The clock was running out. I jumped off my chair and pulled Edgar over to a secluded corner in the outdoor garden. I wanted him to explain how he was going to get me home, and not in trouble.
I wanted him to kiss me.
I wanted the snow to finally start falling, as the crisp night air and gray skies indicated would happen at any moment.
I wanted my other boot because my sneaker foot was getting really, really cold.
“Edgar Thibaud,” I murmured, trying to sound sexy. I pressed myself up against his warm, rock-solid body. I parted my mouth to his approaching lips.
This was It.
Finally.
I was about to close my eyes for It when, from the corner of my eye, I noticed a teenage boy standing nearby, holding something I needed.
My other boot.
Edgar Thibaud turned to the boy. “Dash?” he asked, confused.
This boy—Dash, apparently—looked at me strangely.
“Is that our red notebook on the floor over there?” he asked me.
Could this be him?
“Your name is Dash?” I said. I burped. My mouth had one more nugget of wisdom to offer. “If we got married, I’d be, like, Mrs. Dash!”
I cracked myself up laughing.
Then I’m pretty sure I passed out in Edgar Thibaud’s arms.
thirteen
–Dash–
December 27th
“How do you know Lily?” Thibaud asked me.
“I’m not really sure I do,” I said. “But, really, what was I expecting?”
Thibaud shook his head. “Whatever, dude. You want something from the bar? Aryn’s hot, she’s twenty-one, and she’s buying for everybody.”
“I think I’m a teetotaler tonight,” I said.
“I think the only kind of tea they have at this place is Long Island. You’re on your own, my friend.”
So, presumably, was Lily. Thibaud placed her conked-out self on the nearest bench.
“Are you kissing me?” she murmured.
“Not so much,” he whispered back.
I stared up at the sky, trying to search out the genius who coined the term wasted, because she or he deserved mad props for nailing it so perfectly. What a wasted girl. What a wasted hope. What a wasted evening.
The proper response for a lout in this situation would be to walk away. But I, who had such anti-loutish aspirations, couldn’t muster up the bad taste to do that. So instead, I found myself taking off Lily’s sneaker and slipping her aunt’s second boot onto her foot.
“It’s back!” she muttered.
“Come on,” I said lightly, trying to disguise the crushing weight of my disappointment. She was in no state to hear it.
“Okay,” she said. But then she didn’t move.
“I need to take you home,” I told her.
She started to flail. Eventually I realized she was shaking her head.
“Not home. I can’t go home. Grandpa will kill me.”
“Well, I have no desire to accessorize your murder,” I said. “I’ll take you to your aunt’s.”
“That’s a good good good idea.”
To give them credit, Lily’s friends at the bar were concerned about her and wanted to be sure we’d be okay. To give him discredit, Thibaud was too busy trying to get the birthday girl to try on her birthday suit to notice our departure.
“Drosophila,” I said, remembering the word.
“What?” Lily asked.
“Why do girls always fall for guys with the attention span of drosophila?”
“What?”
“Fruit flies. Guys with the attention span of fruit flies.”
“Because they’re hot?”
“This,” I told her, “is not the time for being truthful.”
Instead, it was the time for us to hail a cab. More than a few of them saw the way Lily was leaning—somewhat like a street sign after a car had crashed into it—and drove right on by. Finally, a decent man pulled over and picked us up. A country song was playing on his radio.
“East Twenty-second, by Gramercy Park,” I told him.
I thought Lily was going to fall asleep next to me. But what happened instead was invariably worse.
“I’m sorry,” she said. And it was like a faucet had been turned, and only one sentiment could come gushing out. “I’m so sorry. Oh my God, I can’t believe how sorry I am. I didn’t mean to drop it, Dash. And I didn’t mean—I mean, I’m just so sorry. I didn’t think you were going to be there. I was just there. And, God, I am so sorry. I am really, really sorry. If you want to get out of the cab right this minute, I will completely understand. I will definitely pay for all of it. All of it. I’m sorry. You believe me, right? I mean it. I am so, so, SO sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I told her. “Really, it’s okay.”
And, strangely, it was. The only things I blamed were my own foolish expectations.
“No, it’s not okay. Really, I’m sorry.” She leaned forward. “Driver, can you tell him that I’m sorry? I wasn’t supposed to be like this. I swear.”
“The girl’s sorry,” the driver told me, with no shortage of sympathy shot my way in the rearview mirror.
Lily sat back in the seat. “You see? I’m just so—”
I had to tune out then. I had to stare at the people on the street, the cars going by. I had to tell the cabbie when to turn, even though I was sure he knew perfectly well when to turn. I was still tuning out when we pulled over, when I paid for the cab (even though this got me more apologies), when I carefully maneuvered Lily out of the cab and up the stairs. It became a physics problem—how to prevent her from hitting her head on the cab as she got out, how to get her up the stairs without dropping her sneaker, which I still held in my hand.
I only tuned back in when the lock on the front door turned before I had a chance to ring the bell. Lily’s aunt took one look and said a simple, “Oh my.” Suddenly the torrent of apologies was directed at her; had I not been holding Lily up, I might have chosen this as my opportunity to leave.
“Follow me,” the old woman said. She led us to a bedroom at the back of her house and helped me sit Lily down on the bed. For her part, Lily was near tears now.
“This wasn’t what was supposed to happen,” she told me. “It wasn’t.”
“It’s okay,” I told her again. “It’s all okay.”
“Lily,” her aunt said, “you should still have pajamas in the second drawer. I’m going to walk Dash out while you change. I’ll also call your grandfather and let him know you’re safe with me, no harm done. We’ll concoct your alibi in the morning, when you’re much more likely to remember it.”
I made the mistake of turning back to look at her one last time before I left the room. It was heartbreaking, really—she just sat there, stunned. She looked like she was waking up in a strange place—only she knew she hadn’t gone to sleep yet, and that this was actually life.
“Really,” I said. “It’s okay.”
I took the red notebook out of my pocket and left it on the dresser.
“I don’t deserve it!” she protested.
“Of course you do,” I told her gently. “None of the words would have existed without you.”
Lily’s aunt, watching from the hall, motioned me out of the room. When we were a safe distance away, she said, “Well, this is quite uncharacteristic.”
“The whole thing was silly,” I said. “Please tell her there’s no need to apologize. We set ourselves up for this. I was never going to be the guy in her head. And she was never going to be the girl in mine. And that’s okay. Seriously.”
“Why don’t you tell her that yourself?”
“Because I don’t want to,” I said. “Not because of the way she is now—I know that’s not what she’s like. There was no way it was going to be as easy as the notebook. I get that now.”
I got to the door.
“It was a pleasure to meet you,” I said. “Thank you for the tea you never served me.”
“The pleasure was mine,” the old woman replied. “Come back again soon.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I think we both knew I wouldn’t.
Back on the street, I wanted to talk to someone. But who? It’s moments like this, when you need someone the most, that your world seems smallest. Boomer would never in a million years understand what I was going through. Yohnny and Dov might, but they were in such couple mode that I doubted they could see the forest because they’d be too busy pairing up the trees. Priya would just stare at me strangely, even over the phone. And Sofia didn’t have a phone. Not anymore. Not in America.
Either of my parents?
That was a laughable idea.
I started to walk home. The phone rang.
I looked at the screen: Thibaud.
Despite my deeper reservations, I picked up.
“Dash!” he cried. “Where are you guys?”
“I took Lily home, Thibaud.”
“Is she okay?”
“I’m sure she would appreciate your concern.”
“I just looked up and you guys were gone.”
“I don’t even know how to begin to address that point.”
“What do you mean?”
I sighed. “I mean—that is to say, what I really don’t understand is how you get away with being such a lout.”
“That’s not fair, Dash.” Thibaud actually sounded hurt. “I totally care. That’s why I called. Because I care.”
“But, you see, that’s the luxury of being a lout—you get to be selective about when you care and when you don’t. The rest of us get stuck when your care goes shallow.”
“Dude, you think too much.”
“Dude, you know what? You’re right. And you don’t think enough. Which makes you the perennial screwer and me the perennial screwee.”
“So she’s upset?”
“Really, does it matter to you?”
“Yes! She’s grown up a lot, Dash. I thought she was cool. At least until she passed out. You can’t really try to get with a girl once she passes out. Or even when she’s coming close.”
“That’s mighty chivalrous of you.”
“God, you’re pissed! Were the two of you dating or something? She didn’t mention you once. If I’d known, I promise I wouldn’t have been flirting with her.”
“Again, chivalry. You’re almost up to a knighthood.”
Another sigh. “Look, I just wanted to make sure she was okay. That’s it. Just tell her I’ll catch her later, right? And that I hope she doesn’t feel too bad in the morning. Tell her to drink lots of water.”
“You’re going to have to tell her yourself, Thibaud,” I said.
“She didn’t answer.”
“Well, I’m not there now. I’m gone, Thibaud. I’ve left.”
“You sound sad, Dash.”
“One of the failures of cellular communication is that tiredness often comes across as sadness. But I appreciate your concern.”
“We’re still here, if you want to come back.”
“I’m told there’s no going back. So I’m choosing forward.”
I hung up then. The exhaustion of living was just too much for me to talk any longer. At least to Thibaud. And, yes, there was sadness in that. And anger. And confusion. And disappointment. All exhausting.
I kept walking. It wasn’t too cold for December 27, and all the holiday-week visitors were out in force. I remembered where Sofia had said her family was staying—the Belvedere, on Forty-eighth Street—and walked in that direction. Times Square sent its glow into the air, blocks before it actually began, and I walked heavily into the light. The tourists still crowded into a thronging pulse, but now that Christmas was over, I wasn’t as repelled. Especially in Times Square, everyone was enraptured by the simple act of being here. For every exhausted soul like myself, there were at least three whose faces were lifted in absurd wonder at the neon brightness. As much as I wanted to have the hardest of hearts, such plaintive joy made me feel what a leaky, human vessel it really was.