by Lexie Ray
“Oh, they made ‘The Lion King’ into a play?” I wondered aloud, squinting up at a billboard that featured a stylized feline face.
“Item number two on our schedule for today,” Nate announced. “See ‘The Lion King’ on Broadway. It’s a musical, of course.”
“I didn’t mean we had to see it,” I protested as he dragged me across the square by the hand. “I just didn’t know they’d made it. I begged my mom to buy a tape of the Disney movie at a thrift shop one day. We didn’t have the money, but she did it anyway. I’ve probably seen it a hundred times.”
“All the more reason,” Nate said over his shoulder. In no time, we were standing in front of a box office, purchasing tickets for the matinee.
The theater was cool and dark, forcing me to zip my jacket again. I soaked in the surroundings while Nate jotted some things in the notepad.
“Look at that,” I murmured. “You think you’re going to take a break from the muses and they just won’t let you go.”
“I think there’s one muse in particular that I can’t let go of,” he said softly, looking over at me. His gray eyes were warm, making me shiver and giving me butterflies. What was this feeling?
I didn’t have any time to analyze all the fluttering in my belly because the lights went down and the curtains went up. A parade of elaborate animal puppets moved across the stage amid the signature opening African chanting. It was beautifully done. The tears running down my face were halfway in appreciation of the artistry of the show and halfway in remembrance of Mom. We watched that “Lion King” videotape so many times we both knew it by heart and regularly sang along. It was her voice I heard when each performer sang.
When Mufasa died during the stampede, I wept just like I had as a child. I’d never been able to make it through that part with dry eyes. Nate noticed and put his arm around me.
The arm stayed for the remainder of the show. I liked it that way.
When the lights came up and we’d given no less than three standing ovations, he looked at me.
“Where to next?”
“What do you mean, next?” I asked. “This is all I could ever ask for.”
“It’s hardly past noon,” he said, checking his phone. “The day is ours.”
“I don’t even know what to do,” I said. “There’s so much I haven’t done.”
“Let’s make a list so we can check it off,” Nate said. We sat back down in our seats as the rest of the theater patrons filed out. “We’ll call it the ‘What Jasmine Needs to Do in New York City’ list.”
He opened his notepad and put pencil to paper, looking at me expectantly.
“Well, you can mark off Times Square and a Broadway show,” I said a little uncertainly.
“I’ll mark off Times Square in general, but not Times Square on New Year’s Eve,” Nate said, taking notes. “And I’ll mark off ‘The Lion King’ on Broadway but not Broadway shows in general. Next, we’re going to ‘Wicked.’ You should see as many Broadway shows as possible. And off-Broadway shows. And shows in general.”
“Okay, okay,” I laughed, feeling more than a little overwhelmed. “We don’t have to mark off Broadway.”
“Let’s think New York landmarks,” he said. “Empire State Building?”
“I’ve seen it from the outside.”
“Statue of Liberty?”
“I’ve seen it from the shore.”
“Ellis Island?”
“Um, no?”
“Central Park?”
“Passed by it.”
“MoMA?”
“What?”
“Walked the Brooklyn Bridge?”
“No.”
“Bergdorf?”
“Is that English?”
“Grand Central Terminal?”
“Are we going somewhere?”
“No, just to look.”
“Never been.”
“9/11 Memorial?”
“Too sad.”
“It’s a must see.”
Nate continued to jot things down even after he’d stopped asking questions. I thought that he must be aghast at the fact that I’d lived my whole life here but done nothing. Of course, I had intimate knowledge and experience with the underbelly of the city, but I had no desire to revisit those days or experiences.
“Here’s what we’re going to do for the rest of the day,” Nate announced. “Since it’s awesome weather, we’re going to take a ferry to the Statue of Liberty. We’ll get back in time for sunset, which we’ll take in from the top of the Empire State Building. After that, we’ll go to dinner at a little place I know. How does that sound?”
I shook my head, feeling like it was encased in cotton. How did that sound? It sounded incredible, amazing, like something I could only dream of. Were we really going to do all that?
“Let’s go, muse,” Nate said, grinning at me being overwhelmed with all the possibilities of the city.
We hooked elbows and left the theater, emerging out onto Times Square again. The crowd hadn’t diminished a bit.
The subway journey to the ferry brought back a bad memory of spending one night—and one night only—trying to ride it to stay warm and safe. That’s when my backpack had been stolen and my trust in people ruined.
The subway felt a lot friendlier, however, with Nate by my side. We sat together, standing when we felt charitable, and we kept up a running commentary of people riding with us. We would take turns whispering invented histories and motivations for each person we saw.
“He’s an expert cheese connoisseur,” Nate murmured in my ear, his voice barely audible above the racket of the subway car, swaying through the network of tunnels. His lips brushed the shell of my ear and I shivered pleasurably.
“His name is Monty Cheddar,” Nate continued, both of us staring as discreetly as possible at a portly man wearing a sweater vest and, improbably, a monocle. “He can name every type of cheese—and its country of origin—in a blindfold taste test. Last year, a bad batch of blue cheese threatened to end his career, but he recovered miraculously. The queen knighted him for his service to the cheese world.”
I had to look away from Mr. Cheddar, laughing so hard into my hand that my body shook.
“Who’s that over there?” I asked.
“What over where?”
“There,” I said, pointing as clandestinely as I could. “The woman with the dark glasses.”
She was dressed way too posh to be riding public transit—sunglasses in the subway car, black leggings, a black, low-cut blouse, and an over-sized matching black bag.
“That’s Missy Thing,” Nate whispered, “but she’s no model. Don’t let the fashion confuse you. She’s the first known case of pigment-phobia, meaning unreasonable fear of color. She shields herself from us with those glasses. She can’t bear for anything other than black or white to touch her body. An undiluted red makes her scream uncontrollably.”
The subway passed by in no time as I laughed myself from station to station.
The wind was a little too cool on the ferry. I wished for a scarf even though the sun was warm. Nate enveloped me in his arms as I held onto the railing, looking at the water below. It raced by, the boat pushing its way through the light waves.
“Check out that view,” Nate remarked.
I swiveled my head in the direction he pointed and smiled. New York City. We were far enough away now to really appreciate the buildings shooting up into the sky like steel and concrete flowers, glittering in the late April sunshine.
“It’s so beautiful, isn’t it?” I said. “From out here, nothing’s wrong with it. You don’t see the homeless on the street, you don’t see the poor, you don’t see the crime. Out here, it’s just the American dream, a city of possibility, and you’re pretty certain you’re going to make it in whatever you do.”
Nate released me abruptly and I turned, my brow furrowed in consternation. He was writing furiously in his notebook.
“Can you tell the muses to knock it off?” I as
ked, shaking my head. “I’m a little chilly, here.”
“Tell her yourself,” Nate said, looking up at me in amusement. His hair had grown out since we first met, and the wind played with it.
He finished writing and put his arms around me again, resting his chin on the top of my head. It was like being hugged by a human-sized, heat-generating coat. I found him immensely comforting. I realized that I trusted this man, enjoyed being near him, considered him my best friend, would do anything for him. It scared me a little bit, made my insides shudder. Could I truly have feelings for someone after everything that was wrong with me? I didn’t feel like I deserved to.
When we got off at Liberty Island, I was stunned by how big Lady Liberty was. She seemed almost like a toy from the shore, but here she towered. We didn’t get to go inside, as she was closed for renovations, but that just delighted Nate.
“Here’s the thing about the list we made,” he said. “Just because something’s checked off doesn’t mean you should never go back. You should make it a point to go back as often as possible. Things change. You change. Places change. Come back in a month and you might get to go inside the Statue of Liberty. Come back in a year and think about how happy you were the first day you met her and how happy you will be now to be with her again.”
I laughed, leaning against him. It struck me suddenly that perhaps he wasn’t talking about Lady Liberty.
“Here, stand right here,” Nate said, positioning me on a sidewalk. He reclined across the grass on the ground and pulled his phone out, snapping several pictures. “Okay, now hold your arm up like the statue.”
Giggling madly at all the amused looks we were earning, I complied, grinning and looking down at Nate.
We walked around for a long time, reading the plaques about the history of the statue. I knew I had to come back when she was open again, just like Nate had said.
The sunlight was starting to look richer, more golden as we got back to Manhattan.
“No time for public transit,” Nate shouted, seizing my hand and running to the street. “Taxi!” He put his fingers to his mouth and whistled in a piercing shriek. I didn’t know anyone could actually do that.
A cab pulled up and braked with a screech right next to us, almost exactly on cue with Nate’s whistle.
“To the Empire State Building, and step on it!” Nate said, pulling me into the backseat with him.
I barely had a chance to pull the door shut behind me when the cab took off, throwing me into Nate’s lap. I squealed, trying to right myself, while he laughed and held me tight. It was the ride of my life, the taxi driver yanking the cab in and out of lanes, jockeying for the best position to reach our destination.
We were at the Empire State Building in no time flat. I didn’t see what Nate paid the man, but I bet he received a hefty tip.
I grabbed Nate’s hand as we ascended the elevator, watching the floor numbers fly by. How could we be going up so fast? At one point, my ears popped.
The view from the top was astounding—everything I wished for it to be. We got to the observation deck just as the shadows were lengthening, the setting sun decorating the skyscrapers in gold leaf.
“How about them apples?” Nate asked, grinning at me. “Look at our Big Apple, Jasmine.”
“She sure cleans up nice,” I agreed.
Nate tried to wipe his eye discreetly, but I caught him in the act.
“Look who’s the mushy one now,” I teased, thinking back upon my copious weeping at “The Lion King.”
“I think we can blame the muse,” Nate said, elbowing me in the ribs.
“I think we can blame New York,” I retorted, hugging him at the waist. “This is beautiful and so special. I’ll never forget this day for the rest of my life. I’m glad you shared it with me.”
Nate turned in my arms and cradled my face in both of his hands. It was simply the most natural thing to do when I tipped my head back, closed my eyes, and kissed him.
“I love New York,” Nate murmured, stroking my jaw line and kissing me again.
Chapter Eight
After our romantic adventure in the city, the muse seized Nate very hard, indeed. He started working feverishly, closing himself in the office. I heard typing when I pressed me ear to the door at all hours. He seemed exhausted when he did emerge from the room to eat something.
“Please rest,” I would say, smoothing my hand over the muscles of his arm.
“I’m a slave to the muse, Jasmine,” he’d say, his face ashen as he dotted tiny kisses along my cheekbones.
He seemed eager, almost desperate to work, so I didn’t push him. We maintained our usual routine—me cleaning and cooking and taking care of the house and him writing. The evenings we reserved for a walk around East Village, or going out to eat, or a romantic dinner at home. Once in a blue moon, we’d do something else to “check off” the list.
I smiled, remembering those trips as I was wrapping up cataloging all the books in the office. It was hard to believe I was nearly finished with that task. I still kicked Nate out of there in the afternoons so I could clean and organize. He started taking the laptop to the couch and typing in there, an unceasing tapping rhythm that sounded driven by relentless inspiration. I couldn’t wait to read it.
We’d built another bookshelf in the office, attaching the boards directly to the wall, and it looked like I was going to be able to fit every single book in there. No more teetering towers.
Last weekend, we “crossed off” Central Park.
“Of course, you can never really cross Central Park off the list,” Nate told me as we sat in the grass with ice cream cones.
“Yes you can,” I teased, nibbling at the strawberry-flavored sugary confection. “Grass, trees, blah, blah, blah. If you’ve seen it once, you’ve seen it all.”
Nate dotted my nose with his chocolate cone, ignoring my cry of outrage.
“You should ideally be coming here once a week,” he said. “At least several times every season. This place changes with the weather, changes with the time of day. It’s the green heart of the city. You can’t have New York without Central Park.”
He kissed my nose, cleaning off the ice cream, then trailed downward and kissed me lightly on the lips. I deepened it, savoring the melding of our ice cream flavors in our mouths. Chocolate strawberries. Delicious.
Life was so good.
I lived to please Nate and I didn’t care who knew about it. I felt that everything that had happened in my life somehow led to him—that he was my reward for all of the trials and tribulations I’d undergone. If I was being completely honest with myself, I’d go through everything again—Jack, Mama, and Jeff and Brenda’s rejection—if I knew that, in the end, I could be with Nate.
The way he rubbed his thumb over my knuckles when we were holding hands during a movie, or rested his chin on the top of my head like that day on the ferry to the Statue of Liberty. He never pushed me to do things I was uncomfortable with and I never felt pressured. In fact, each one of his kisses erased a little more of the hurt I’d suffered in what felt like my past lives, reincarnations and reinventions of myself that grew more and more terrible until, at last, I’d reached Nate. It felt like nirvana with him. I was never more positive that everything was going to turn out okay.
I put a book by an author with the last name of “Zusak” on the shelf and reached back down to the stack for the next one absent-mindedly. When my groping fingers didn’t find one, I looked down. There were no more. Stunned, I gazed around the room. It was done. All of the books were organized by genre and arranged alphabetically by the author’s last name. The futon was clear of books, the window was unobstructed, and the desk only had a cup filled with pens and pencils on its surface.
The office was now the place where I knew Nate could write successfully without getting distracted by the clutter. I pulled open the door, practically skipping with joy at my accomplishment.
“Nate!” I called gleefully. “Come see! The office is
done!”
He walked down the hallway, carrying his laptop. Looking in the office, he laughed, clearly as delighted as I was.
“It actually looks like someplace I want to spend time,” he said, ogling the perfectly placed books. “Thank you so much for having the patience to do this.”
He cradled the laptop with one arm and rested his other hand on my waist, kissing me softly on the lips.
“You know,” he remarked, breaking the kiss suddenly, “this is perfect timing, really.”
He walked to the desk and set the laptop down on the clean surface. Pulling up the document I could only assume contained the book he was working so hard on, he hit “return” a couple of times. I leaned over his shoulder to watch what he was doing.
“The end,” he murmured, saying each word as he typed it.
I blinked a couple of times before realizing the magnitude of the moment.
“You finished your novel!” I whooped, jumping up and down and clapping my hands.
Nate laughed triumphantly, taking me up in his arms and twirling me around. The thing he’d been working so hard on—completed. I was so excited for him.
“I’m going to go to the publisher’s right now,” he said, saving and closing the document before removing a thumb drive from the side of the laptop.
“Today?” I asked. “But it’s already four o’clock.”
“The office will still be open,” Nate said. “They don’t close until six.” He jammed the miniscule drive into his pocket, patting it several times to make sure it was really there. Nate was sporting about a two days’ worth growth of stubble on his cheeks and chin and his hair was flying in all different directions. Deep circles of exhaustion lined his eyes, but his eyes glittered with a strange energy.
“At least take a shower,” I said, putting my hands on my hips.
“No time,” he said quickly, kissing the top of my head as he walked out of the room. “I’ll wash my face real quick, though.”
I shook my head, grinning. He’d really done it. Nate had written a novel.
“Figure out what you want to do to celebrate,” he said, rushing back up the hall. “This is a special night!”
