I open my contacts and hit Fry.
Hey, it’s Leela. Want to meet? I’m free today.
Hey you, he writes back a few seconds later. Welcome back. Yes! Where?
I was thinking a different neighborhood, I write.
I was thinking the same thing. I’m the tourist. You name the place.
My brain flashes to the High Line. That’s a mile-and-a-half-long park that runs along the west side of downtown Manhattan. It used to be an elevated train track in the early 1900s but went out of service and eventually became a rundown mess. Around the turn of this century, people got money together and transformed it into a gorgeous elevated park, with wooden walkways interspersed with train tracks, sculptures, and sweeping views of Manhattan. Whenever I’ve been to the High Line, usually when my parents are showing it to out-of-town guests, I’ve seen couples holding hands and it always seems so romantic.
Have you heard of the High Line? I write to Sebastian. We could meet at the 23rd Street entrance. There are benches across from the glass elevator.
Glass elevator! Very Willy Wonka. How’s 11?
I glance at the time. That’s in forty-three minutes. It’s not like I was planning an intricate beauty routine, but I thought maybe a shower and some lip gloss.
Eleven thirty? I write.
See you there, he says. Across from the great glass elevator.
I love that he’s name-checking Roald Dahl. For some girls it’s sexy when a guy bench-presses or throws a football, but he’s slaying me with the book references.
“Full disclosure,” Sebastian says as soon as I step off the elevator and walk across the wooden pathway.
It’s 11:40 and I’m just arriving. It took me longer to get ready because I changed outfits six times, and then the downtown trains were delayed. I had The Great Gatsby in my bag, but I was so distracted I read the same paragraph over and over and finally gave up.
“Full disclosure about what?” I ask. I’m trying not to gawk at him, but I totally am. He’s even taller than I remembered, like over six feet. He’s wearing a T-shirt that shows off his wide shoulders. His blond hair is tucked behind his ear on one side and spilling over his forehead on the other. And his eyes. Out here, in the sunshine, they are blue-green like the Caribbean Sea.
“Can we sit?” he says to me. He crosses his arms over his chest, then uncrosses them, then crosses them again. “I have to say this sitting down.”
“Okay …,” I say as I sit on a bench next to him.
“For the sake of full disclosure, I’m going to put this out there. I think we should kiss.”
My stomach flips over. I totally didn’t see that coming.
“Let me explain.” He lets out a slow breath. “We have this messed-up family situation, right? Like we have a shitload of awkward between us. And that’s making me nervous already. Add to that that I want to kiss you and I’m hoping you want to kiss me. That’s making me even more nervous, because you’re this attractive, cool New York City girl. So what if we made a decision to get it over with and then we can go on to have a nice afternoon?”
I stare at him. I seriously can’t believe this is happening.
“Listen, Leela. Virginia. I don’t usually talk this much.” Sebastian runs his finger up and down the slope of his nose. It’s crooked, like maybe he’s broken it before. When we met at Absolute Bagel he said he’d broken his wrist twice and cut his face. Maybe he really is clumsy. Which is cute. Everything about him is cute. Even his compulsive talking.
“Okay, that’s not true,” Sebastian continues. “I do talk a lot. Do you know the Myers-Briggs personality types? I’m an ESFP. Which probably explains why I’m talking so much, so could you please say something to shut me up?”
I don’t say anything.
Instead I lean in and kiss him.
As our lips touch, he makes this sound like mmmmm and holds the back of my head with his hand, pulling me in. My body goes limp, and I press my lips against his. It flickers through my head that he tastes like ChapStick. Then my brain goes blank and I’m not thinking about anything at all.
“I can’t believe we just did that,” he says as we pull back.
Our faces are close, and we’re both smiling.
“I know.”
“Now that that’s checked off the list,” he says, exhaling loudly, “let’s start again. I’m Sebastian Mills. I’m from Regina, Saskatchewan. That’s the capital. I just finished high school. And, no, I don’t play ice hockey or even ice skate.”
“Horrible Things?”
“Exactly. Horrible Things. Sharp blades on the bottom of boots should never have been invented, much less taken onto ice.” He pauses and then says, “Anyhoo, tell me about you.”
I laugh out loud. He remembers that anyhoo is on my list of Horrible Things! That’s what I told him when we were saying good-bye for the first time at the bagel store, before we walked to the cathedral.
“Anyhoo,” I say, grinning, “I’m Virginia Shreves.”
As soon as he hears my last name, the smile drops from his face.
“Shit,” he says.
I know exactly what he’s thinking. He’s thinking Shreves. Byron Shreves. His sister’s rapist.
I stare into my lap. I shouldn’t be here. We shouldn’t be here.
He reaches over and touches my hand. “We could just shut up and kiss all day.”
“You said one kiss.”
“One kiss for starters,” he says. “One to get it over with.”
I have to laugh, and when I do, he laughs, too. I wonder if this is how it felt when Lotto and Mathilde met at that party during their senior year at Vassar. Or Jay Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan. No, Virginia! This isn’t fiction. This is real life. My life.
“Let’s walk.” He grabs my hand and pulls me up from the bench. “Let’s talk about other things.”
“Do you have a dog?” I ask as we start heading south. “I saw it on your phone that time.”
At the exact same moment, he says, “Have you ever taken the Myers-Briggs test?”
“What’s that?”
Sebastian trips on some raised train tracks and lunges forward. I reach out to catch him, but he grabs a railing to stop himself from falling.
“Are you okay?”
“Story of my life,” he says, pushing his hair behind his ear. “The dog is my nana and pop pop’s. His name is Buster. They live in Saskatoon, but they’re originally from Norway.”
Norway. That would explain his size. He’s big like a Viking.
I suddenly love Leif Eriksson and Erik the Red and all those other tall Viking people. Also, I love that he has a nana and pop pop. Dad’s parents were cold and formal, with a sitting room and a cocktail hour. And other than the obligatory Christmas phone call, Mom barely has contact with her family.
“Last summer, my grandparents drove to Alaska, so Buster came to stay with us. But then my sister was really allergic to dogs, so—” He stops abruptly at the mention of Annie and then says, “Shit.”
As we walk on in silence, I point out raised railroad tracks and he maneuvers over them. Conversation is feeling like a minefield. There’s just so much we can’t say.
“Myers-Briggs,” he finally says. He takes some ChapStick from his pocket and slides it across his lips. “It’s a personality test where you answer tons of questions and it determines whether you’re an introvert or an extrovert, someone who is driven by thinking or feeling. Things like that.”
“Oh, I’ve done that!” I say. Shannon and I used to take personality tests in middle school. “It said I was an introvert.”
“But you’re so funny,” he says.
I am? In my head I think of myself as funny, but I’ve never been able to connect that with what comes out of my mouth.
“No, I get it,” Sebastian says. “Being an introvert isn’t about how funny you are. It’s about getting energy from being alone instead of being around people. A lot of famous comedians are introverts.”
“For me, it’s defi
nitely alone.” I think about how I walk across Central Park to and from school most days just to detox from all the noise and chaos.
“Should I take offense?” Sebastian asks.
I shake my head. “No. I like this.” I point out another raised train track, and he steps over it. “I’m guessing you’re an extrovert.”
“Extroverted Sensing Feeling Perceiving,” he says.
“I have no idea what that means.”
“Life of the party,” he says, grinning. “And the friend to have if you’re feeling sad.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Sebastian checks out a sculpture that has strips of red metal swirling into a bell, and I show him where you can see the Statue of Liberty down in the New York Harbor. He pulls out his phone and takes a picture. Then he takes a bunch of pictures of the Empire State Building presiding over the skyline. I guess that’s how it is when you don’t live in New York City. It’s all cool and new.
When we start walking again, I say, “How long are you in the city?”
I’m hoping he doesn’t say until tomorrow morning. If he does, I might burst into tears.
“That’s the thing,” he says.
“What thing?”
“The answer to that question brings us back to the stuff we don’t want to talk about.” Sebastian pulls out his phone and takes a picture of a New York Water Taxi zipping across the Hudson. Then he takes a few more of the Empire State Building. “Let’s move on. Do you have a boyfriend? I’m guessing no because of … well … before.”
“Before?” I ask. I know he’s referring to the kiss, but I’m teasing him.
“Anyhoo.”
“I did,” I say. “We broke up.”
“Recently?”
I clear my throat. It’s weird to think that Froggy and I were together when I first met Sebastian. But it also feels like the bagel store was a million years ago, before Byron got arrested, before school ended. “We broke up last Monday. A week ago.”
He grins. “So I’m the rebound guy. That’s cool. I’ll take it.”
“I didn’t say that!” I say, swatting his arm. “So what about you?”
“I had a girlfriend. It’s over.”
“When?”
He shrugs. I decide not to push it.
A couple stops us and asks if we’ll take their picture. They’re probably in their twenties and wearing dresses and Birkenstocks. As Sebastian snaps a few pictures, it hits me that they probably think we’re a couple, too.
“Want us to take yours?” the taller one says in a thick German accent as Sebastian hands her phone back.
Sebastian and I both shake our heads. We can’t be in pictures together. Too risky. Annie knows what I look like.
As we walk on in silence, I decide that it’s a shitload of awkward but it’s worse not to talk about it.
“My brother doesn’t remember doing it,” I finally say. “He was really drunk that night. His name is Byron, but you probably know that. I also have an older sister. Her name is Anaïs. She’s been in Africa for the past two years, and she’s getting home Friday. Honestly, I don’t know what to say about my brother. He’s self-centered and sort of an asshole, but it’s still awful. Like, he could go to jail and have to register as a sex offender. I’m not saying he shouldn’t be punished, but it’s awful.”
“You’re right.” Sebastian nods. “It’s awful.”
I can’t say how grateful I am to hear that. Because it’s a terrible situation and I wish I could turn back the clock and make it not happen. But I couldn’t control the fact that Byron got drunk and forced a friend to have sex with him. Neither could Sebastian. And yet we are somehow pulled into the mess.
Then again, we wouldn’t have met again if I hadn’t gone to the Hungarian Pastry Shop and I wouldn’t have gone to the Hungarian Pastry Shop if Annie hadn’t pressed charges. So we have THAT to thank for being together today. Which is bizarre.
After a long silence, Sebastian says, “I’m supposed to go to Columbia in the fall. I got in and got offered a lot of financial aid. There’s a fine arts teacher I really want to work with, and I’ve always wanted to go to the school where my sister went. She’ll be a senior when I’m a freshman.” Sebastian pushes back his hair, and then says, “My parents are both teachers who have the summer off. The plan was that we were all going to spend the summer in New York City, help me get settled in. We sublet a place in Morningside Heights for two months. But then Annie started having a really hard time and she went to the police and things have changed.”
“Like how?”
“We’re definitely staying for the summer to support Annie during the legal stuff, but my parents are pushing hard for me not to go to Columbia after all. Annie has a year left, so she has to finish. But they’re done with Columbia. They want me to go to the University of Saskatchewan next year and then transfer if I want.”
“Wow.”
“I know,” he says. “We’ve been fighting a lot. My mom is making us go to family therapy. The thing is, my sister has a history of anxiety and depression, and it’s gotten bad this year because of …”
As he trails off, I don’t say anything. I can’t believe Sebastian is supposed to go to Columbia in the fall. Columbia is thirty blocks from my apartment. Then again, he could go to the University of Saskatchewan, which may as well be thirty thousand miles away.
“Shit.” Sebastian punches one hand into the other.
“What?”
“I shouldn’t have told you about my sister and the depression.”
“Why not?”
“What if you tell your brother’s lawyer and he uses it against my sister, like she’s mentally unstable and might not be telling the truth?”
“And I shouldn’t have told you anything about Byron when what I say could result in him going to jail.” I shake my head. “Besides, I’d never tell anyone what you said.”
“Neither would I.” Sebastian takes my hand. “I really like you, Leela, but I honestly don’t know what the hell we should do.”
We’re standing in front of a low wooden lounge chair. I sit on the edge and tug Sebastian’s arm. He falls down after me, practically tumbling onto my lap.
“We should kiss,” I say.
And so we do.
16
“I know what’s going on,” Gerri says grimly. It’s a little after six on Tuesday morning, my first day of work. She’s just shown me how to swipe IDs, how to greet members, and where to book sessions with personal trainers. Right after the laundry guy arrived to unload the towels behind the front desk, Gerri gestured me into her office and closed the door.
“I want you to know that I know what’s going on,” she adds, “and I’ll keep it between us. I won’t talk about it with your parents.”
I freeze, my stomach in knots. I can’t look at her, so I stare at the yoga ball. It says Property of Gerri Goldberg!!!! on it in Sharpie. I have no idea how Gerri found out about yesterday with Sebastian. We didn’t take pictures together, and we stayed downtown the whole afternoon, and we even rode separate subway cars back to the Upper West Side. Even if she did see us together, how could she know he’s forbidden?
“I can tell you’re upset,” Gerri says. She picks up her weights but holds them steady at her waist. “It’s just … I googled your name yesterday. I do that for all potential employees to make sure nothing horrible jumps out on social media, and the articles on your brother came up. On what happened.”
I fill my cheeks with air and slowly exhale. She’s talking about Byron’s arrest, not Sebastian and me. Phew. I guess.
“I can’t imagine what your family is going through,” Gerri says. “I know your mom values family so much. This must be really hard for her.”
I nod even though it’s more like Mom values the image of family. The news leak on Byron’s arrest is messing up the whole image thing.
“That’s why I wanted you to know that I won’t discuss it with her,” Gerri says. “A gym should be
a safe place for every member.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Again, not entirely in agreement. A gym feeling safe? Too many full-length mirrors and toned thighs and empty treadmills taunting me like, WE are the equipment standing between you and a better body.
Gerri curls her weights up to her shoulders. “Moving on?”
I nod gratefully.
“Let’s talk towels. We’ve got a towel-inventory problem here. All gyms do. We figure that for every twenty-five people who walk through the door, two will walk out with a towel. And it adds up, you know? We buy high-quality towels here. Thick and plush.”
I nod like I know, even though I don’t. I’ve never given much thought to towels other than to hate the little ones that don’t make it around my body.
“I’d love to eliminate our towel service altogether and have members bring their own,” Gerri says. “We lose a lot of money on this. But we’re a high-end private gym, and people want their towels.”
As Gerri talks, she’s pumping her weights harder and harder. She’s really passionate about this towel thing.
I take a sip of water from my Whole Fitness bottle.
“I’ve looked into towel trackers,” she adds, “but we think members would take offense at that. So basically you should just give each person one towel. Two if they request it. And when they leave you smile brightly and hope they don’t have a towel stuffed in their bag.”
“Can I ask them?”
Gerri shakes her head. “People pay a lot for membership here. They don’t want to feel accused.”
“Okay,” I say, shrugging. Whole Fakeness all over again. People steal towels but take offense at being accused of it.
Gerri sets down her weights. “Ready to start work?”
I nod and follow her out to the lobby. A few minutes later, I’m perched on a stool behind the front desk when my parents come through the door. Dad waves and Mom breezes over and air-kisses Gerri, who is signing invoices on a clipboard.
“How’s Virginia doing?” Mom asks, smiling brightly.
Looking at Mom now it would be impossible to see that she just spent the weekend holed up in her bedroom in Connecticut. Whenever she emerged, somber and serious, she’d embark on hours of downward dogs and sun salutations on the living room rug.