by Poppy Dunne
I even add a smiley emoticon to the text for good measure.
11
It’s not that I’m waiting outside in Central Park in the middle of the snow. It’s that I’ve been waiting here, just north of Strawberry Fields, for fifteen minutes past the time Ben texted back and said he’d meet me. Well, maybe my growing paranoia has a little to do with the snow. And the fact that it’s so cold, and my chin is going numb. And the fact that these same pigeons keep waddling by and shooting me looks. I know what’s going on in their little pigeon-y brains. ‘Wow, look at that sad sack who’s standing by and waiting for her latest hook up. Remember kids, this is why you need to get that M.R.S. degree in college.’
Fun fact: all pigeons sound like my mother.
Okay, so Ben’s fifteen minutes late. Maybe this whole thing is karma getting me back for keeping Todd waiting that long, even if he is an oily jackass. Maybe it serves me right.
I shiver and shove my hands even deeper into my pockets. Ben’s probably just held up in traffic. Or literally being held up by a guy in a black ski mask and an orange jumpsuit, straight from Rikers Island. Then they’ll commence a foot chase through Central Park as Ben tries to get his wallet back, culminating in them all showing up right in front of me. And then I’ll karate chop the criminal in the throat, and Ben will get his wallet back, and then we will make out gloriously while a crowd cheers around us before we give in to the passion and start doing it in the snow.
Then Ben gets the key to the city, and we rule New York together with an iron fist.
This got so out of control so fast that I’m a little impressed with myself.
I shift from foot to foot, my breath still puffing white clouds in the air. I’m probably this anxious because of how I left Todd. No, because of Todd in general. That anyone could be that skeezy, that morally bankrupt, it kind of taints the rest of the human race for you. No one is innocent or pure enough to escape my cynical thoughts. See, there’re a couple of adorable, cherub-cheeked kids running past me gleefully, tugging sleds behind them. They’re probably serial adulterers as well, little monsters.
No, but there is a bright spot in this stupid universe. A literal bright spot, with an amazing tan and glorious blond hair named Ben. A bright spot who is currently running late, and turning me even more insane than I was before. If only…
Hold on. Why am I even getting this hung up on Ben, anyway? It’s kind of a miracle he’s been able to get all this time off to spend with me in the first place. We’re not really dating, after all. It just feels like an incredibly real simulation. Or stimulation.
Heh. See, I can amuse myself just fine.
Point is, the Ben thing is over after this weekend. Most likely. No, definitely. Most perhaps definitely. We’re both enjoying our time together, and that should be good enough. Shouldn’t it? Most perhaps undoubtedly and definitely it should.
I’m debating how many more modifiers to add when someone approaches me from the left. Someone with a golden tan and golden hair and a giant hot dog. No, no, it is not a metaphor. I mean, it is, but he doesn’t have it hanging out in the open, because he’s classy. Ben hands me an actual hot dog, dressed with relish and ketchup and mustard, and between the unexpected sweet relief of seeing him and the growling in my stomach at finally being able to eat a meal today, I’m so overcome I nearly swoon.
“You know how to keep a woman happy,” I groan, taking a huge bite of the dog. Ben swoops an arm around me, lifts me right off the ground, and kisses me. Damn, I know I was guessing ‘starving entrepreneur’ earlier, but he’s got to be an actor. No one’s moves are this smooth. Not that you’ll catch me complaining.
“Sorry I’m late. Had to make sure you eat. Keep your stamina up,” he says, setting me down and kissing the top of my hair. How did I ever doubt this man and his commitment to keeping me fed? It’s what brought us together, after all.
“Ready for a classic New York City cheesy date?” I ask, passing him the last bite of hot dog. He chews thoughtfully as I lead us over to the sidewalk. Traffic rushes past, early afternoon light glinting on windshields. Ben nestles his arm around me. Was I cold a minute ago? Pssh. What a silly idea.
“If this involves making snow angels, I’m going to need another hundred bucks to stick around,” he says, grinning. My stomach plummets a little, and it’s not only from the hard work of digesting that hot dog. Even after my thoughts five minutes ago, I kept brushing aside that this is all a joke. A hoax. A cash exchange, nothing else. Ben notices me go quiet, because he tilts my chin up and catches my lips fast. The kiss is quick, but intense, and leaves me with a pleasant warmth deep in my belly. And that heat extends further south as well.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“Divine. Hope you brought some carrots,” I tell him, as I spy our destination to the right. Well, not a destination so much as an animal.
“Carrot? Is this an innuendo?”
“You know me so well already. But no.” I finally take him over to the beautiful, snow white carriage with red velvet interior. In the driver’s seat sits a man in a faded frockcoat and a top hat with a wilted red rose on the brim. He looks like he’s seen enough happy, canoodling couples to last him a lifetime. I’m pretty sure cab drivers in Dickensian London looked happier than this guy, and most of them had black lung. Which, considering the droopiness of his jowls and the bags under his eyes, might be exactly what’s going on with this man.
But the best part of all is the blustery, coal black horse pulling the carriage. He noses at my shoulder as soon as Ben and I arrive, and knickers when I pat his neck. Aww, what a pretty baby.
“Good boy,” Ben says, rubbing the horse’s velvet nose. Likes animals. That is in the double plus good column.
“He’s a gelding, so he’s more of an ‘it’ at this point,” the driver says. He takes out a pink bottle of Pepto Bismol and enjoys a healthy swig. “Neutered. Just like me,” he says darkly, gazing into the middle distance.
Well. That’s a little morose, but I like this horse, so we’re taking a ride.
“I’ve never driven through Central Park in a horse-drawn carriage before,” Ben says, helping me up the step and then swinging in behind me. “There’s just one thing missing.”
“My dignity?” the driver says. Man, someone needs a hug and some Xanax, pronto.
“Er, besides that,” Ben says. He waves over to a roasted chestnut vendor who’s standing nearby, calling out for everyone to get some hot, salty nuts. I…don’t think he knows how some folks are taking that, based on the laughter I’m seeing. Ben motions him over and buys two bags. One he hands to me, the other he gives to our poor, intrepid driver. “Here you go, man. Get in the spirit of the season.”
“The cold, bleak midwinter?” the guy says. But he takes the bag and eats a chestnut or two. I notice that he seems to like that; his hat visibly perks up. Taking up the reins, our driver urges the horse forward, and we clip-clop down a snow lined path. It’s like a freaking postcard. If you’d told me a week ago that I’d be riding around Central Park with a man I’d paid to date and perhaps bone me, in the company of a delightful horse and a strangely droopy man eating hot chestnuts, I would have wondered what medication you were taking.
Still, I didn’t know how magical this could be. The tree branches above us are lined and puffy with perfect white snow. Ben pulls the frayed, red velvet lap rug over us, and slips his arm around me as we ride down one of the Park’s broad avenues. The sky’s a cozy shade of white. There’s snow coming down in little swirling eddies all around us. I even remembered my earmuffs, so my brain’s not freezing. All’s well with the world. Throw in some hot chocolate, and this has literally become my romantic fantasy from when I was nine.
Sort of like last night was the fantasy from age nineteen. I believe in satisfying all past little Alexandrinas.
“You okay?” Ben asks as we take a right and head back toward the city streets. The clopping of the horse’s hooves on the pavement is rhythmic and
soothing. “You seemed a little upset when I got here.”
“Upset? Me? Surely you jest.” I hope the dismissive noises I’m making are enough to fool him. They’re my best dismissive noises, after all.
“Harrington, you’re strange,” he says, but grins as he kisses my forehead. God, that shouldn’t make me melt as much as it does. It’s good for the charade we’ve got going on here, but bad for my sanity. This is Inception levels of dating confusion. A date within a faux date within a fake relationship. And Tom Hardy would be playing Ben’s part.
I need to stop enjoying that idea so much.
Point is, even as I’m tucked up against Ben, I have to keep remembering that this is a game we’re both playing. I shouldn’t get too emotionally involved, or hopeful. Sighing, I realize I should just…get it all out in the open, maybe?
“Hey, Ben?” I say. He turns his (soulful, electric, etc.) blue eyes down to me. “I was thinking—”
“Got yourself a nice piece of horseflesh there!”
That random exclamation comes from further down the road. I look up, baffled, to see about four of Katie’s many, many relatives come riding down the other way in another horse-drawn carriage. Strike that, there seem to be about five of them, including her favorite uncle and least favorite second cousin who works at a GameStop. Uncle’s waving at us, red-faced and wearing a checkered jacket and a string tie.
“I’ll trade you,” he calls to me, taking out his wallet and waving a healthy fan of ones and fives.
“You can’t change horses mid carriage ride,” least favorite cousin yells, swatting the man down. “That’s like changing horses midstream.”
“What do you know about horses? You weren’t even sure what was the front of this one!” the uncle yells. They rumble past us, and I’m left shaking my head. Here I thought the Harringtons were the biggest bunch of weirdos at this wedding.
“More family?” Ben laughs. “Could your life get any more bizarre?”
I chuckle along, but my laughter is weak. Well, Ben, I could be longing to make a full emotional commitment to the room service waiter I know next to nothing about. Bizarre’s been the basic color of my life for some time now.
“How are you enjoying all the wedding shenanigans so far?” I ask. “Is everyone as annoying as you thought they’d be, based on me talking about it?” I ask. Ben nestles me closer against him, running a hand up and down my arm. He seems thoughtful.
“Your mother has interesting ideas,” he says carefully. “And your dad never talks. Like, ever.”
“He’s on a strict diet. 1500 words a day.”
“I like them, though. Your whole family.” He grins. “There are so many of them, and everyone’s so tight-knit, even when they’re…not exactly getting along. For me, there was no extended family growing up. Everyone lived scattered and too far away.”
Man, scattered and far away sounds like bliss right now. But I understand what Ben’s talking about. It’s good to have family, even if you want to strangle them.
“So you’re saying you’d like to spend even more time with them. That can be arranged,” I say, in a real joking sense. Then Ben gets real quiet, and I have this awful flash of realization. I’ve basically said that I’d like him to stick around for a while more, and right now he’s probably sitting here, wheels in his head turning, thinking of a way to remind me that none of this is real. We’re not actually dating. Sure, we open up to each other about things, laugh together, and occasionally bang each other’s brains out, but that has nothing to do with being serious. Not at all.
I don’t think I’m the right kind of person for casual hooking up. In fact, I don’t think I’m the right kind of person for any level of social interaction. All I can do right is hang out with this horse.
“Do you mean that?” Ben asks, his voice incredibly cautious. His arm has gone limp where it was formerly squeezing my shoulder, and I can feel his body stiffening in all the wrong ways beside me, like he’s so anxious that he’s subconsciously gone into fight-or-flight mode. Quick, Alex, put him back at ease with your dazzling humor.
“Oh, sure. You can take family vacations with us, move in with my parents, occasionally visit my great Aunt Agatha and her dogs. She’s got about twenty of them. You’d have to sleep in the kennel, but if that’s no problem?” Then I laugh very loudly and aggressively, to the point where I spook the horse. But it’s the kind of laugh that tells Ben ‘no need to worry, I’m not getting clingy. Not at all. I just never want to let you out of this iron grip I’ve got on your jacket sleeve. That’s it.’
Ben laughs, sounding relieved. Man, dodged that bullet. My stomach sinks to hear him sounding more confident and relaxed. I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t—
“I’d probably want to spend more time with you first. Don’t put the cart before the horse, you know?” He grins at me. “Or in this case, carriage.”
Heh. Heh. Yeah. So…does that mean he would be open to spending more time with me? More naked time? Or am I reading too much into this? There’s got to be a way to figure this out. Like, maybe I can graph a chart or something…
Stop it, Alex. Just stop. The only way to clarify this once and for all is to ask, point blank, what Ben sees in the future for the two of you. And do you think you can handle the truth?
If the answer is no—and it surely is—then the only thing I can do is sit back, relax, and enjoy the horse-drawn carriage ride through Central Park. Enjoy my face going numb. Enjoy being lost in Ben’s temporary embrace. So that’s exactly what I do. Mostly.
And by mostly, I mean kind of.
12
“Ms. Harrington?” the receptionist drawls into my ear, finally cutting through the muzak. “I have Grace Goodwin.”
I nearly fall off the bed. I’m back in my room, warming up after the long carriage ride through the park. About halfway through, I realized the problem with riding around in the cold, February New York weather—that you can nearly freeze to death. So this means warming up, pronto. Which means two pairs of socks, three hot water bottles, and a pot of coffee on the bedside table. Calling into Moebius Talent to check if Grace was there was just something I was doing out of habit. Kind of a bad habit, too. Bite your fingernails, call Moebius, all on the same level of dumb. But now? Could Of Fire and Llamas be so close? Just a phone call away?
“Thanks, put her on, please,” I say. It comes out a little spluttery, since I spewed half a cup of coffee when the assistant picked the line back up. Then I’m back on with the muzak, waiting with my heart in my throat. It’s an easy listening version of Pink Floyd’s The Wall, which…doesn’t quite lend itself to cheesy saxophone, but whatever. I’m not going to judge.
“Who the hell is this?” a woman’s voice barks into the phone. Damn, I forgot how loud Grace Goodwin is. Apparently she used to call the results of donkey races down in Taiwanese brothels. From what I understand, that requires a strong voice. And a gun, but that’s another story. She also told me once that she gelded horses for Saudi princes, but hey. One issue at a time.
“Grace? Hi, it’s Alex.” Please let her remember me. Please let her not curse my name. Finally, my luck starts changing, because her voice shifts on the instant.
“You piece of shit.” Coming from Grace, that’s a love tap. She gives a smoker’s laugh. “How the hell are you?” In the background, I think I can hear what sounds like an electric guitar being smashed to pieces against a rock.
“Good. You busy right now?”
“Nah, we’re just laying down a track for Blackhearted Dynamite’s new song,” she says. Then I hear her yell into the background, “I said we need more garbage can! Beat that shit! And who took the goat out of the room?” Finally, she’s back with me. “What can I do for you?”
“Funny you should ask. Remember that time you punched me in the face?” I laugh a little, just to assure her it’s all good fun and I’m still not pressing charges.
“Right, right. FacePunchGate,” she says soberly. “I said I owed you a fa
vor.”
Oh my god, let this be my moment. All I need is one.
“Exactly why I’m calling. I need to book a solid act for my boss, Nigel Perkins. Over at House of Jazz? On the Sunset Strip?” My voice keeps pitching higher and higher as Grace doesn’t respond. It takes a lot of good breathing control not to rush through the rest of what I’m about to say. “It’s for a fundraising celebration for the club. We need the hottest new indie act, something to bring the Snapchat generation in.”
“I fucking hate Snapchat.”
“Yep, fuck those flower crown assholes, absolutely. But we need them, money wise.” I hunch forward, girding my loins as metaphorically as I can. “I was hoping you could help us out with Of Fire and Llamas.”
Boom. Gauntlet is down, baby. Another solid thirty seconds of silence crawls by like a snake that got run over by a flatbed truck but is going to make its daily number of crawls if it fucking dies in the process. It’s got the FitBit crawl calculator on its wristwatch, even though it doesn’t have any wrists, because it’s a goddamn snake.
“When’s this?” Grace asks at last. I all but punch the air.
“End of this month. We’ll pay for the band’s air travel, hotel rooms, expenses,” I say breathlessly. Okay, I didn’t clear all of that with Nigel, but for the Llamas, which is what he calls them, he’ll pony up the cash. He’ll set them all up in his living room if he has to. They can sleep with his chihuahuas. Barbara and Ezekiel are terrible bed wetters, but they’ll survive.
Grace exhales deeply into the phone. That’s about the first moment I realize I may be in trouble.
“Well, the band’s going to be at the Maxi awards out in L.A. around that time,” she says thoughtfully.
“That’s great! Perfect,” I say. I all but start screaming into the phone and making out with the caller ID, because fate has finally, finally given me a break. But then, just as I’m about to start celebrating,
