One new text message from Gemma.

  YOU ARE NEVER GOING TO BELIEVE THIS SLOANE SMILEY RILEY SHIT. CAN’T TALK NOW, BUT CALL ME LATER.

  As I respond with a simple “K, mwa,” I catch a glimpse of the time. Shit. It’s already 10:48. I’m supposed to be dreaming by now. I have to be at work in five hours. And I have two missed messages from Jake Spears. I click to see one of them, and it’s about how he can’t meet up later. As if that was part of my plan. “I gotta go back inside, sorry.”

  “Just listen to me for one more second, okay?” he asks, inching back toward me on the step. “I didn’t mean for any of that to hurt you. You need to know that.”

  “Whatever, Ben. I’m not doing this right now.”

  “And one more thing …” he says, trailing off. I can’t wait one more second for this guy to try and spit it out. So I go to stand up and he does at the same time, leaning in to kiss me. I think we both mean to kiss on the cheek, but with me getting up to go back inside and both of us as sloshed as we are, we wind up kissing right on the mouth. No tongue, but we linger a second too long and look at each other after, smiling, laughing.

  “Did you see that?” I ask him, pointing down the street a bit. “Was someone taking a picture of us? I swear I saw a flash go off.”

  “Oh, Guils. You should really just go home. You’re shitfaced.”

  I swear I saw something, but I guess he’s right because I can barely see the steps below my own feet taking me back into the bar. I go back inside and saddle right back up to Darren, who is exactly where I left him by the bar. He kisses me on the cheek and asks me where I’ve been, as if I’m his girlfriend. Or girlfriend for the night. I don’t care about the distinction, though, if there even is one, as he grabs my hand and leads me right back out of the bar.

  It’s like we’re two boxers who’ve been circling each other in the ring all night, waiting for the referee to ring the bell so we could get at each other. Ding. Round one begins as soon as we get into the backseat of the cab. He grabs my face and kisses me while he slides his strong, dominating hands down the sides of my neck, onto my chest, and under my arms, using those aforementioned biceps to lift me up and onto him, one leg on either side. We continue making out like this until he takes me with one arm, spinning me down onto my back on the seat, and lies directly on top of me.

  “Right where I’ve wanted you all night, little lady.”

  “Is that so? Why did we wait this long then?” A voice from the front of the cab interrupts before things get serious. “My car isn’t your hotel, get out!”

  We sit up, laughing hysterically, and look out, realizing we’re only a few blocks from his place anyway. Darren throws the cabbie a twenty-dollar bill, and we jump out. Ding. Round two starts in his kitchen, which is littered with our clothing almost immediately. First I’m up against his dishwasher. Then he picks me up and throws me down on the couch and presses his sweaty, hard body into mine. Each time we take a break, though, he doesn’t flop onto his back like a beached whale. Instead he pulls me in close and, tickling my chest or belly, gets into deep conversation with me—about life in New York, about our pasts, about this small media bubble we live in—and something just feels so natural between us. Ding. Round three is in his shower. He lathers my scalp up with shampoo and I counter by grabbing the soap and running it up and down that beautiful body of his. The romping continues in his bedroom where my wet hair drips all over him as he positions me face-forward onto the wall. When we tire of this, we lie down once again and fall right back into easy chatter. There’s something so comfortable about him. So comfortable in fact that we fall asleep naked, in each other’s arms, and miss the next Ding, arguably the most important one of the night: the sound of my iPhone alarm.

  CHAPTER 30

  A n
ightmare is unfolding on Greenwich Street in Tribeca. The bad guy is gaining ground on me. My heart is pounding. The sky is dark and moody. My quivering shouts for help are echoing through the empty streets. Only problem is that this isn’t a nightmare at all. I’m running, barefoot, as fast as I can past rows of trees in full bloom and parked cars, screaming for a taxi driver that hopefully has a window cracked to hear me, and will turn the corner and scoop me up. I scan every side street I pass—up and down, down and up—and so far, no luck. I am being chased, though not by a bad guy. It’s Darren, and he feels really, really bad.

  Since I sprung out of bed a few minutes ago, awoken by either my own drool or a twitch of his arm that was supporting my neck, he has been apologizing. It was sweet the first six times. But now I’m just annoyed. His story is that he knew I had to wake up early, but not this early. Had he known, he swears he would have either made us go home sooner, made us go to sleep sooner, or at the very least, set his alarm for me. That’s what they all say. Instead, we are frantically sprinting north towards my apartment and NYNN, because I need to get to both, and fast. It’s ten to four in the morning, when I should already be in the car with Marko on the way to work, so I’m not in good shape. I have my bag, my phone, my shoes, and my jewelry piled high in my arms. I look like a hooker who ran out on the guy she went home with, furious at him for not paying. My brain is racing about as fast as my feet are moving, trying to take inventory of my belongings. I stuffed my bra into my bag, so that’s a plus. But I couldn’t find my underwear, so I’m praying they’re either wrapped around one of my shoes that I can’t quite see at the moment, or somewhere he will never find. If they’re tucked under his bed, he won’t find them for months, maybe years, right? And by that point, they could belong to any number of girls. That’s my story. The blinding headlights coming down Barrow Street interrupt my rapid-fire thoughts. Finally, a cab.