Come As You Are

by Lauren Blakely

  For an hour or so, I feel as if I’m transported to another era, as if I’m in New York before my own time and before all my own troubles. On this fine June evening, I’ve made my great escape and I’m existing in a slip of the past, a whisper amidst the storm.

  When we’re done, I thank the docent and we head aboveground.

  “That was amazing,” I say, practically bouncing. “I’m almost ashamed I’ve lived here so long and I haven’t done that.”

  “Don’t be ashamed. Be glad you did it. I think there are so many things right in front of us that we don’t do. We don’t always take advantage of what we have. I try as much as I can, but you can’t get to everything.”

  “Do you try because a great idea for work might come from doing something unexpected?”

  He shakes his head vigorously. “I suppose it’s a welcome by-product if it happens, but no. I like new experiences in and of themselves. I like learning for learning’s sake. I do it for that reason, whether it has an obvious benefit or not.”

  There he goes again, amassing points he isn’t even trying to earn as he stimulates my mind with his thirst for knowledge. He’s everything I like, and exactly what I must avoid.

  He’s a risk I can’t take.

  But he’d be a risk no matter what. Even if it wasn’t a conflict of interest to date him, it would be a hell of a conflict to my wounded heart. I already like Flynn Parker too much for my own good. I can only imagine how much it would hurt when he left me.

  Because he would. We’d date, and laugh, and screw, and talk, and visit all the hidden spots in New York.

  Then he’d leave.

  He’d be done.

  He’d break my heart.

  “By the way,” he says, “do you know there are several other abandoned subway stops around the city? You can see some of them when you ride the train if you know where to look.”

  “I’d love to see them,” I say wistfully, hoping I’ll do as he suggests, hoping I’ll take advantage of everything that’s truly in front of me.

  I’ll be doing it alone, but I’ll do it. I want to experience all that the city has to offer. Now that I’ve ditched the dress, it’s time to immerse myself in living again, experiencing things anew.

  He looks at his watch. “Come to think of it, I don’t have anything going on at the moment. Do you want to check them out now?”

  My skin tingles. The birds sing. The sun kicks its heels in the sky.

  But a voice reminds me—he’s a risk you can’t take.

  I silence the voice. There’s nothing risky about doing this because nothing will happen with Flynn. Not now, and not in two weeks.

  “I do want to.”

  I’m not dating him, and we’re not together, nor can we be, so he can’t hurt me. He can’t stab me in the back with a rusty serrated knife and move halfway around the world, going radio silent.

  Flynn is work, and we are professionals who like spending time together. There’s nothing more to it, and my heart is safely locked in the steel cage I built for it with the remains of my failed un-wedding.

  That’s what I tell myself as we ride past the Worth Street stop and he points out the shuttered station’s name on the tiled columns, then the closed Eighteenth Street station that’s now merely a home for graffiti.

  When we finish checking out the hidden treasures of the city’s transit system, I feel refreshed and vibrant, like I’ve gone on a great date.

  In an alternate world, this date would lead to me taking him back to my tiny place, grabbing the collar of his shirt, and yanking him close. He’d push me against my kitchen counter, spread my legs, and fuck me. A spark tears through me like a fire lit and roaring as I imagine Flynn parting my thighs, tearing off my panties, and filling me.

  So deep.

  So good.

  I could get lost in him. I could get lost in his kiss, his rough and tender touch. I could disappear into bliss, and let it consume my hurt. The pleasure would burn away any lingering ache from the past.

  We could be Angel and Duke again for a night.

  But us too. I want to know how it feels to be us and to be them.

  I want that because this feels like the best date I’ve been on in ages.

  That’s why when I’m home that night, I resist every urge to text him and tell him what fun I had. I abstain from sending him math jokes or grammar puns. That would be something I’d do post-date and this—this was work.

  That echoes through my mind as we set a time for our next interview. Because that will only be work as well.

  That way, he can’t become Ray.

  He can’t leave me for no reason.

  Because I won’t let him in.

  But he texts me the next day. As the duke.

  17

  Flynn

  * * *

  Duke: What’s your favorite place?

  * * *

  Angel: Too many to name.

  * * *

  Duke: You made me pick.

  * * *

  Angel: Made you pick? Did I twist your arm?

  * * *

  Duke: Yes. My wrist still hurts from your sheer, brute strength.

  * * *

  Angel: I’m powerful.

  * * *

  Duke: Like a genie. Incidentally, you’d look good in a genie costume. Just saying.

  * * *

  Angel: You’d look good in many costumes—an earl, a prince, a pirate, a bandit, a highwayman . . .

  * * *

  Duke: You have such a fascination with olden times.

  * * *

  Angel: Yes, I do. Regency, Victorian, historical—give me breeches and I’m a-swooning.

  * * *

  Duke: Next time, I’ll be donning a waistcoat and a top hat.

  * * *

  Angel: I fainted in a most ladylike fashion. See? It really does work.

  * * *

  Duke: Excellent, m’lady.

  * * *

  Angel: Also, I’m so sorry I hurt your wrist with that hard twist I gave. That was cruel of me.

  * * *

  Duke: Now that I think of it, maybe that’s not why my wrist hurts. :)

  * * *

  Angel: You’re naughty.

  * * *

  Duke: Naughty? Me? Why would you say that?

  * * *

  Angel: Your wrist hurts? Okay, my fingers hurt!

  * * *

  Duke: My wrist hurts from racquetball. Did you think I meant something else?

  * * *

  Angel: You know what I think you meant.

  * * *

  Duke: Spell it out for me. What did you think I was doing that made my wrist sore?

  * * *

  Angel: Gee. I wonder.

  * * *

  Duke: You need to get your mind out of the gutter, Angel.

  * * *

  Angel: You led it there, Duke.

  * * *

  Duke: Somehow, I think you can find the gutter on your own.

  * * *

  Angel: Guilty as charged. But back to favorite places. Why do you want me to pick one?

  * * *

  Duke: Hello? Our next interview. You’re allergic to offices, and since I took you to one of my favorite spots, it’s your turn to choose one for our next chat. Name some.

  * * *

  Angel: My favorite place in all of New York City is New York City. :)

  * * *

  Duke: Clever.

  * * *

  Angel: But I’d also have to add Central Park, the hidden underground gin joint in Chelsea, the small Elevator Museum in Tribeca, the Starry Night locksmith in the West Village, one of the street artists in the East Village, the Met, and I think I would probably also love Gramercy Park.

  * * *

  Duke: Tomorrow, let’s do the Elevator Museum. I’ve never been.

  * * *

  Angel: I’ll be there.

  * * *

  Duke: Also, why did you say you think you’d like Gramercy Park? />
  * * *

  Angel: It sounds lovely, but I’ve never been there.

  * * *

  Duke: You haven’t?

  * * *

  Angel: It’s a private park. You need a key.

  * * *

  Duke: I have one.

  I stare in disbelief at the former freight elevator shaft that’s now a strange museum. “It’s actually an elevator. And it’s the size of a car.”

  She nods, a hint of mischief in her eyes as she bounces on her pink-booted feet. Pink boots I want to see on my shoulders.

  I blink away the filthy thought, even though it’ll surely return in seconds.

  “It’s the smallest museum in all of New York. It’s five square meters,” she says as we step inside and ogle the odd displays lining all three walls.

  “And it’s weird. Admit it. This is intensely weird.” I spin in a circle, gesturing to the tubes of toothpaste on the shelves, the crushed coffee cups and bags of potato chips. Each object has a letter and a number in front of it, like you could enter it on a vending machine keypad.

  Only the tubes and bags and cups aren’t for sale. They’re crushed, stepped on, trampled. The exhibit placard reads “Found objects from the streets of Manhattan.”

  I study the objects, searching for hidden meaning but find none. I shrug and glance at Sabrina. “I don’t want to be one of those ‘why is this art’ people, but . . . why is this art?”

  “I don’t know that it’s art, so much as it’s odd,” she says, crossing her arms as she regards the display here in Tribeca on the tip of Chinatown.

  I scrub a hand over my jaw, thinking. Trying to connect the dots. “So it’s odd. Is that why we’re supposed to like it?”

  “I don’t even know if we have to like it.” She waves a hand at a shelf of discarded honey-roasted chip bags. “I like that it’s entertaining. That it’s strange. It makes me think about all sorts of things.”

  “Okay, Rodin,” I say, naming the sculptor whose most famous work was dubbed The Thinker. “What do these trampled-on toothpaste tubes make you marinate on up there?”

  Smiling, she studies a wrinkled bag. Fire-hot, it promises. “It makes me think about things we overlook. Things we ignore.”

  “But shouldn’t an empty bag of chips be ignored?”

  “No.” Her tone is strong, laced with unexpected emotion.

  I step back, giving her some space. “No?”

  “You should clean it up. Throw it out.”

  “Fine, true,” I concede. “I wasn’t advocating being a slob. And I’m totally against litter. But why do old tubes of toothpaste and empty bags of chips affect you?”

  As she stares at the display, sadness flickers across her eyes. Her lips form a straight line, then she breathes in deep. “I think people, places, and things get ignored. And this exhibit forces us to see what we’d rather ignore. Every day, we walk past uncomfortable sights, we weave around painful conversations. And other people ignore us. I guess I like this place because it reminds me not to do that.”

  As I study a coffee cup with tire tracks on it, I suspect she might be onto something—a universal sort of truth about human nature. “How to be a better human,” I say.

  “Yes.” Her lips curve into a grin. “That’s what I would call this exhibit.”

  “So you’re saying that perhaps looking at trash—displaced objects—makes us think how we can treat each other better?”

  “I do believe that. Is that cheesy?” she asks nervously, her right hand fluttering to her hair, patting her silver bow-shaped barrette. Her phone’s not recording, and I like that we can enjoy a few moments just for us, not for print.

  “No. You actually made sense of something that I saw as kind of pointless, to tell the truth. I don’t know that I now consider it art, but I guess it does make me think a little more deeply about what we ignore. I’d like to believe I don’t ignore the people who matter. I went to see my sister and her baby earlier this week. I try to see them every week,” I say, maybe because I’m looking for points.

  Sabrina’s warm smile tells me I’ve tallied several with that. But her smile disappears as she returns her focus to the display. “That’s good, because no one wants to be ignored. I don’t like it. I don’t like being discarded.”

  I draw a deep breath to ask a hard question, since I think she wants me to ask it. “Did someone do that to you?”

  “Yes,” she says sharply, then fixes a pinched smile on her face as she spins and faces me. “And I didn’t like it. But that’s that. I’ve moved on.”

  As I wonder who he was, a spark of anger ignites in my chest. Because some guy hurt her, and that pisses me off. What kind of idiot would let a woman like Sabrina become displaced?

  Whether she wants to talk in detail or not, I won’t stand by and let her think I don’t care, when I care deeply—more than I expected I would.

  I touch her shoulder. “I’m glad you’ve moved on and I feel one hundred percent confident that whoever he was, he’s a complete jerk who tramples on people, and tubes of toothpaste.”

  Her smile is genuine now, and she whispers a wobbly “thank you” then squares her shoulders. “Speaking of discarded things, let’s put your brainpower to use.” She raps her knuckles against my head.

  “Activating brain power for your usage,” I say robotically.

  Her laughter is pretty, like bells. “Want to chat about your college days now?” She holds up the phone, ready to record.

  “I was wondering why you haven’t hit that button yet.”

  “We were just talking for fun before.” She shrugs playfully. “Besides, I figure all this pre-talking will get you buttered up and ready to spill all.”

  I laugh. “Thanks for the warning. So the museum is a warm-up act to me sharing everything about college?”

  “It sort of frees both our minds from the usual grind, don’t you think?”

  I consider this, then nod my agreement. She does make a good point.

  “By all means.” I gesture to the sidewalk and we stroll through Tribeca, passing shops and bakeries, boutiques and hip stores. I tell her about my days as a math major, the things I learned, and how that set the stage for starting my first company, and at a corner bodega, I stop, pointing to a pineapple for sale.

  “Do you like pineapple?”

  “Duh. Isn’t it impossible to dislike pineapple?”

  “It is. But did you know pineapples are math?”

  She squints. “Explain.”

  I grab a spiky fruit, hand a few bills to the vendor, then spot an artichoke and a cauliflower. I add those to the order, and soon we find a table at a café up the street.

  She shoots me a quizzical look. “We’re making artichoke, pineapple, and cauliflower salad? I’m admittedly a little skeptical.”

  “No salad is forthcoming. But this pineapple is why I studied math,” I say, spinning the fruit in a circle.

  She takes out her phone and hits the record button once again.

  This is the interview portion, the reminder that even though the time at the museum felt like a quirky little date, Sabrina and I are now on the clock for her article. Hell, I need the reminder because it’s too easy to get lost in how I feel with her.

  Carefree. Happy. Easy.

  As if I’m simply enjoying getting to know someone I like.

  Someone I like a lot.

  I can’t have that someone, though, and that’s why I need these moments. These reminders of who we are when she clicks on her recording app. But maybe these not-dates, these work-slash-fun slivers of time, are what I need more than falling for someone. Maybe I need to have fun with a woman and not worry about what she’s after.

  With Sabrina, I haven’t felt that worry since the night at The Dollhouse. I didn’t experience it on the subway, and I don’t feel it tonight either. The time with her is like a rejuvenation. It’s refreshing, as if her curious spirit and inquisitive mind are restoring my faith in humanity.

  She p
okes the pineapple and looks at me expectantly, waiting for my explanation.

  I turn the pineapple around, showing her the spirals that comprise its hard, rough skin. “See? They fall in patterns.”

  “They do?”

  Enthusiasm courses through me, and my geekery emerges in full force. This shit is awesome. “Mother Nature is amazing. Mother Nature loves math. Plants love sequences. The Fibonacci sequence is one, two, three, five, eight, thirteen, twenty-one, and so on. Basically, you add up the prior two numbers to get to the next one. And what you have here is the Fibonacci sequence. Pineapple spirals only appear in one of the numbers in this sequence.”

  I take her hand and bring her index finger to one of the spirals, dragging it down the scales. Silently, her lips move, counting. A row of five. A row of eight. A row of thirteen.