“No, I’m good. I don’t do that anymore. Cold turkey.”
I sling my coat over me. “That’s great, Kendra. That’s really, really great. I’m happy for you. And your lungs.” When I grab my purse, the heavy end of the buckle hits Emma in the back. She’s too engrossed in the wine and merry and bright to even notice. I say sorry anyway. “I’m just going to step out for a sec, then.”
“All right. We’ll be here,” Kendra says. Her smile is back, but it’s pinned with that same blue heaviness as before. She’s quick to move off of me; starts in on something animated and light with Flav.
The cold air feels good on my face—even when it starts stinging, it’s still refreshing. There’s a buzz on my hip. I answer without checking, “Tyson, let me take a breather, pl—”
“Best? It’s Trinity. Sorry to bother you so late.”
“Is everything okay?”
“I don’t know, but they’re calling a big meeting tomorrow morning.”
“Who, Joan?”
“Joan and James and Isabelle and . . . Miyuki too.”
“But I called in sick—officially. And remember I told you I leave for Montreal on Friday? It’s for the interview, but I put it down as vacation. I’m seeing my folks.”
“I know. I told Joan that you were out sick and that you had vacation days on the schedule, and they said to call you in anyway. They’re having it first thing Friday, because I mentioned that your flight was in the evening. Sorry, I panicked a bit. It’s Joan, she was all over me, over my desk, gawking at my screen. And everyone looks pretty fucking serious about every fucking thing. So, I don’t know. Plus, they told me to block time in the conference room downstairs for this. Said it’s an all-hands. Seems major. That’s why I’m calling now. I had to wait for people to clear out of here.”
“It’s not in JK’s office?”
“No, it’s on twelve. I think someone from legal might sit in on it. I’m sorry, Best. I don’t know anything else. I even asked JK if she needed me in it. She said no, and not another word after that. I have no clue what this is about. Do you?”
“Maybe. I think. I don’t know. Thanks for the heads up, Titi.”
“Okay. No problem. See you tomorrow,” she says.
“Right.”
My fingers were already trembling from the cold, but my brain was spinning, churning out its own heat. This is about the Robot’s snooping around my desk. I know it. Actually, I don’t know shit. Maybe Nik fucked me, and this time there were no belly kisses and glorious showers afterward.
I watch this young couple trying to hail a cab from the center of the street. They’re giddy and groping and probably drunk. He’s wrapping her up, as best he can, in his coat as he wears it and they dance, rolling, edging back from the safety of the sidewalk until she stumbles off of it completely and drops into the slushy street. She’s shrieking and horrified; humiliated, I’m sure. And her man, after a strange and long pause, slides down to join her in the melting snow.
I’m still gripping my phone. I start typing as fast as my frozen fingers allow and hit send just as quickly, before I can change my mind—about any of it.
I’m sorry. We’ll talk when I’m back.
CHAPTER 16
Going straight to Nik’s place feels lame, but also kind of last-resort. My nose, my fingers, my face, everything’s still cold, but the shivering is less about the chill outside and more to do with this crazy fire-drill meeting going down tomorrow. My e-mail to Trinity was brief and precise. Storm coming; switched to earlier flight, can’t make meeting.
That’s the thing about telling stories for a living: You get really good at shaping the narrative, crafting things to be exactly as you want them to read.
Once I hit send, my phone went to off mode. I hope my brain can follow suit.
Nik is wearing his specs on the edge of his nose and a heather-gray knit work shirt with stone-colored chinos. He’s got his thumb slipped in the middle of a slim hardcover while balancing the rest of the book in his palm. He looks old. He is old. But then the sly curl of his lip happens and none of that matters.
“So, what exactly would Richard Gere say right now?”
“I earned that one.”
“You did, actually.” He nods a few times in his easy way and steps aside, gesturing to the now-open path from the elevator into his home.
“I can’t stay long; the car’s waiting. Just stopping by—”
“Before your flight. Yep. I got that part on the phone.
“Sorry, I’m nervous.”
“About the interview?”
“No, it’s that, plus other stuff. Going home, being in Montreal, it can be . . . complicated.”
“Right. So you’re going to see your family, that’s why the earlier flight?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Something like that?”
“I need to visit with them, properly, and I didn’t want to swoop in, go do the interview, and then moonwalk out of there without taking the time I need to with my parents. So I bumped up the flight a couple of days.”
“Makes sense. Family time is important.”
A creepy quiet settles in between us. I don’t know if he can sense that I’m lying or maybe it’s talking about the importance of family that has stirred up the weirdness, highlighting the sheer impracticality of him and me. There is no meeting my family on the horizon for us, and we both know it. I reach for my coins in my coat pocket, and he shifts the book between his hands.
“Well, I wanted to stop by to say thanks, again. I know it’s crazy-early and I could have said it on the phone this morning, but I kind of feel like I never got the chance to tell you personally how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me these last couple of weeks, Nik. You really bet on me here, with this story, this interview, and I want to let you know it means a lot. Thank you.”
He steps closer. “Hey. Listen. I’m not betting on you. This isn’t a bet.” He moves in even more and wraps his fingers low and loose around my neck and jaw. “You’ve got a solid story on your hands, Best, and you’re a talented writer. You’re going to kill it.”
“Well, maybe not kill it, since this is about an honor killing.”
Nik smiles, raises his chin and tucks my head under it. “What do we do about you?” He’s holding me tight into his chest; the book pressed in the thick of my arm.
I close my eyes and let the embrace just happen without judgment. This might be good-bye for good for us, and I want it to at least be sweet.
The plane is half-full. I was able to jump ahead several rows and spread out. I hate being at the back of the plane. I don’t fuck around with wing seats. If anything were to happen, being in the front, closest to the piloting crew, seems like the safer bet.
There’s a plump mother and her all-pink-everything daughter behind me. The girl looks like she might be two or three or five. Who the hell knows with these tiny humans? My only hope is that she’s got an Elmo app on her mama’s iPad or an American Girl doll in her pink backpack or whatever is needed to keep that young brain away from boredom. I need some sleep. Across the aisle there’s a guy my age gabbing on one phone through headphones while fingering another. He’s so wrapped up in himself, his thumbs gliding across his glassy screen, that he’s oblivious to the fact that he’s in the way. His brown cool-kid, leather messenger bag, along with his dangling foot, juts out into the aisle. His boots are deep brown, rugged, leather high-cuts with bright blue laces. They look nice. So does he. He’s not giving off total hipster asshole vibes either, but people still have to skirt around him, step over his shit as they move to the back of the tube, to the death trap. It’s a little early-morning fun watching this, a brief case study, guessing who will quietly grumble about the imposition and who will nut-up, as Grant says, and say something to Two-Phones. A huffy “excuse me” from one of these people leaning on the better side of valor would certainly do the trick, but so far they all seem content with undercover eye rolls and gritting th
eir teeth. Plus, he’s black, so they’re probably all scared as hell.
The flight attendant finally strides by—his straight-edged crisp blue shirt tucked into the trim waist of his navy, undeniable slacks—and says something. Two-Phones repositions himself and all his crap, smooth and easy, without inserting as much as a groan into his phone convo. Of course, he shoots a look my way: brow cocked, eyes sloped, and half a smirk. It’s a mildly put-upon, insider-y look, like I already know where he’s coming from: busy and bustled and important and willfully aloof. Also, these white people, amirite? I should turn away from him, show him my sharp shoulder. Sorry. No audience given, Two-Phones. But instead I smile and shrug. It’s easier.
He powers down all his shit without being told—shocker—and it looks like he’s going to lean over, try to holler. Yes, it’s happening; he just licked his lips. Here it comes.
“Seriously,” he says, smirking a beat too soon, “it’s always the male stewardess trying to flex that power, right?”
“Think they’re all called flight attendants.” I give him my most authentic smile. It has served as an anti-irony shield in the past.
His smirk stays put as he gives me the once-over. I must have passed the sniff test because he’s edging closer into the aisle toward me. “You’re right. I’ll take that hit. Flight attendant it is. So, are you going or coming?”
“Are you asking me if I’m from Montreal?”
He chuckles and looks down at his boot. “Yeah, that’s what I’m asking.”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, I’m from Montreal. You?”
“Transplant-ish. As they would say in your hometown, à temps partiel.”
“Actually, no one would say that.”
“I thought Canadian girls were all sweethearts.”
“What made you think that?” I smile again. This one’s definitely forced. He knows it. Listen, it’s barely 8:15 and I should be rightfully stretched out, my feet pointing toward his face. He need not be surprised by anything attitudinal that floats his way. Plus, I thought all Canadian girls were sweethearts? Do better, Two-Phones.
The airline-safety speech audiovisual kicks on. The volume level is downright disrespectful. I actually catch myself tossing a look over at Two-Phones.
Shit. Now we’ve imprinted.
The flight is only an hour and some change. If he thinks it’s appropriate to chat me up through this whole thing . . . Lord, reveal yourself to me now.
“Hey, I’m Miles.”
As he twists out of his wires and seat belt to extend a proper hand to me, I decide right then to accept everything—the gesture, his curiosity, his interest and longing—even his e-mail address or cell number when that’s offered. And it will be offered. I know Miles, his type, his game, his speed. I know plenty of Mileses, with the dark, skinny jeans rolled up at the bottom and iconic fitted T-shirts, and hipster-hop hats and hoodies. Actually the last Miles I met like this was a young brother with long, thick dreadlocks that he wore tied and tucked atop his head in a beautiful, fat bun. He was a skateboarding, code-switching type, studying to be a doctor at McGill. We met at a block party-slash-beer crawl in the Village. He was on a week’s leave from med school and thought “visiting the Big Apple” was a sure way to give his brain a break. We gelled on the McGill-Montreal thing right away and five beer-stops in, we were holding hands and making a plan to get ice cream later that night. Because the best thing to put in your belly on top of all that beer is some thick and cold dairy, naturally. At no point did I mention that I actually hate ice cream, nor did he disclose the fact that he’s a high-functioning alcoholic. As in: crack open a beer . . . in the shower . . . at 9:00 . . . in the morning. (Yes, I crashed at his hotel. It was close, and I wanted to see what all that hair looked like draped over me. In the end, nothing beyond a brief, but decent, old-school Frenching session and some light under-the-shirt groping went down. He wanted to watch porn together and have more ice cream, but I felt I had already compromised myself enough with the earlier cookie-dough foolishness. Topping that off with hotel-room porn felt like a bridge too far.)
“I’m Best.” I take his hand and count it down. Three, two—
“Best? The best what? What makes you the best?” He’s letting the hand lock linger and trying his best to charm his way into my bra or at least some over-the-shirt petting in the gross airplane bathroom. You can tell that someone told him more than once that he had gorgeous eyes. They’re very dark and sharp and shining, and he’s got the volume turned up on them as he looks at me now.
“Guess we’ll have to figure that out at some point.” I take my hand back and leave Two-Phones there on a slow simmer.
“Do you want me to slide over, sit with me, so we don’t have to keep yelling over the engines?” Miles says.
He looks so pleased with himself, excited by the possibilities here. He doesn’t know that none of this counts. It’s not real.
“No, thanks. I’m going to try to catch some winks, you know?”
“Yeah, of course. Totally.” The shine from his face dims slightly.
I throw him a bone. “Did you check a bag?”
“No. Why? Did you?” he says, perked up like Pavlov’s dog.
“No. Is someone meeting you?”
“No, no one likes to come to the airport,” he says.
(Obviously he’s never met my father.)
“Let’s share a cab,” I tell him, with no inflection. No need. His goofball grin is already stretched clear across his face. I want to tell him to calm down; I haven’t yet decided how far I’ll let him go. We may get to the cab and it’s a ticklish handshake, an e-mail exchange, and c’est tout.
“Sure. Sounds good,” he says. “Okay, I’ll let you get back to . . . being the best.”
Groan, guy. You just took two steps toward Handshake City.
I put my head down on my balled-up coat. The minute my eyes close I see my dad’s face. He’s shaking his head and looks sad—more than usual, that is. I know he’s not going to be pleased that I grabbed the earlier flight without telling him, thereby robbing him of his precious airport jaunt. But I had to do this. I’ll deal with his irritation as it comes.
Walking to the taxi line in silence was kind of cute. I felt Miles glancing my way every few steps, then acting like he was looking just past me, over my shoulder or down at his flyboy, leather carry-on. It was midway charming.
Miles and I proceeded to jump into arguably the rankest cab on the road—just musty. And the stench was warmed-over, because the driver somehow felt it necessary to crank up the heat.
“Thought the point of the cab-share thing was to talk, not stare out the windows like strangers.” He’s wagging his leg slowly. Nerves, maybe, or it could be a tech-junkie side effect from not once checking his phones since the start of the flight almost two hours ago. He didn’t even do the auto-reach when the wheels touched down at Trudeau. Neither did I. But, I have reasons.
I turn to him. “So talk.”
“I wonder,” Miles whispers, “would ol’ dude notice if we crack these windows? It’s fucking deadly in here.”
“I’ve been thinking about it, but he looks like the Creole cuss-out type.”
Not only did our Haitian cabbie elect to drive the smelliest car in all the land, but he also refused to so much as spit a word of English. Miles tried some Franglais foolishness at first, but our cabbie Frantz was prepared to stay stuck on jerk. I had to dust off my second-language skills and lay it down nice pour mon ami puant.
“Did you give him my address first?” Miles asks.
“I only gave him your address.”
He’s struggling to play it cool. That grin is taking over, though.
“How long have you lived there?” I ask. “That’s a nice spot.”
“Yeah, I love it. Close to everything. Top of the mountain. I only moved in this past summer. I was in Outremont before, when I first got here.”
“Do you have roommates?”
“Not anymore.” The grin is back. “Do you?”
“No. I don’t live here.”
“I think I figured out what you’re the best at . . . being cryptic. Every answer is like halfway shaded. Like peeling away a mystery.”
“No mystery. Just ask better questions.”
Miles’s knee picks up its wagging pace and he’s chuckling. “Okay. I got you. Better questions. I can do that.” He stops moving, drops his smile, and angles his body toward me. “What’s your real name?”
“Best. Short for Bathsheba.”
“Come on. That was a real question. A good one.”
“And that was a real answer. My real name is Bathsheba, but people call me Best. Seriously.”
“All right, Best. Where do you live?”
“In New York, Brooklyn.”
“Then who lives here?”
“My parents.”
“You coming home early for the holidays.”
“It’s more of a work trip. Tacking on a visit to it.”
“How long will you be here, visiting your family?”
“A few days.”
“Would you want to see me again—dinner or something?”
“Maybe.”
“Wait—do over. Better question: Will you have dinner with me . . . tomorrow?”
“Still maybe. Family obligations.”
“Yo. This heat is ridiculous. And the smell—it’s worse than camel breath.”
Miles is tearing off layers. He’s down to a rolled-up, crinkled everywhere white V-neck tee when I notice them: horizontal lines, grooves running the length of his otherwise smooth, brown arm. Scars, some short and others—the ones along his tensed bicep—are longer, deeper, fresher, and slightly raised with added texture. He’s a cutter.
All the flirty games end here; it’s not fair to him. He’s got his own troubles, clearly. Deep ones.
Now I need to figure out a quiet way to tell the driver that there’s been a change. There will be a second stop after the mountain after all.
CHAPTER 17
The Thunder Beneath Us Page 18