The Boy Next Story

by Tiffany Schmidt

  Frenetic energy thrummed through my fingers, anxiety spiked through my blood—I had better uses for it than pacing the sidewalk. Taking one more deep breath, I turned and headed back inside. There were only four hours left of workshop time, and I wanted to make the most of them all.

  We’d come from Iowa and California. Michigan and Maine. South Dakota and both of the Carolinas. Pennsylvania and Oregon. And right in New York. We’d all vacated the studio with Andrea, leaving behind easels we’d become attached to and wet paintings she promised to carefully package and ship to our homes.

  I hadn’t expected us to become friends. I’d thought we’d do hugs or handshakes and maybe keep in touch on iLive. But all their numbers lived in my phone. And while we hadn’t had late-night slumber parties, we’d shared meals and museums and one of the most meaningful weeks of our lives. It was a different type of bond—one forged over the tears of being unable to get the perspective right, or the frustration of a color that wouldn’t match, the exhaustion of wrists and backs and eyes that strained, and the exaltation of taking that step back to see a drawing from a distance and realizing it worked—the pride of knowing you’d created it.

  In the lobby of the dorms Justin was organizing one last outing. He tapped his paint-spattered sneaker against my paint-spattered ballet flat. “Come on, Aurora. Don’t you want to see the crowds in Times Square?”

  No. No I did not. I hated crowds. And as much as I enjoyed everyone in this group, I’d reached my limit. I’d spent so much time surrounded by people, and it was taking a toll. If “introvert” could be used as a verb, I wanted to introvert so hard right then. Shut my door, turn out the lights—and breathe.

  “Come, Aurora! Marie! Simon!” Trinity was making puppy-dog eyes and begging hands, but I backed away from the people tugging on their gloves and toward the group waiting at the elevators.

  “Maybe we can meet for breakfast,” I offered in consolation. “Before flights.”

  “I’ll text you,” answered Trinity, and I nodded, which meant I’d have to turn my phone back on.

  I stepped into the elevator and the knot in my stomach loosened with every floor separating me from socializing. This was the right decision—for me—even if it wasn’t one everyone approved of.

  I finished packing before six. Finished my takeout by seven. And Little Women by ten. Then I finished dessert, vegan cookie dough, by ten thirty. I loved food delivery. Any kind I wanted could be delivered to the dorm’s security desk with a few clicks on my phone. I also appreciated the number of me-friendly menus in the city.

  But even delicious cookie dough didn’t dislodge the lump that sat in my throat from the moment I’d closed the back cover and texted Merri: All done!

  Jo married the stodgy professor and started a school. Meg was still married to Laurie’s old tutor and nothing much had changed. Laurie and Amy were married—married!—and happy. Though there was a weird bit about Amy sculpting a statue of her pale daughter in case she died? I was choosing to forget that and focus on married and happy. And the sisters were still sisters. Still as different as can be and as close as can be.

  I missed mine. Enough that I checked my phone five times in five minutes, but Merri hadn’t responded. I called Lilly and was sent to her voicemail. “Hi, it’s Rory. Will you pick me up from the train tomorrow? They leave almost every hour—so just let me know what time works for you. Okay?”

  My mailbox was full of my parents’ typical: I miss you. You’re being safe, right? We love you. I shot off a quick selfie with my empty cookie dough cup paired with the message Yum! Dinner! and a winky-face emoji. But there were none of the messages I’d been expecting. None from Toby and none from Merri or Lilly. Neither sister had even complimented the photo I’d sent of the painting I’d worked on all week. How was I going to know whether I’d met my goal if I didn’t know whether they could read my feelings in that paint?

  It was hard to shake the sensation I was missing something. But I forced myself to brush my teeth and get in bed. Finally, my phone buzzed beneath my pillow. I pulled it out expecting an essay from Merri about the book, or a train time from Lilly, or a who-knows-what from Toby. It was from Dad: Get some sleep! Dream big, little one.

  Maybe Lilly and Merri were already asleep—resting up for board game annihilation tomorrow night. Maybe Toby was on his plane and hadn’t seen my text yet. But I no longer hated that I’d sent it. Like Ms. Gregoire had told me, I couldn’t stay frozen in my fear. Come what may, it needed to be said.

  55

  I was the last workshopper to leave the dorm. I’d stayed to make sure Marie’s ride to the airport picked her up . . . and because waiting in the dorm lobby seemed better than waiting in a dirty train station.

  I still didn’t know which train to take because I hadn’t heard back from Lilly. Or Merri. Or Toby. I knew my phone was working because I’d gotten all the meet-up-for-breakfast texts and a Happy New Year’s Eve, Aurora! from Mom. But she didn’t mention being excited to see me later, and she hadn’t responded to my proof-of-life selfies or picked up when I called.

  I wanted to stay curled up in the rubbery lobby chair, panic-checking my cell every thirty seconds, but our deadline to turn in dorm access cards was eleven, and it was 10:58 a.m. Juggling my gloves, duffel bag, and tote, I took a deep breath—it was time for me to brave the cold and figure out a plan.

  There are scenes in Merri’s rom-coms where the elevator doors open and the hero’s waiting there for the heroine to step off. Or he’s standing at the top of the escalator as she ascends, or outside her building, lounging against a car in a studly macho pose. Or the airport baggage claim, her front porch, the counter at her favorite diner. I never bought those scenes. They seemed too perfect, with the music rising to a crescendo and the lighting narrowing to the heroine’s face as everything else is filtered to a soft blur.

  Except when I opened the door of my dorm, I paused on the threshold and waited for someone to cue my soundtrack, because the crowd crossing the street had thinned—revealing someone standing on the opposite corner watching my building. Those eyes—chocolate brown and full of mischief—shifted to me and he smiled like this was exactly where we were supposed to be. And even though I was sure he could compose the most gorgeous arrangement for this moment, I didn’t need music to tell me how to feel. It wasn’t a dream, because the strap of my duffel had slid from my shoulder and dug painfully into the bend of my elbow. It hurt worse than any pinch. Also, if this were a movie he’d be holding a ridiculous bouquet of red roses. Toby’s hands were tucked in the pockets of his gray herringbone peacoat as he crossed the street toward me.

  I drank him in piece by piece. His skin was darker from the California sun. His cheeks and lips were red, but that could be sunburn, emotion, or the cold of December in New York. My mouth twitched, wanting to bloom into a smile that stretched from one ear to the other. I think his did too, but he was pressing his lips together to suppress it. His eyes, though—they glowed with all the same happiness that mine echoed back.

  I’d gotten to observe a lot of masterpieces this week—both artistic and architectural—but he was the best thing I’d seen. As soon as he was within reach I threw my arms around him, pinning his to his sides. I buried my face in his coat and breathed him in. Toby let me nestle into him the way Byron did whenever anyone turned on the space heater. He extracted a hand so he could return my hug, and we stayed that way for minutes, hours, days.

  “This is some greeting.” He laughed against my hair. “You should go away more often.”

  I bit my lip and began to pull away, but he wasn’t having it. He wiggled his other arm from beneath mine and held me for another lifetime.

  We finally broke apart when someone cleared their throat. “Excuse me, I need to get in here.”

  “Oh, sorry.” We shuffled to the side so we weren’t blocking the doorway. I stared at the nine inches separating the toes of our boots. “What—what are you doing here?”

  “I came to p
ick you up.” Toby ducked to try to get in my line of vision, but I turned my head. It was too much. My brain was still catching up to him being here, now, adding licorice to the smells of falafel and roasted nuts emanating from food carts. “I stopped by your house on my way from the airport, and your parents were confused about whether you finished today or tomorrow.”

  “New Year’s Eve or Day.” We said the words together with matching eye rolls. Merri’s confusion superpower struck again.

  “I volunteered to figure it out and pick you up. But when I got out my phone to call you—I searched train times instead.” He sighed as he had to step out of the way of a dog walker, then a delivery man. “This meant I could see you sooner. I’ve been climbing the walls without you.”

  “Lonely?” I asked, because while Toby had sent me lots of updates from California, not a lot of them had mentioned his mom.

  “More than that. I missed you.” He paused and spoke slower and louder so I could hear him over a group of tourists that bumbled by, phones and maps out. “I missed you.”

  “Oh.” I breathed out the word in a puff that hovered in the cold air and made me confessional. “I sent that last text by accident. I was going to delete it.”

  “But did you mean it?” he asked, his gloved hand resting on my arm, a spot of warmth that heated all the air around us. “Do you know how many text messages to you I typed and deleted? Or the emails in my drafts folder? The day after you left, I even drove back to the train station and bought a ticket . . . I tore it up and went home because I didn’t want to distract you while you were in your workshop. But, Roar, you’ve done nothing but distract me since you left. I. Miss. You.”

  I’d gotten so used to the sounds of the city this week. The white noise of traffic and conversations, the squeaky wheel on a delivery cart, the call of someone hawking purses or trying to hand out discount coupons, the occasional jackhammer, the hundreds of boot heels hitting sidewalks in an endless rhythm. Usually I tuned them out. But now, within the midst of this important conversation, they were all I could hear. Someone whistling for a cab. A dog barking. A baby crying from somewhere within that stroller’s bundle of blankets. The beep-beep-beep of a truck backing up.

  To all of this, I added a sigh-soft “Oh,” too overwhelmed to be articulate.

  Toby was studying me, trying to read my expression, but my face was like my voice—blank. I didn’t know what emotion to feel, so I wasn’t going to feel any. He let go of my arm and took a step backward. “Can we—can we get back in the building or go somewhere quieter? There’s so much to tell you, but I should start with what happened this morning.”

  “I had to turn in my access card. There’s a café around the corner though.” Something about his expression or voice made my lungs burn from more than cold air. “Is everything okay?”

  “Café,” he said, taking the duffel bag I still had looped over my elbow. “Lead the way.”

  It was maddening that he didn’t answer me until he’d ordered us tea and we’d finessed our way into a table. It was wedged in the corner, and the space was so tiny we couldn’t both sit without our legs brushing and tangling, but I would think about that later. First I needed him to share whatever news had him clearing his throat and playing with the sugar packets.

  “Toby!” I insisted, my nerves alive with anxiety. “Tell me now.”

  “Everyone’s fine. It’s just—Part of the reason your parents were so frazzled about when your program ended and agreed to let me get you, is . . .” He took a deep breath. “Lilly and Trent decided to elope. Your parents found her note this morning.”

  “Elope?” I gasped on the word, then laughed from shock. “The senator is going to be so mad. And poor Merri is on her fifth draft of her toast.”

  “Well . . .” He looked away from me and grumbled under his breath, “Merri will still get to give her toast.”

  “What do you mean?” I took a small sip of my tea. Nope, too hot. “Are they doing a reception when they get back? That’s kinda cool.”

  “Maybe? But also . . . Merri found out before Lilly left.” “Of course she did.” I snorted.

  “And coerced Lilly into bringing her along to act as witness. Her and Fielding. It was in Lilly’s note.”

  “Oh.” Apparently that was my favorite word today. I gulped at my tea and it should’ve burned my tongue, but I didn’t feel it. Toby was still talking, but his words were as blurred and distant as all the strangers’ café conversations. There was no way any of them could compete with the ones screaming in my head: Lilly and Merri, but not me. Aurora Bore-ealis—too boring to include. One day! They couldn’t wait one day. Or even a few hours until I got home. I would’ve taken the earliest train. I would’ve left last night. I would’ve moved any obstacle to attend . . . if they’d wanted me there. But they didn’t.

  When Ms. Gregoire said those I love would disappoint me I’d assumed she’d meant Toby. This was worse.

  “Roar. Are you listening?” Toby’s hand landed on mine and he tugged the empty cup from my fingers. I nodded, but that wasn’t good enough, because suddenly Toby was crouching in front of me so we were eye to eye. He reached with both hands to cradle my face. Eight fingers on my cheeks, two thumbs at the corners of my mouth. Ten points of electricity. “This is important, so listen: This is not about you.”

  “Clearly.” I tried to scoff and shrug, because I didn’t want to be held by his eye contact, not when I was raw and vulnerable and he saw me too well.

  “No. I mean—this is on them. It’s not on you. It has nothing to do with how amazing you are or wanting or not wanting you there. Based on Lilly’s note, this is . . . It’s impulse and anxiety and societal pressure and opportunity. This is not about you. Rory, they didn’t stop to think about anyone but themselves. It was not done to hurt or exclude you.”

  I placed both of my hands over his and tugged his fingers off my face. He let me, and let me turn around, like I was suddenly fascinated by the lousy art prints on the wall behind us. “That doesn’t mean they didn’t though—hurt and exclude. It doesn’t change that I’m not going to be in my sister’s wedding photos. It didn’t matter to her that I wasn’t there. She didn’t even ask.”

  “Your parents aren’t there, Roar. It wasn’t personal.”

  “But Merri is! You don’t get it! It’s always those two. Merri always gets picked and never me. I love her and I don’t ever want her to feel this small and horrible, but . . . Just once can’t someone choose me?”

  “Hey.” His voice was soft. It was such a contrast from the barbed tone I’d used. And his touch was soft too as he wrapped an arm around the back of my chair and leaned to rest his chin on my shoulder. “Why do you think I’m here? I did. I do.”

  “What?” I stopped pretending to care about the prints. They were badly drawn boats—what was there even to look at? I turned back toward him. Our noses were inches apart. It was a distance that felt like it should be temporary, that we should be moving away to give each other space, or moving forward to press our mouths together.

  We did neither. I studied the fullness of his lips, the length of his eyelashes, the arc of his cheekbones. I had to look at these pieces individually because I was too close to process the whole.

  “Roar—” When he spoke, the words danced across my cheeks in a song of mint and licorice. “As soon as I heard the news, it was you I was thinking about. How would you feel? How fast could I get here? I didn’t want you to be alone. I didn’t want to be without you.”

  I closed my eyes so he wouldn’t see them well with tears and leaned my forehead against his. He reached for my hand underneath the table and squeezed it tight. “It’s going to be okay,” he told me.

  I let myself stay there for a minute, until my breathing started to settle and my neck began to cramp. I wiped my eyes and said, “I’m going to have to walk into that house today and be happy for them.”

  Toby shook his head. “Be happy next week. Or next month. They’re not getting un
married, you’ve got time. You’re allowed to feel what you feel. Frankly, I’m pissed on your behalf.” He pressed his lips together for a moment, then blurted out, “Let’s not go home.”

  My jaw dropped. “You mean run away?”

  “Not forever—just tonight.” He squeezed my hand again. “We’ll have a secret adventure. One that’s ours.”

  “But—” My head spun with logistics and possibilities.

  “My dad’s got party plans somewhere in the city. And yours . . . well, they weren’t sure Day versus Eve. They’ve got their hands full with the senator’s panic about this leaking to the press. Send a Can’t wait to see you tomorrow text and they won’t give it another thought.”

  “We don’t have anywhere to stay. I can’t get back in the dorm.”

  Toby laughed and stood. “It’s New Year’s Eve—we’ll stay up all night—go home first thing in the morning.”

  “Can we do this?” Impulsive was never a good look on me, but he sure made it sound tempting.

  He nodded. And waited, letting it be my choice. I glanced back at the framed boats. Boats! “Wait! You came for me—like Laurie did for Amy.”

  He looked between me and the wall, his forehead creased. “Are those girls in your workshop or something?”

  “No . . . it’s a Gregoire thing.” I took a deep breath. I was not going to stand frozen in my fear. “Okay, let’s do this.”

  He stood and held out his hands to pull me up, then began sorting our gloves and hats and scarves. Handing me my stack, he proclaimed, “Our adventure starts now.”

  56

  “So, we can do anything, Roar. Any opinions? You’re the expert on Manhattan now.” Toby held the door for me and we both inhaled at the sudden temperature change outside the café.