“I guess that’s a no to the coffee then?” Bubby says, lifting an eyebrow.
I motion outside. “I have a date,” I say. “And it’s my last night here before I go to college.” I shake my head. “Maybe if you had gotten in touch with me when you first moved to New York . . . After all, I only found out you were living here from Kitsy when she visited in July.”
There’s a confused patron looking for a bathroom and Bubby gestures for him to go ahead.
It’s funny how a few months can turn someone from more than a friend into a total stranger. I don’t even know where Bubby is going to college. We don’t talk anymore, and he’s against social media because he probably thinks he’ll be president one day and is worried about anything that could damage his reputation.
I know I could’ve easily asked Kitsy where Bubby finally decided on for school, but that would be admitting I still care. Which I’m not willing to do—at least not publicly.
Bubby reaches out and touches my bare arm. “I should’ve called you when I moved here,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
I shiver. “The AC is arctic in here,” I lie. “And there’s no need to apologize for not calling—it’s your life.”
To be honest, I wish Kitsy had never told me about Bubby living here. Once she let it slip, I started looking for him everywhere. Around corners. In diner booths. On the faces of people walking down the street. In a city of millions, there was always one person on my mind.
It’s much easier to forget about someone when you aren’t constantly wondering if—or when—you’ll run into them.
The only thing that’s helped to distract me from it was Benson, and planning tonight.
I pull my arm back. “I’ve got to go,” I say. “I’ve mapped out my perfect goodbye, and I’m late for it.”
I head for the door.
“What about the bathroom?” Bubby shouts out to me.
I don’t bother to turn around. I’m afraid what will happen if I do.
Bubby’s not even worth a goodbye.
Out on the street, Benson smiles and calls out, “Tick, tock.”
I try to laugh, but nothing comes out.
“You look like a ghost,” he says.
This is an accomplishment because I spray tanned—using the darkest solution—just yesterday. I must look like a ghost because I’ve seen one.
If your ex wants to move to your city, you should get to approve it like they do with foreign countries and visas. There should be some level of diplomacy before invading an ex’s territories. Where’s the UN when you need them?
“You okay, Corrinne?” Benson asks me.
I look at my iPhone. Three minutes and fifty-two seconds until the next timer goes off.
I start walking fast. “I’m fine. I was thinking how I feel bad for that crocodile in Peter Pan,” I say. “It would be awful to swallow a clock. You’d always feel like time was running out and that you were going to miss your chance.”
Benson grabs my hand and pulls me uptown. “You’re weird, Corrinne,” he says. “But for tonight, you’re my weird Corrinne.”
And it feels good to belong to someone, even if it’s only for a few more hours.
Broken Spoke High Prom, April. Broken Spoke, Texas.
Kitsy points toward a paper bridge and skyscraper. “I tried to convince everyone that a New York, New York theme was lame,” she explains. “But the prom committee wouldn’t budge. I’ve been lucky enough to go to New York, thanks to you, but for most people here, it’s like a place from a fairy tale. Magical, and a little bit hard to believe.”
I look around at the decorations: a cardboard-stand-up Statue of Liberty, dozens of strands of twinkle lights, and a faux Manhattan skyline complete with a full moon.
It looks DIY, and not in a good way, but I wave my hand at Kitsy. “I love it. What’s better than New York?”
“Nothing,” Kitsy squeals. “Now that I see it, I’m into it, too. . . . It’s romantic.”
Kitsy twirls in her vintage-store-score of a prom dress. It’s yellow and taffeta, which normally screams out child pageant star, yet Kitsy kills it.
“I’m so happy. Thanks for flying out for this Podunk prom. I’m sure it feels weird for you to be back in the Spoke, but to me, it feels perfect.” She points at me. “The only thing that sticks out is that your dress is way hotter—and more expensive—than any of the girls’ here.”
I look down at my long backless black gown. “I’m glad it gets your stamp of approval. I totally concur with your philosophy that the key to looking good at prom is not shopping in the prom section.”
Kitsy pulls me over toward the punch bowl. “You should’ve seen Bubby’s face when he first saw you!” she squeals. “He almost died when you turned around.”
“Really?”
She leans in. “When are you going to talk to him?” she whispers.
“After prom,” I say. “What if he isn’t into my idea? I don’t want to ruin the whole night. Time management isn’t only a skill for balancing school work and extracurriculars.”
Kitsy holds up her hand. “You’re speaking catawampus now. Y’all talk all the time, despite being in different time zones—and different worlds for that matter. Plus, he’s the one that asked you to prom in another state.”
I spot Bubby and Hands walking into the gym. They both rented tuxes for the night, and I can’t remember Bubby ever looking this dapper.
I guess you can take the boy off the turf.
Kitsy acts as if I’m doing her a big favor coming to Broken Spoke for their prom, but I wanted to.
No, I needed to.
Bubby is the one guy I bookmarked. I’ve always thought I’d come back to him. And now, I think it’s finally time.
If he’ll have me.
8.05 p.m., Le Cirque, 151 East Fifty-Eighth Street, New York City.
THE HOST, DRESSED SHARPLY IN a black suit, pulls out my chair. I sit down delicately and place a cloth napkin on my lap.
“We’re in the main room! This is where everyone wants to sit,” I whisper when he is out of earshot. “Look up!”
Benson stares at the twenty-foot ceiling, which is elaborately draped to resemble a circus’s big top.
Le Cirque, a classic and beloved Manhattan restaurant, is subtly designed to evoke the circus. In addition to its fabulous ceiling, there are monkey statues placed throughout the room, and even the china features circus motifs.
This is exactly how I imagined our romantic dinner when I made the reservation nearly two months ago . . . except I didn’t foresee running into Bubby five minutes beforehand.
I should’ve requested no ex-boyfriend collisions, just like I specifically asked for this table. My palms have only now stopped sweating.
Be in the moment, I remind myself. I reach across the table and squeeze Benson’s hand as I take in the glamour, because I know Ithaca won’t have any place like this.
“I love this restaurant!” I proclaim.
And I do. Le Cirque has been my favoritest since my parents first brought me here for my thirteenth birthday. All of the waiters wear white coats and black tuxedo pants and they essentially stalk you throughout the meal to make sure everything goes well.
Benson starts to laugh when he looks at the menu.
“What?”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit cheesy that a restaurant this expensive is supposed to look like a carnival?”
“Circus,” I correct him, rolling my eyes. “And it’s my chosen restaurant because tonight’s my celebration,” I say.
Benson shrugs. “I wish the circus theme continued onto the menu. I could go for a hot dog and cotton candy, but if you like it, so do I.”
I hold the menu up to my face. “You don’t have to pretend to like something just because I do,” I mutter.
When I was with Bubby, he challenged me on everything, and always called me on my BS. Benson can be so agreeable, which gets tired faster than the newest trend. You think you like it, but by the time you have it, you’
re over it.
I should’ve made the reservation for three, I scold myself. I’ve obviously invited Bubby to the table.
Benson pulls down my menu. “Corrinne, can we get to the fun part already? You’ve been Kristen-Stewart-cold since Starbucks. Seriously. She’s going to sue you for stealing her scowl. She trademarked it. I read about it in your Us Weekly.”
I laugh and Benson leans forward and whispers. “You can tell me. Are you secretly in love with a vampire?”
I smile at him and then at the waiter, who’s refilling my water glass for the third time.
“Well, I do love nighttime,” I laugh. “But Benson, right now, I’m only in love with the moment, so don’t worry about any vampires sucking my attention away.”
Maybe just an old boyfriend, I add silently.
I reach across the table and cover Benson’s hand with my own. “And you’re right,” I say. “I know it’s time to have fun . . . but I keep feeling all this pressure to have this meaningful night. . . .”
“But it’s hard to do when we’re breaking up tomorrow?” Benson suggests. “Hold that very thought.” He waves over the sommelier and selects a wine.
“Extremely nice selection,” the sommelier says.
“We’re celebrating,” Benson says.
The sommelier takes the wine list. “To a wonderful future for the two of you?”
“That’s what I’m hoping,” Benson says, and winks.
This. Is. Not. Happening, I think. Tonight is about goodbye. What is Benson implying?
“What did you mean by that?” I ask once the sommelier has left.
“I want to talk to you about this whole expiration date thing. Why does tonight have to be the end of us?”
I point to the menu. “I’m going to get the salmon.”
“Corrinne?” Benson asks.
“And the baked Alaska for dessert,” I say. “It’s basically flambéed sugar, but I’m okay with that for one night. Even celebrities have cheat days.”
Benson plucks my menu out of my hands and looks at me. “Corrinne, stop. I’m trying to tell you that I don’t want to break up. Or, that I’m okay with extending this whole expiration date thing, if you are. Our relationship isn’t a bomb. We don’t need to detonate it.”
I sit and look at him—I’m as frozen as an ice sculpture.
Benson continues. “I’m not going off to war, Corrinne, I’m going to Malibu.” He shrugs. “I’m sure that come your first bitter-cold February in Ithaca, you’ll be more than happy to come visit me.”
I feel as if I’m about to have my second anxiety attack in less than an hour. I thought I wanted this night to last forever, but right now, I’m wishing it were already over.
“Let’s place our order, and then we’ll talk about this,” I say as I see the headwaiter approaching. “We don’t want to be late to the concert.”
Benson rolls his eyes at me. “Fine,” he says.
How do you tell someone you’re ready for goodbye?
After the waiter’s come and gone, I take a deep yoga breath. Benson’s plea to stay together was so not on the program. Normally, I’d be flattered by something like this, but there isn’t time for that tonight.
But I can handle this—even if everything keeps going off the grid.
“Benson, everyone says it’s pointless to try to keep a high school relationship going once you start college. It’s like wrestling with The Inevitable. You always lose,” I say. “Tonight, we’re focusing on the now, and tomorrow, we need to start focusing on our new futures.”
Since I didn’t want to go all cliché on him and do the whole “It’s me, not you” thing, I decided to blame college, which is partially the reason for the breakup.
Tactics and positioning are extremely important—both in business and in breakups. You don’t need a Harvard MBA to figure that one out.
Benson tears a piece of bread into two. “Okay,” he says. “I thought that maybe the whole reason you’ve been so uptight about tonight is that . . . maybe you’re upset about us ending.”
Or I was trying to distract myself, I say, but only to myself.
Benson continues. “I thought you might be trying to tell me something, but I guess I was wrong. Not a big deal.” Benson makes a sweeping motion with his hand. “On with the Corrinne Corcoran Suite. What should I say or do next? Is it time for the waltz?”
I butter my bread three times. “I’m sorry, Benson,” I say, looking up at him.
One of my goals for this year is to learn how to apologize. But is it really my fault that I’m so indispensable?
Or at least I am to some people.
Benson rips another piece of bread into two and crumbs fly everywhere.
“Whatever,” he says. “If you had been up for it, I would’ve tried, too. But now I’ll have to just throw myself on beach volleyball players and wannabe models. You’ll have your horse. It’s all good.”
I laugh and pretend that I don’t see that Benson’s hurt.
When the appetizers arrive, I push my mozzarella around on the plate. I had told myself I would eat everything tonight and not care about the calorie, gluten, or glycemic index, but now I’ve lost my appetite.
Even Le Cirque’s food can’t rouse it, and I can tell that Benson is as miserable as I am.
“Benson,” I say after the waiter’s cleared my salmon. “Why don’t you go see your roommate, George, instead of coming to the concert? We can meet back up later.”
Benson folds his napkin and places it on the table.
“I don’t want to hold you back from getting to know who will probably become some pretty important people in your life.”
Maybe that’s part of goodbye. Letting people find their new people. Maybe even Corrinne Corcoran can be flexible.
A waiter comes and switches our tablecloth since Benson dripped steak sauce on it. Normally, I love the attentive service, but right now it makes me feel claustrophobic.
Benson finishes his wine and waves his credit card at the waiter.
“Corrinne is changing the schedule?” He covers his mouth in mock surprise. “I thought that would take clearance from the president. You seemed so set on everything.”
The waiter hurries over and takes Benson’s credit card. He looks surprised at Benson’s impatience. A meal in Le Cirque’s main dining room is not something people—even New Yorkers—usually rush.
“Benson, I thought I knew what would make tonight perfect,” I say. “But maybe I was wrong. I’ll have fun with the girls at the concert, and we’ll reconvene at the Jane Hotel for our goodbye.”
Benson quickly signs the bill the waiter has set down in front of him. “You’re obsessed with goodbye.”
“I know,” I concede.
He stands up.
“What about dessert? I already put an order in for the baked Alaska,” I say.
“You’re a big girl,” Benson replies. “It’s about time you get used to being on your own. I’ll probably see you later at the Jane, Corrinne.”
He pushes back his chair and stands up. “I thought this goodbye deal was about all of us, but I realize now it’s only about you.”
And I realize he’s partially right.
But tonight’s not about just me—and it’s not about remembering. It’s about Bubby, and it’s about trying to forget.
I watch Benson go. I would stop him, but I don’t have anything else to say. Although I haven’t uttered it out loud—despite the prodding from Kitsy and Waverly—I know I only started dating him because of what happened at Broken Spoke’s prom.
While I care that I hurt Benson’s feelings, I realize that our goodbye is not what tonight’s about.
It’s about the one with Bubby.
The one I didn’t have.
The rest of this has just been an opera to distract me.
But what am I going to do about it?
10:32 p.m. Near Terminal 5, 610 West Fifty-Sixth Street, NYC.
AS I LEAN FORWARD TO hand cash
to the taxi driver, I look up and notice the Empire State Building is lit up in purple.
My driver turns around and hands me change through the opening in the partition. “It’s lit up for Purple Hearts,” he says, catching my stare. “Those wounded in war.” He points to his phone. “I check the app every night.”
The colors of the Empire State Building change frequently in honor of different causes. Rainbow colors for Pride Week, pink for Breast Cancer Week, and so on. Tripp would say I’m being narcissistic for trying to make a patriotic and noble cause about me, but I must say wounded hearts seem fitting for tonight.
“Have a good night,” the taxi driver calls out as I shut the door behind me.
I try not to think about how my night might not turn out as perfectly as I’d hoped.
If I had only stuck to the schedule and the script.
If only I hadn’t run into Bubby.
If only. Then, I could’ve wrapped up my goodbye with a neat bow. And I could’ve headed off to Cornell in the morning with the memory of a perfectly executed farewell. Just like I had planned.
But now I’ve messed it all up. However, Dear Waverly says that onward is the only efficient direction out of ruins, so I keep on moving.
I check out the long line of people snaking around the building. Then I spot the VIP line and make my way over. Rider, a kid I met—okay, crushed on—in Broken Spoke, dropped out of school and came to Manhattan to pursue a music career. While the rest of us were learning foreign languages and studying for the SATs, he’s been climbing the iTunes charts.
“Hi,” I say to the bouncer, trying to muster some energy. “Rider put a ticket on will-call for me. It’s Corrinne Corcoran.”
The bouncer consults his list.
“And Benson Harris?”
I hold out my arm and the bouncer puts on a wristband. “He couldn’t make it,” I say.
I open the door and try to leave my guilty feelings outside. Hopefully, Waverly and Vladlena will show up soon. I’m going to have plenty of alone time, starting tomorrow. I don’t want it to start before it needs to.
But what will I tell them about Benson? Especially after I had such a reality-show-worthy fit over everything going exactly the way I had planned it.
When I walk into Terminal Five, I take in the two stories, and the open space for the crowd that’s nearly the size of a football field. Hipster Hat Trick—Rider’s band—has been on the road all summer, and they’re playing the last show of their tour here tonight. The floors are cement and the whole place is a bit grittier than I had imagined for the night, but New Yorkers—by nature—can handle a little dirt.
The Art of Goodbye Page 3
