by Tara Leigh
I pull my phone out of my pocket. I didn’t intend to call Nixie yesterday, but I just couldn’t help myself.
Not yesterday, and not today.
My assistant might have to order a new set of business cards. Nash Knight, Son of a Bitch in Chief.
Nash: Hi.
As I wait for a response, Samantha returns with my drink. I take a sip, letting the liquor burn a slow path down my throat. Maybe Nixie won’t answer after I hung up on her so abruptly last night. Maybe she shouldn’t.
I make a bet with myself, my thumb cramping from the tension of not tapping out another text. If Nixie doesn’t respond, that’s it—I’m out. I’ll delete her contact information and leave her the fuck alone.
Finally, three dancing dots appear. I exhale a sigh of relief so heavy it leaves me lightheaded.
Nixie: Hi
Asshole that I am, her simple answer leaves me wanting.
Nash: That’s all I get?
Nixie: Isn’t that all u gave?
Nash: Women tend to use more words than men.
Nixie: Based on your intimate knowledge of . . . how many women, exactly?
Nash: A gentlemen doesn’t kiss and tell.
Nixie: R u suggesting ur a gentleman?
Nash: Are you suggesting I’m not?
Nixie: There r other words I’d probably use
Nash: Such as?
Nixie: Player. Manwhore. Cad.
Have she and Mack Duncan been reading the same gossip pages?
Nash: Cad? A little dated, no?
Nixie: U object to cad, but ur fine with player and manwhore?
My lips twist as I stare down at the screen.
Nash: Point taken. Let’s discuss something much more interesting . . .
Nixie: More interesting than ur philandering ways?
I give a soft grunt.
Nash: Yes. Much more interesting. What are you wearing?
Nixie: Ur kidding, right?
Nash: No. I’ve already reviewed all the documents for my meetings in Hong Kong. I’m caught up on all my emails. And I’ve checked out the scores of my favorite teams. I’m bored.
I don’t add that the reason I have nothing more to do is the roadblock I’ve encountered in Nebraska. A fucking boulder dropped into my path. I anticipated my meeting with Duncan lasting longer and requiring a significant amount of follow up afterward. Instead he practically chopped my cock off and sent me on my way.
Nixie: I’m sure there’s a woman on the plane who would be more than happy to serve as your in-flight entertainment
I lift my head. Sure enough, Samantha is right there. Her face lights up, pretty but . . . not Nixie. “Another drink?” she asks.
I eye my glass, still half full. I shake my head and look back at my phone.
Nash: There is. But what if I want to reform my caddish ways?
Nixie: Lolololololol!
My grip tightens as I frown at the screen.
Nash: ???
Nixie: Sorry- that was just too funny
Nash: I don’t get the joke.
Nixie: That’s why it’s so funny
I need to get our conversation back on track.
Nash: You never answered my question . . .
Nixie: About what I’m wearing?
Nash: Yes.
Nixie: I’m still in bed- what do you think I’m wearing?
An image of Nixie, stunning and sleepy and in my bed, hits me in the solar plexus. I groan. Samantha is at my side in an instant. “Did you say something?”
I respond with a grumble vaguely resembling the word “no” without looking up from my phone.
Nash: If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.
Nixie: R we sexting?
Nash: That depends.
Nixie: On what?
Nash: You.
Nixie: Me?
Nash: Yes. Sexting usually starts off by revealing what you’re wearing.
Nixie: Ah. So there’s a format to it. Good 2 know
Nash: You’re welcome. So . . .
Nixie: So . . . what?
I look up for Samantha. “I’ll have that drink now.”
Nash: Are you always this uncooperative?
Nixie: Yes. R u always this single-minded?
Nash: Yes. How about a pic?
Nixie: My phone camera is broken
Nash: I’ll have Jay bring you a new phone in an hour.
Nixie: Leave that man alone!
Nash: Believe me, he is well paid for his efforts.
Nixie: If I need a new phone, I will get it myself
Nash: Fine. Go get one.
Nixie: I’m not going 2 sex with u, new phone or not
Nash: Good idea. Let’s drop the t. Sex would be much better. I’ll be back this weekend.
Nixie: Why don’t u go practice with whatever woman is trying to catch your eye? I’m sure it won’t be ur first time in the mile-high club
Nash: I meant with you.
Nixie: I told u, I’m not ur type
Nash: How do you know what my type is?
Nixie: How long does it take u 2 get from “hello” to “oh yeah, baby”?
Nash: I’ll have you know, my nights do not end with “oh yeah, baby”.
Nixie: How long?
Nash: Depends.
Nixie: How long?
I decide to be generous.
Nash: A few hours, give or take.
Nixie: Easy
Nash: ???
Nixie: That’s ur type- easy
I stare at the screen, wondering if Nixie is right. For as long as I can remember, I’ve defined my relationship with the opposite sex as efficient. But maybe there is a more appropriate adjective for it.
But easy doesn’t feel right, either. It comes to me as I’m typing out another text. Empty.
Nash: What’s your type?
Nixie: Future
Nash: What?
Nixie: My type of man only exists in the future. I told u- I don’t want 2 get involved with anyone right now
A strange scraping sound alerts me to the fact that I’m grinding my teeth. I unlock my jaw.
Nash: Tell me about this future man. What’s he like?
Nixie: Honest
Nixie: Trustworthy
Nixie: He doesn’t treat me like I’m weak and foolish, incapable of taking care of myself
I frown at my phone, taken aback by the sharpness of her texts.
Nash: I don’t think you’re weak or foolish.
Nixie: Just incapable of taking care of myself?
Nash: In a dark alley, with two guys from the streets . . . yeah.
Nixie: Fuck u
A relieved grin shapes my mouth. I’ll take anger over intimacy any day.
Nash: Gladly.
Nixie: Goodbye Nash
Nash: Is it? Good, I mean.
Several minutes pass, and I figure she’s had enough of me. But then those dancing dots appear again.
Nixie: It is
Nash: Why?
Nixie: I wouldn’t think a Master of the Universe asks questions like that
Nash: I like to defy expectations.
Nixie: Ha! You like 2 set expectations
Nash: That too. So, I’m curious . . . why are you so determined to stay unattached?
Nixie: ???
Nash: Future man is fine but present man is SOL.
Nixie: I told u. I just got out of a relationship. I don’t want 2 get back into 1 yet
Nash: Then I’m your type.
Nixie: U lost me
Empty has served me well so far. I should stick with it.
Nash: I don’t do relationships, at all. Just pleasure, no strings attached.
Nixie: Why don’t u “do” relationships?
I sigh, of course that’s the part of my comment she fixates on.
Nash: It’s a long story.
Nixie: U obviously have plenty of time
Nash: Not on text. Go out with me and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.
Nixie: Anything?
Nash: I’ve got nothing to hide, Nixie.
Nixie: I’ll think about it
Nixie: Now, go put that stewardess out of her misery. I’m sure she’s been eying u since u boarded the plane
Nixie
I stare at my screen, tracing Nash’s last text with my fingertip. Then mine.
Did Nash follow through on my suggestion? Jealousy rips through me at the thought. Yes, he probably did. Why wouldn’t he?
It’s been two days, and I’ve started half a dozen texts to him since then. Started . . . and then stopped. What is there to say? Nothing. I should say nothing. What does Nash really want from me, anyway? I’ve never “sexted” before and I’m not about to start now. And sex, well, that’s a non-starter. I mean, one night would no doubt be enough for Nash. I’d probably never hear from him again. If I’m lonely now, I’ll feel so much worse then.
I’ve got nothing to hide, Nixie.
Maybe Nash is telling the truth. I looked him up online yesterday, spent a few minutes marveling at the sheer volume of links to articles on Nash’s business success, although it seems as if an equal number of links relate to his personal life, namely the stream of women he’s been spotted with. In the end, I didn’t open them. I have no interest in his business, and even less seeing him pawed by some gorgeous model.
And besides, even if I read every single word, what would I really learn about Nash Knight?
If I Google Derrick’s name, would I discover that he’s a gambling addict? A liar? A bully? A thief?
Doubtful.
I had to learn that all on my own.
Proof that the only way to know anything worth knowing about Nash Knight is to actually get to know him. And I’m just not in the right mindset to open myself up to more heartbreak. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Just because Nash is successful doesn’t mean he’s a good guy. And I don’t trust my judgment anymore. I knew Derrick for years. We were practically raised together, after all.
But tonight, my loneliness feels like a physical thing. Not a feeling or a concept, but a coat that is too big, too heavy, the wool damp and smelling of mildew.
I haven’t made any real friends at Pratt yet, and I don’t expect to. Most of them talk constantly about trying to find themselves. Or worse, discover their passion.
I don’t understand them at all.
What do I want? I want to lose myself. And as for passion, that’s the last thing I need. If I could, I’d take that useless emotion and chuck it out my dirty apartment window. Passion is just an excuse for making a wrong turn and refusing to change course.
Nash is definitely a wrong turn. We come from different worlds, want entirely different things. He’s Wall Street and I’m Williamsburg. We don’t belong together, even temporarily.
And yet . . .
Texting with him two nights ago was like taking that first breath after swimming up from the bottom of a deep pool. I barely know the man, and he’s half a world away—how is it possible to feel so close to him?
So, of course, like the universe is playing a bad joke, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Nash, with his complete words and perfect punctuation.
Nash: Are you awake?
Ignore it. Ignore him. I reach for my hand lotion, squeezing more than a dollop into a palm and working it into my skin. My hands aren’t dry, but it gives me something to do. If my fingertips are greasy, I can’t very well text back, can I?
Nash: How are your stitches healing? I can send Doc to take a look.
I grind my teeth, glaring at my phone with narrowed eyes. Couldn’t he have asked for a naked picture again? Something that doesn’t make me want to text back.
Nash: If you don’t respond, I’ll think you decided to get something off a shelf and fell, ripping your stitches and bleeding out in your apartment. I’ll have to send Doc over. And Jay so he can kick open your door . . . 5
Nash: 4
At what point does rubbing in moisturizer become wringing my hands, like a spinster aunt in a regency romance novel?
Nash: 3
I finally snatch up the phone.
Nixie: Quit acting like a brat
Nash: For checking up on you?
Nixie: 4 threatening 2 send very busy men 2 Brooklyn for no good reason
Nash: It got you to respond.
Nixie: Confirming that ur an entitled cocky jerk—yes
Nixie: Congrats
Nash: What has you so cranky tonight?
Nixie: U
Nash: Do you have a dog?
Nixie: A dog? No
Nixie: Why?
Nash: A cat?
Nixie: No Why??
Nash: Are you allergic?
Nixie: No Why?????
Nash: Because people with pets have reduced levels of irritation.
Nixie: Have u been watching Dr Phil?
Nash: Who?
Nixie: Never mind
Nash: It was a long flight with spotty wifi. I read a few magazines.
Nixie: I think u may have had some bad sushi
Nash: Don’t joke, that happened last time I was in Tokyo. I’ve had good luck with the dim sum in Hong Kong though.
Nixie: Don’t u have meetings 2 go 2?
Nash: I’m in one right now.
Nixie: Then why r u texting me?
Nash: Because I’m bored.
Nixie: I thought u were a big shot?
Nash: Big shots can’t be bored?
Nixie: Big shots usually run meetings. U shouldn’t b bored
Nash: You obviously haven’t worked on Wall Street. Meetings are run by underlings. Big shots make the decisions.
Nixie: Then shouldn’t u b paying attention so u can make an informed decision?
Nash: I already have.
Nixie: So then u can end the meeting, no?
Nash: But I’m having fun texting you.
I feel the tug of a smile on my lips. Fun. I like that.
Nixie: Do u have a pet?
I probably would have noticed a dog, but he could easily have a cat hiding somewhere. Or maybe Nash has something more exotic. A ferret. Or a gecko. Or a disgusting hairy tarantula. Blech. My stomach lurches at the thought.
Nash: I’m not home enough. And besides, I don’t think Greta would approve.
Nixie: Lol. Probably not
Nash: Maybe I should get you a puppy. Then I could come and visit.
Nixie: Don’t u dare
Nash: Why not? Your building doesn’t allow dogs?
Nixie: They do
Nixie: But I bet u would buy a snooty purebred with an attitude
Nash: What’s wrong with a purebred?
Nixie: I’d rather adopt from a shelter
Nash: You would rather have a dog no one wants?
I recoil from my phone.
Nixie: Wow ur heartless.
Nash: No, I really mean it. Why would you want a dog no one wants? If you buy one, at least you know what you’re getting.
Nixie: Yeah- inbreeding
Nixie: If u rescue a dog, ur giving it a better life
Nixie: Don’t u ever do something good, just because?
Nash: I rescued you, didn’t I?
Nixie: Running into that alley was more about u than it was about me & u know it
A few minutes pass, and I figure his meeting must have ended. Just as I’m about to plug my phone in the charger and go to sleep—try to sleep, anyway—it buzzes again.
Nash: How would you know which one to take home?
Nixie: That’s easy
Nixie: I’d pick the 1 with the saddest eyes
Nash: Like yours? Why are your eyes so sad, Nixie?
My jaw sags. How can I respond to that?
Nixie: I think I liked it better when u were trying 2 sext w me
Nash: You’re deflecting.
Nixie: Am I?
Nash: Aren’t you?
Nixie: Maybe a little
Nixie: Ur very nosy
Nash: Because I want
to know about you?
Nixie: Because it feels like u want 2 no everything abt me
Nash: And that’s bad . . .?
Yes. I don’t want to share my secrets with anyone. I’m better off alone.
Nixie: Do you read the last chapter of every book first?
Nash: Doesn’t everyone?
Nixie: No
Nixie: Most people read a story in order- from beginning to end
Nash: Why? When the ending is right there, why wait?
Nixie: U are so weird
Nash: I’ve been called worse.
My fingers hover over the keys, again at a loss.
Nash: Gotta go, meeting’s over. Goodnight, Nixie. Sleep tight.
I fall back on my pillow and burrow beneath the covers. Wide awake.
From beyond my window, I hear a siren wailing in the distance, the rise and fall of a car alarm going off a few blocks away, the buzz of voices as they walk past. A soundtrack of lives being lived.
So different than at Nash’s apartment, where I’d heard nothing but us.
Sleep tight.
I try. But my thought are restless, my heart pounding against my ribs like a caged inmate shaking the bars of his cell.
And then I hear something else. Not Nash’s voice. Not the noise and chatter of a typical Brooklyn night.
An echo from my childhood. A ghost.
Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.
My mother’s whispered catchphrase, as she tucked me in at night. Her voice sounds so real, like she’s right beside me.
I keep memories like that locked up tight, stuffed somewhere so deep it’s almost possible to believe they don’t exist at all. But now, the reminder sends a hot rush of tears to sting my eyes. I wipe them away, turning on the lamp beside my bed and dropping to the floor on my knees.
Reaching under my bed, I pull out a rectangular box filled with important documents and a few mementos I brought with me. Nestled beneath bank account records, school transcripts, and my parents’ will is a picture frame, filled by a photograph taken the day I was born. Bundled in a swaddling blanket between my parents, I’m barely visible, but the camera perfectly captured a look I remember them sharing. They were angled slightly away from the lens, looking at each other with wide-mouthed smiles, their eyes shining with happiness.
For the too-few years we had together, their love wrapped around me, insulating me from any hint that life held dangers beyond a scraped knee or schoolyard bully.
I run my finger over the phrase engraved into the wood. Life Is Who You Love. Who do I love? I thought I loved Derrick. And I did, but it wasn’t a forever kind of love. He said he loved me, too.
