Everest

by S. L. Scott

  “Football?” she asks.

  Even I know the answer this time. I’ve made sure to pay more attention to the seasons. “Baseball,” I whisper to her and sit back, letting them continue to set up this date . . . friend get together . . . hangout they’re planning like I’m not sitting right here.

  “How do you know she likes baseball?” Melanie asks, crossing her arms and challenging him.

  “I don’t, but I figured I’d find out pretty fast at the sports bar.” He relaxes in his stance. There’s a twinkle to his eyes and a curve to his lips that reveals amusement.

  Melanie finally eases up, sitting back proud as a peacock with her smug grin. “She’ll be there, and she likes lagers. Just in case you were wondering.”

  “I was wondering,” he replies, sending me a quick wink. “It’s good to know we have that in common. See you Sunday, Singer.” He rejoins his friends, and I die a slow death of incomparable mortification.

  I drop my head in my hands. “Oh God. What just happened?”

  “I just got you a date on Sunday.”

  “You got me a date? I’m fairly certain he was already going to ask when he came over.”

  “Pshaw. I set up a date for you with the hottest guy in this place.”

  Maybe it’s just starting to sink in, but holy wow. I whisper, “Ethan Everest.”

  When I look up, she’s grinning widely. “You’re welcome. Now don’t mind me. I’ll just be here drowning my jealousy in booze.” The slurp of her straw grates on my nerves, which she knows, and I’m pretty sure she’s doing it on purpose, but her pity party makes me laugh.

  “Jealousy? Pfft. It’s nothing. It’s a sports bar at three on a Sunday afternoon, not dinner and a movie on a Saturday night.”

  “Damn it. I should have insisted on Saturday night, but I didn’t know if you had a date.”

  “Nope, no date. Anyway, Sunday is what he’d prefer for hanging out, I’m sure.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “He’s just been worn down from seeing me around so much. He probably figures we should be friends at this point. I mean it is kind of silly to keep running into each other like we have and not make the effort to get to know one another better.”

  “No guy asks a girl to hang out who he’s not interested in—sexually.”

  “Ethan Everest just did.”

  “Want to bet?”

  “I’ll bet dinner on it.”

  “I’ll take that bet,” she says confidently. “And prepare yourself. When I win, I’m going to skip lunch and be extra hungry for dinner. It will be awesome to eat on your dime.”

  There’s no point in arguing with her. She’s the queen of the need-to-be-right, so I order another round of drinks, and try not to freak out that I’m meeting up with Ethan Everest in less than forty-eight hours.

  We didn’t kiss the last time we spoke, though we were so close. Our time on the fire escape was real, a connection made, one I feel deep inside even today. It’s a feeling I’ve held on to, an unfair expectation placed on my dates since that party. No guy has made my body hum or buzz with excitement since him.

  Since that night, we’ve seen each other on occasion. Melanie’s coworker dates his friend, so we end up at the same party or in the same bar every so often.

  Before tonight, we hadn’t spoken since then, but I always felt that hum between us, hanging on at the back edges of hope. The buzz remains as I peek over at him a few barstools down from mine. He winks and I look away quickly, smiling.

  The bar gets more crowded as the night carries on. I’ve had three drinks when I promised myself I’d only have two. “Two more, please.”

  We mingle with our friends and laugh with a guy who can’t seem to notice I exist because he’s so attentive to Mel. When it comes to my love life, she’s all over it. When it comes to her own, she fails to notice the obvious. Mike, who’s in finance we find out, is sweet. His flirting is not heavy-handed, but he’s not let another guy within an inch of Mel in the last hour.

  I eventually work my way out of the conversation as sparks begin to fly between them.

  When I turn, the right side of Ethan’s mouth goes up in such an inviting way that I’m not sure if I’m supposed to smile and wave, go over and talk, or stand here like I am and debate myself out of doing anything.

  I want to turn away from him, but I don’t. I can’t. I like his eyes on me. I like the way he looks at me like we have some unfinished business to tend to. I take three gulps of my drink because I’m pretty sure that will make me forget about this embarrassing heat settling inside my cheeks.

  It doesn’t. The warmth causes me to put my glass to my skin in hopes of finding relief just before I’m spun around, coming face-to-face with Melanie. “Let’s go,” she demands.

  “Now?”

  “Yes, I need to go.”

  “Okay.” When she’s ready she is really ready, and pushing it might mean a stint in the bathroom holding her hair back. I set my nearly empty glass on the bar, but when I turn, my gaze finds Ethan once more. I watch him and those lips that almost kissed mine. I watch even though he might think I’m self-indulgent or shameless. But at this point, I’ve drunk enough to not care.

  “Come on. I’m ready.” I take Melanie’s hand and we make our way outside. When it comes to Ethan, there’s something that I’m missing, a piece of the puzzle I keep hoping to find, answers to unasked questions. Maybe the full picture will never come into focus, or maybe I just need to ask what I want to know when I see him on Sunday.

  2

  Singer

  The air outside is warming up. There’s a slight chill remaining, but that might be my insecurities. With our arms looped through each other’s, Mel and I walk a block to the nearest train station. I never feel safe riding the train at night, but I can’t afford to pay for a cab to take us home and Melanie sure can’t either. Just as I hear the clicking of the clock above our heads, the announcement is made of the arriving train and we step forward to the line.

  Our hold on each other has tightened and the laughs have stopped. We settle in like all the other poor, partying saps traveling home. “I hate the train at night,” she says, scrutinizing the train car.

  “We’ll be fine.” I’m sober enough, and strong enough, for the both of us.

  I find comfort once we’re seated. Other women are traveling by themselves, men who drank too much look harmless as they slouch in chairs. I keep my eyes open while Melanie relaxes next to me, staring out the window. She goes through different stages when she drinks, and the high she had at the bar with Mike is now a low I get to handle. It’s easy to be depressed when things don’t go your way. I choose a different tactic, a positive outlook on life that keeps me moving forward, even when it’s easier to give up. “Two stops to survive.” I’m pretending to tease even though it feels more like the truth. “We need better paying jobs. I’d take a cab home every time.”

  “Or better paying men.”

  I laugh, but it’s not funny. I get where she’s coming from, but it sucks to put your hopes on meeting a man so you can take a cab home after a night of partying. This city is tough for single women. The ratio is out of proportion with men having their pick from any type of woman they want, and we’re expected to settle for anyone that gives us the time of day. “I’d rather focus on my career.”

  “And what are you doing toward that?” she snaps abrasively. “Reading alone in your room at night? Have you applied for a job in publishing recently?”

  There’s that low I’ve become too familiar with. She wasn’t always a mean drunk, but the city gets to everyone eventually. “I’ve sent out more résumés. It’s a small industry. I have to keep trying until there’s an opening.”

  “Trying. Trying. Trying. My degree in journalism didn’t prepare me for legal assistant. If we stay, I’m starting to think I need to become a paralegal. That’s a needed profession in New York City.” Leaning her head on my shoulder, she adds, “I’m lonely, Sing.”
>
  “Mike seems nice.”

  “He does.” A dreamy smile is in place when she closes her eyes momentarily. “We’re going out tomorrow night.”

  “On a Saturday night? That right there is the difference between what happened in our nights.”

  “Stop it. Maybe Ethan is shy.”

  “Is it even possible for someone that looks like Ethan Everest to be shy with all the attention he gets?”

  “Not really, but I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He likes you, or at least likes the way you look.” She laughs. “You never see yourself the way others do.” She yawns then says, “He’d be lucky to date you. But if he’s not the lucky one, someone else will come along and see what I’ve known all along.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That your beauty is more than skin-deep. If someone doesn’t see that, screw ’em.”

  “Literally?” I tease.

  She shrugs with a laugh. “If they’re cute.”

  The train stops, but we stay seated. “Why’d we go out again?” I ask, teasing her. She always gives the same pie in the sky answer, and it usually brightens her mood.

  We’re moving again when she looks at me and says, “To meet our soul mates.”

  “Oh that’s right. How’d we do?”

  Hope returns to her eyes, and she laughs. “I’d say better than average, considering we both scored dates.” The train announces our stop and she stands, wobbling a bit on her heels.

  Maybe it’s more for her than me, but I stand and take her by the elbow to steady her. “Come on, let’s get home.”

  The area of the city we live in isn’t the greatest, but it’s safe enough. Even in heels and a little tipsy, we cover the three blocks back to our apartment quickly.

  The familiar figure of our resident homeless man is perched against the brick wall next to the stoop. Resident and homeless always did feel like an oxymoron, but I’ve come to appreciate him being there. I feel protected with him around. Frank looks to be asleep when we approach, but it seems he sleeps with one eye open. “Evening.”

  “Evening, Frank. Sorry, if we woke you.”

  “Nope, just catnapping. Have fun?”

  “Too much,” I reply. “Gotta get Mel to bed.”

  “What did I warn you about, Melanie?”

  Melanie’s giggle echoes down the empty street. “I know, but one led to another and then bam, I was drunk.”

  Laughing while taking her wrist, I encourage her up the steps while rolling my eyes. “Night, Frank.”

  “Night, Singer.”

  Once inside, I stand at the counter with a knife in one hand, a day-old baguette in the other, and a tub of butter in front of me. I butter the bread while Mel sits at the stool on the other side of the kitchen bar. Three pieces are devoured before calling it a night. The bread will help to soak up some of the liquor, and hopefully we won’t wake up with hangovers.

  Our place is so small the tiny bedrooms barely have enough room to walk around the full-sized beds. The wall that separates the rooms is paper-thin, and we often lie in our own beds talking until we fall asleep. I start tonight’s conversation, though it’s one we’ve had many times before. “I gave myself three years to make it to the West Side.”

  “Time’s almost up.” That comment earns her a roll of my eyes even though she can’t see it. She says, “I’m tired of living in shitty apartments, working a shitty low-paying job like somehow paying my dues makes it more respectable.” She sounds sleepy. “I’m too tired to even maintain my blog. I’m tired of working fifty hours a week for that asshole lawyer. How will a magazine hire me if I can’t even update my blog with stories? I’m tired of paying my dues. They’re not even dues for what I want to do. And I’m really tired of coming home to an empty apartment, or rather bed. I miss having a man’s arms around me at night.”

  I feel her pain. I do, but I can’t fix it. “We’re doing our best. What do you want me to do?”

  “Come snuggle with me, Sing.”

  “No.”

  “Come on. Please.”

  “No, you hog the bed and kick.”

  “But I need you.”

  “You think you’ll feel less lonely, but you don’t need me, Mel.”

  “I do,” she says, her voice reflecting her drifting asleep.

  I get it. I have nights when I’m lonely, too. “Love you.”

  “Love you.”

  After downing a glass of Melanie’s hangover cure—orange juice, ginger ale, and a dash of hot sauce—I flop onto the couch. The drink doesn’t cure hangovers, but I do get a kick of energy after drinking it, so I humor her and insist it’s a cure-all.

  She’s on her laptop at the bar and picking up our conversation from last night like eight hours didn’t interrupt it. “We’re not failures if we move away from the city. There are other cities and other places that are way more affordable and, and”—I hear the exasperation in her voice—“there’s always home.”

  The suggestion surprises me, and I look up. Boulder was never big enough to contain Melanie’s ambitions. She talked about leaving from middle school on. Graduation always seemed like the far-off future until it was upon us. Too scared to make a big move, we ended up going to the local university. For four years we talked about following her dreams. Where Melanie went, I went. That’s what best friends do. So we packed two suitcases and moved to New York the Monday after we accepted our bachelor degrees. Her determination might have carried us to the East Coast, but somewhere along the way, I discovered my own dream and intended to pursue it. “I’m not ready to give up.”

  “I want the dream, Sing, but I don’t think my dreams are going to come true here.” Her voice is clear and there’s a serious tone to her words. With her shoulders slumped she leans against the counter.

  Trying a new angle, I go low. “What if Mike’s the one? What if he’s your destiny and you leave before giving that relationship a chance?”

  “Wishful thinking, but I’ll know within five minutes tonight.”

  I raise my chin in smug naïveté. “I’ll hold out hope then.”

  She flops down next to me dramatically with her arm over her eyes, all those acting lessons paying off. “You always were the dreamer.”

  “Funny. I thought you were.” Bumping her with my knee, I lean my head on her shoulder. “One day we’ll run this city.”

  “I’d settle for walking it.”

  Laughing, I add, “Fine, we’ll walk it together, in style.”

  “Until then?”

  “Until then we’ll live in our shoebox apartment, keep applying for our dream jobs, and continue working for assholes.”

  She pauses and says, “I want to feel everlasting love. Love so powerful you ache inside. Love that feels so good it lessens the pain of being disappointed in my life.”

  Even with her eyes closed, I only see the woman who inspires me daily. When she sits up, I reach over, and we hug. “Don’t give up. Not yet, Mel.” I eye the magnet on our fridge and recite the quote, “You’re pure potential.”

  “I love when you lie to me.”

  “That’s why you keep me around, though I still maintain that I only speak the truth.”

  “Because you’re the best.” After standing, she says, “Never stop dreaming, Singer. I’m going to the store. Need anything?” Heading toward her door, she looks back.

  “I would love some wine for later.”

  “Cheap stuff okay?”

  “I can’t tell the difference.”

  With a smile on her face, she taps the front door with her fingers and opens the door. “Good because it’s all we can afford.”

  The door closes, and as I slide down on the cushions, I kick my feet up on the coffee table.

  Sitting in the living room of our tiny apartment, I stare out the window. Sirens sound in the distance, a noise I’ve become accustomed to. It makes me realize that I never expected that to be the sound I found comfort in. It’s so a part of this city, of this little life I’m l
iving. It’s become a song played on repeat from the soundtrack of my city life.

  I’ve been thinking about dues being paid, and although I’m not necessarily living the life I always dreamed, I’m living a pretty damn good life.

  So I’ll take sirens lulling me to sleep and eating ramen noodles for dinner. I’ll take nights out with my best friend and cheap wine and movies in. If dues are to be paid, it could be a steeper price than the one I’m paying.

  Grabbing my book, I open it up to where I left off and start reading and continue to dream.

  3

  Singer

  People-watching is an Olympic sport in Central Park, and I’m a gold medalist. I can usually make it to the final qualifiers like a pro, but today my thoughts are elsewhere. I wish I could say they’re on the opened book on my stomach. That’s not it. It’s on tomorrow and a certain man of intrigue.

  I’m not sure what to think about the invitation to “hang out.” Should I guard my heart and restrain my hope? Should I look at the invite as merely an opportunity to make a new friend? Or is Melanie right? He’s hot, but way out of my league hot, almost godly. Makes me wonder whose league he’s in. No woman’s I’ve ever seen. Not even the ones who fill his time.

  Could there be more behind the afternoon invitation? Or is it as simple as hanging out at sports bar drinking beer . . . with Ethan Everest?

  Sitting up slowly, the book drops to my lap, and even though I lose my place, I don’t care. I’m suddenly hot, and definitely bothered, so I fan myself with my hand. When that doesn’t work, I take off my sweater. The thin straps of my tank top fall to the side, and the breeze feels good against my bare skin. I lie back on the grass still frustrated that I’m letting him affect me like this. Closing my eyes, I try to enjoy the sunshine instead.

  Friends.

  Hanging out.

  That’s all he wants. I need to set my expectations, so I don’t get hurt.

  Suddenly shadowed in darkness, I open my eyes to find the sun blocked. With my hand hooding my sight, I look up, and up, stopping on Mr. Sinful himself. His face is hidden by the bright sun, but I know that body outlined in light. I also know the voice when he says, “Singer.”