I shrugged on Phineas’s suit coat, sticking my hands in its pockets to keep them warm, and joined him at the railing. As beautiful as the rooftop haven was, the view from the spot Phineas had chosen gave it an admirable run for its money. Below, the East River, illuminated by the full moon above us, looked more like a stream of black ink painted with pockets of blue as though a giant pen had been broken open, its contents spilling through a chasm. Eerily still, yet soothing at the same time.
On the banks of the East River, New York City rose to the sky for as far as the eyes could see, its nightlife evident in the light that illuminated from it like a beacon at its core. On the outer edges of the city, along the river, the lights became more scattered, twinkling like stars.
“It’s absolutely breathtaking,” I marveled.
“I know. I do a lot of my work up here when I’m not in the office. Even when it’s at its peak and packed with people in the summer, it’s still oddly relaxing.”
“Your place doesn’t have the same view?”
“Not of the river, unfortunately.”
“Oh, so you’re really slumming it, then?”
“I knew I wouldn’t get any sympathy from you.”
“Do you want sympathy from me?”
He looked out into the distance, lost in thought, taking a moment before he answered me, “No, I suppose I don’t.” Sighing, he tore himself away from the railing and headed back toward the fire pit to warm his hands. “Would you like a drink?”
“God would I.”
“That bad, huh?”
“It’s not you. After that waste of oxygen at the club and all the other things I have going on in my life, the thought of winding down for a bit is appealing.”
“I can drink to that.” He smiled. “And I think I will.”
“How long have you been waiting to break that one out?” I dug in my purse, but was promptly stopped by him.
“You aren’t paying for your drinks. I brought you here. They’re on me.”
“Drinks, huh? You may want to set a cap on that, if you know what’s good for your wallet.”
“With your size, I can’t imagine you would be able to drink that much. My guess is what, two, maybe three, tops?”
“I may be small, but I can still pack them away before drunk Mena swoops in and all hell takes over when she picks fights with coat racks and gets kicked out of bowling alleys for being too suggestive with the bowling balls.”
I’ll take things you should never say to your boss for $800, Alex.
Phineas stared at me, waiting, perhaps, for me to retract any of the things I’d just said. “We’ll start with one.”
“That’s probably wise. Scotch on the rocks, please.”
“With a twist?”
“What do you think?”
“A twist it is.”
As he walked away, I noticed a band setting up on the other side of the bar, right as more people poured onto the rooftop from the elevators. The new crowd caught my eye when they walked by all decked out in their finest. The men wore dress slacks and ties; the women were outfitted in dresses barely casual enough to avoid being categorized as gowns. There must be some unspoken dress code to even be able to set foot inside of this building. Either that or this was the normal Saturday night attire for its inhabitants. A glamorous life supported by hefty bank accounts. Something I would never relate to. Even though Phineas had always made me feel comfortable around him and had never come across even the slightest bit presumptuous, I never felt like I belonged in these settings. I was the square peg to the rooftop’s round hole, even though I didn’t look the part right now.
“One scotch on the rocks with a twist.” Phineas returned, handing me the tumbler.
I took a sip, my eyelids involuntarily snapping shut as the scotch made a fiery trail down my throat.
“Trying to save money?” I asked, attempting to not cough up my esophagus.
“They make their drinks a bit strong. It’s why they’re so popular.” He took a seat on the couch opposite from mine. “I’ll send word for them to hide all the coat racks and bowling balls.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re hilarious when you’ve been drinking?”
“This is my first sip, actually.” He raised his glass to his lips, smiling at me. Phineas’s eyes trailed over to the group who’d just arrived.
“Friends of yours?”
“No. I only recognize a handful of them from the building. The rest are complete strangers.”
Taking another sip of scotch, my attention joined Phineas’s to the crowd that included a gaggle of beautiful women. “You know, don’t let me stop you if there’s someone over there you want to meet.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Phin. Because you’re a single, good-looking man, and there are some presumably single and equally as good-looking women over there.”
“You think I’m good looking?”
His eyes reflected the flames from the fire pit with such smoldering intensity they took on the appearance of molten copper. All I could do was stare into their depths longer than what should have been necessary for me to form an adequate response to his question.
Say something, damn it. Preferably something indifferent. For the love of God, just quit staring at him.
“Don’t go getting a big head about it, but you’re no eyesore.”
“Coming from you, that’s quite the compliment.”
I held up my glass. “Cheers.” Following my lead, Phineas held up his glass and took a drink. “You know,” I began, after letting another round of scotch clear my throat, “you didn’t really give me a response.”
“I’m not looking for anything right now. I rather enjoy being harassed by you and everyone else who happens to notice my lack of a social life.”
“It was that bad, huh?”
He looked at me inquisitively, unsure of what I meant.
“Your breakup.”
He nodded. “It was definitely one for the record books.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He snickered. “What do you think?”
“I think I need another drink,” I answered him, throwing back the rest of my scotch.
Phineas’s jaw dropped as he watched me set the glass down on the edge of the fire pit. “Well,” he shrugged, “when in Rome.” In one smooth motion, he raised his glass to his lips, draining its contents, just as a waitress appeared at our side.
“Another one, Mr. Drake?”
“Two, actually,” he answered, nodding at me.
I waved at the waitress, who was only now noticing my existence this evening, and handed her my glass.
She smiled, looking me up and down before turning back to Phineas. “Of course.”
“Three kamikazes for each of us, please,” I ordered. Phineas nodded at her, and she left us alone once more. “See? You could leave with her right now, if you wanted to.”
“Stop it.” Even though he rolled his eyes, the corners of his lips remained upturned, his mouth revealing the smile he was trying to hide. “What’s with the shots?”
“Since I’ve opened up a little bit to you about me, and you’ve not told me much about yourself, why don’t you say we say we play a little drinking game to level the playing field?”
“A drinking game?”
“Yeah. You know, like the ones you played in high school.”
“You played drinking games in high school?”
“You didn’t?”
He tried to answer me, only to be cut off by the band commencing their first set. I strained to hear what he was saying, but quickly gave up, pointing to my ears and shrugging. Resigned, he stood up and moved to the cushion next to me.
“I said that I’ll play your little drinking game under one condition.”
“And what would that be?”
“Anything said on this rooftop, stays on this rooftop.”
“Whoa, settle down. This isn’t Las Vega
s. The game I’m proposing is Two Truths, One Lie. You get to make up your own content.”
He remained silent, even thoughtful. “Do we have a deal?” He held out his hand for me to shake, giving me a taste of what it must feel like to be on the receiving end of one of his many successful business transactions. I looked up from his hand, meeting his eyes.
“Deal.” I shook his hand at the very moment our waitress returned with our drinks.
“Okay, so how does this go?” he asked, picking up a shot between his thumb and index finger.
“We each take turns revealing two true things about ourselves and one lie, while the other person guesses which statement is which. If the person making the guess correctly identifies the lie, then the person giving the statements must take a shot. If they don’t, then they have to take a shot.”
“Sounds pretty straightforward.”
I turned my body to face him on the couch, picking up a shot glass from where they were perched on the edge of the fire pit. “I’ll start.” I racked my brain, finding that the scotch from earlier was already beginning to work its magic. My thoughts were cloudy, if not jumbled. Next to me, Phineas sat intently, waiting for me, and I would be lying if I said it wasn’t making me the least bit nervous. “Okay, I think I have it.”
Phineas leaned back on the couch. “About time. I was beginning to think the Second Coming was going to start before you did.”
I narrowed my eyes, slamming the shot in my hand and grabbing a new one. “Oops,” I said, holding up the empty glass.
“And if you keep that up, this game will be over before it even had the chance to start.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re quite the condescending drunk?”
“Can’t say as I’ve been called that while drunk. Sober, however, that’s a different story.” He held up his shot glass. “And I’m not drunk. I’ve only had one, remember?”
“Well, that’s about to change.”
“We’ll see.”
“Okay,” I began, sorting through the tidbits of my life before settling on two truths to present to him. “Teal is my favorite color; I’ve never undergone any type of surgical procedure; I was a champion junior equestrian.”
“The second one,” he answered without hesitation.
“What? You’re not even going to think about it?”
“Am I right or not?” An annoying grin overspread his face when I reluctantly downed my shot.
“How did you know?” My head spun ever so slightly as I coughed.
“Oh, come on, Mena, give me more credit than that. You wear teal, or some variation of blue, quite a bit, and your favorite part of Love Me Tender centers around the protagonist’s volunteer work at her other love interest’s ranch—at least, that’s where the majority of your editorial notes were focused. It would have been obvious to anyone who’s read your notes that you have actual, real-life knowledge in that area. Taking those points into consideration, it was an easy choice.”
“I’ll try not to be so easy next time,” I lamented, still stunned by his observational accuracy. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea, after all. “You seriously notice what I’m wearing? That’s a bit on the stalker side, don’t you think?”
Unfazed, he plucked another glass from the edge of the fire pit and handed it to me. “I’m sure the act of stalking someone requires more free time than I’ve had since I was in college. I notice things. My attention to detail is impeccable. That’s kind of an important trait for someone in my line of work … and yours, also.”
“Fine, my observational skills need some work. Quit rubbing it in and take your turn.”
It took him approximately one-tenth of a nanosecond to tick off his three statements. “I’m an orphan; I once attempted to take my own life; I broke my arm in a motorcycle accident a decade ago.”
My jaw involuntarily dropped so low that, any farther, I would have needed a crane to lift it back up. “You’re not fucking around, are you?” I asked when I could finally speak again.
“You should know by now that I always play to win.”
“Okay, but you do realize that you can’t use more than one of your false statements in one round, right?”
“That’s good, because two of those statements are true.”
“Damn,” I whispered.
“Indeed.” He mimed checking a non-existent watch on his wrist. “Is there a time limit to answer? Because I think you’ve exceeded it.”
“Simmer down, this isn’t Jeopardy. You can’t just drop a bomb—or two, maybe—on me like that and not expect me to need time to process it.” I searched his face to see whether I could pick up on something—anything—that may sell him out and lead me to the correct answer.
Nothing. I could find absolutely nothing.
“I don’t think you would ever try to take your own life. So, my guess is the second one.”
“Take a drink.”
“What? No, that can’t be true,” I stammered, stunned. “Wh-What happened? When did it happen? Why … you have one of the best lives.”
“I didn’t expect this game to turn into an interrogation, but since I offered up the information, I suppose it’s only fair that I elaborate. Just remember, what’s said on the rooftop …”
“Stays on the rooftop. You can trust me.”
“I know,” he said, looking into my eyes. “And I do.” He cleared his throat, briefly falling silent before he spoke. “When my parents died—”
“Holy shit, you’re actually an orphan, too?”
He nodded. “Afraid so.”
“I’m going to need these shots just to cope with learning about your life.” I leaned back into the couch. “On the bright side, you’ve never broken your arm in a motorcycle accident.”
“You’re right. I actually broke my leg when I dumped my bike after a deer ran out in front of me.”
“Wait. Even your lie was kind of true?”
“I suppose that would depend upon your point of view. May I finish my story now?”
I tipped back the kamikaze shot, glancing forlornly at the remaining glasses. If I didn’t step up my game soon, I was going to be in a world of hurt. “Proceed.”
“I was thirteen when my parents were killed in a car crash. They hit a patch of black ice on their way home from a night out. Their car struck a tree.”
“Jesus, Phin. I’m so sorry.”
“This year marks a quarter century they’ve been gone.”
“It must still be painful.”
He nodded. “I liken my pain over their passing to my experience with breaking my leg. Excruciating at first, but then slowly becoming more and more tolerable with the passage of time, sometimes to the point where it’s unnoticeable. As the months turned to years, and the years turned to decades, it’s all but vanished entirely, manifesting itself as a shooting pain through my body, much like the shooting pain I get down my leg from time to time. It’s a constant reminder that I was hurt once before.
I wanted to say something, anything. However, all I could do was stare at him, thinking to myself how much easier my life had been compared to his and how unfair that was. There was nothing I could offer him—no apology that would feel contrite. All I could do was listen to him. In hindsight, maybe that was all he wanted me to do.
“After my parents died, I went to live with my Aunt Patricia, my mom’s sister, and my Uncle Ryan. They had two kids of their own, my cousins, Anika and Nicole. I was smack dab in the middle of them age-wise. As an only child, I was happy to have siblings, even though they really weren’t siblings. My aunt and uncle did their best to make me feel accepted, but there was something inside—a persistent, nagging thought—that told me that I didn’t belong, and that I never would. I now know that nagging thought was called depression and that I was in the throes of it.”
He didn’t speak about this part of his life often, perhaps he never had. That much was obvious by the way he kept searching for the right words, how careful and thought-out his s
entences were. Pausing momentarily, he looked over my shoulder to the view he adored so much, searching for the right thing to say. Little did he know, he didn’t have to be perfect, especially not with me.
He ran his hand through his jet-black hair, which must have sparked something, because he continued with his story. “When I graduated from high school, I couldn’t move away fast enough. I thought being on my own, meeting new people in a new town, would be the solution. As it turned out, I felt even more isolated. My depression robbed me of my desire to leave my dorm and meet new people; it took away my personality, my passion, my drive to accomplish something with my life. Still, I somehow managed to drag myself out of bed every day. Because of that, I kept telling myself that I would snap out of it, that it was just a phase in my life that would pass, and any other lie I could come up with because I didn’t want to admit the truth to myself. I became so consumed with trying to convince myself that I was okay that I lost the ability to focus on anything else. And then my grades came out, and I found out that I was failing my classes. That was it. That was the final straw. The catalyst. I didn’t belong at home, I didn’t belong at school, and as I had convinced myself, I would never belong anywhere.”
I rested my hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to continue, if you don’t want to.”
“I know, but this next part is the most important part of this whole story.” He cleared his throat, pulling the rolled-up sleeves of his plum-colored, button-down shirt back down. “The night I found out I was failing, I returned to my dorm with a bottle of Advil. I figured an overdose would be better than other methods. I didn’t want my aunt and uncle to have to identify a disfigured, bloodied corpse. Then I scrawled a quick note to them, thanking them for taking on the burden of raising a child who wasn’t theirs, opened the bottle, and dumped a handful of pills into my mouth, washing them down with a bottle of water. And that’s the last thing I remember.” He fell silent, staring into his shot glass as though it contained the strength he needed to continue.
“Another fact about me is that I hate cliffhangers.”
“Then I’ll regale you with the details.” His posture was more relaxed, relieved now that the most difficult parts of his story were over, and those details could once again be locked away inside of the vault from whence they’d been pulled. “After I lost consciousness, the RA made rounds through the dorms. Usually, the dorm doors lock automatically when they close, but for some reason, on that particular evening, my door hadn’t. When the RA knocked on my door, it creaked open and he saw me on my bed; my face was blue. He called 911, and the rest is history.”
When Stars Collide Page 14
