by Allison Parr
“Hey. I am not the one being fawned over in car commercials by scantily clad girls.”
He leered at me. “I would watch that car commercial.”
Okay, I was flattered despite myself. “Ha. Please. I am not a car person. I can only recommend transportation by feet.” I tilted my head. “Or perhaps the magical steeds of Central Park.”
Ryan’s brows winged up. “What, the police horses? No! I know! It’s those guys who drive the tourist carriages around! That’s how you’d like to get around the city.”
“Actually, not a bad idea. I could do that. But I was actually thinking of painted wooden horses.” At his blank look, I nudged him slightly with my foot. “The carousel?”
“There’s a carousel in Central Park?”
I gaped at him. What kind of human being—what kind of New Yorker—didn’t know about the carousel? “What do you mean?” I asked. “Of course there is!”
He shrugged. “I’ve never been on a carousel.”
“Ever?” I gasped. “But—but you live right over Central Park! You can practically see it! And it’s the carousel!”
“I’ve ridden horses.” As though that had anything to do with it. “What’s the point of going up and down on a piece of wood when you have the real thing?”
My lips quirked. “That’s what she said,” I muttered, not quite able to help myself.
He snorted. “How come I get yelled at when I say stuff like that, when you make the exact same jokes?”
I spread my arms out airily. “Because I am filled with grace and poise.”
“You’re about to fall asleep on my sofa.”
“I am not!” I argued, and then proved my point by yawning. “Fine. I might be a little tired.”
“Yeah. Well, it’s almost two.”
“What!” I sat upright, filled with disbelief. “No. You’re lying.”
He showed me his watch. The craftsmanship and shininess were much more noticeable than the actual numerals
“Ugh. That’s like taxi-taking time.” Last time I’d left Ryan’s at a decent enough hour, especially for a Friday night. Twenty-somethings always packed the subway, so I never felt alone or unsafe. Still, I didn’t particularly want to push my luck.
Then again, I really didn’t want to spend my grocery money on a taxi to Brooklyn. Who did I know in Manhattan whose apartment I could crash at?
“You could just stay here,” Ryan said, a little too casually. I narrowed my eyes at him. He narrowed his back.
Then I ruined it by yawning again.
“Come on.” He moved my legs off of his. “I might even have a spare toothbrush.”
“Why?”
“Why? What kind of question is that?”
“I don’t have a spare toothbrush.” I sleepily pushed to my feet and stumbled after him. Boy, I was tired. Collapsing on the sofa sounded a hell of a lot better than trekking across town.
“Here.” Ryan handed me a toothbrush still in its casing. “I have a whole bin of them.”
I squinted at the brush, and then slowly unwrapped it. “Is it so your one-night stands can be hygienic?”
“What? No! It’s so I don’t have to buy cleaning supplies! I also have extra toothpaste and dish soap and packs of dental floss! You have a one-track mind. Here’s the toothpaste.”
“Thanks.”
Ryan disappeared while I got ready for bed. When he came back, he had a jersey. “Clean, I promise. So are the sheets.” He led me to a guest room. I hadn’t realized New York apartments could fit guest rooms, but this was spacious and well lit, the bed bigger than mine, and the quilt and pillows like something out of a hotel. “Do you need anything else?” Ryan asked. “Water? Anything to read?”
I shook my head, taking the red and black jersey from his hand. “I’m good. Thanks.” I hesitated. Part of me wanted him to lean forward, just the smallest distance, and kiss me.
But I felt like Ryan wanted all or nothing. Especially when I was here, in his apartment, staying the night. How could I start anything if I wasn’t sure I could finish it?
He lingered in the doorway, his eyes darker than usual, his smile a touch softer. “Good night, Rachael.”
Neither of us moved, and my heart sped up. Maybe I could do this. I liked him. I wanted him.
And I was scared out of my mind.
His hand lightly brushed my cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He hesitated one more moment, and when I said nothing, he retreated.
I closed the door and leaned against it. Damn. What was wrong with me? Why had I tensed up? I stepped out of my dress and pulled his jersey on over my tights. Maybe I should go knock on his door and walk in and...I couldn’t think past that. Then what was I going to do? Excuse myself when my walls slammed up and I freaked out, and come back to the guest room?
Disappointed in myself, I burrowed under the thick comforter. The jersey smelled of soft detergent and a slight wisp of cedar, and I thought of its owner as I drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Twelve
When I woke up, I smelled cinnamon.
After I slipping my bra on under Ryan’s jersey, I stepped into the living room. Maybe I should have thought about my crazy bedhead too, because when I entered, Ryan froze and stared at me.
I swallowed. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and his skin gleamed gold even late in September. For a stretched moment, I stared at his abs, and then my gaze dipped a little lower. Cheeks burning, I wrenched my eyes up, expecting to see a smirk curving those perfect lips. Instead, they had parted slightly, and he studied me with an odd light.
Self-consciousness descended quickly. I was wrapped in his overlarge shirt, fresh out of bed, and somewhat surprised to find that I had actually slept over at Ryan’s. Awareness cracked between us as our gazes touched and parted.
Good thing I’d thrown my bra on.
To cover my confusion, I gracelessly dropped onto one of the bar stools at the kitchen island. I stared at the thick slices of leftover challah drenched in cinnamon-flecked egg batter and frying away on the stovetop. “Mornin’. You know how to make French toast?”
He finally blinked and pulled himself together. “I’m not totally incompetent. And I do live by myself, you know. What do you think I eat?”
“Take-out,” I said promptly.
He snorted. “Get a plate.”
After breakfast, I slipped back into my little black dress and heels. Ryan grinned at me. “Shut up.” I was perfectly aware I looked like I was about to perform a walk of shame. I smoothed the skirt down. “This is New York. People wear black dresses all the time. Besides, it’s nine, not some ridiculously early hour.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“And yet I have no problem reading your mind.”
“I’d give you a ride home, except you might have that skirt problem again.”
I leaned my shoulder against the wall and crossed my arms. “You know, you were really pushing it that day.”
“You had spent a fair amount of time insulting me.”
“You know you deserved it.” I looked back down at my skirt. “This is actually a much fuller skirt than the other one, and I am wearing tights.” I looked up and smiled hopefully. “Pretty please? To the subway, at least?”
He grinned. “Oh, fine. I need to be at the stadium in a while anyway.”
Ten minutes later we were on his bike, my arms fastened around his waist, my thighs pressed along his. I deeply regretted not jumping him last night when I had the chance. So much for platonic friendship.
He’d barely started his bike when I shouted into his ear. “Wait! Go straight!”
“Into the park? Rachael...”
“Come on. You’ve never been on a carousel? Your inner child is crying!”
“I rode horses!” he cried, frustrated, but he went anyway.
I sighed happily when we stood in front of the carousel building, red brick and white stone covered by a two-tiered, peaked green roof. “They found it abandoned on Coney Is
land in 1950. But it’s over a hundred years old.” We wove past the popcorn and balloon venders until we stood in line, close enough to peer through at the prancing mares and the rearing black stallions. “There are fifty-seven horses and two chariots.” I paused. “The entire team could be on it at the same time.”
Ryan shook his head. “Is this one of those memorizing-random-stuff like the poker thing?”
“No, this is a love kind-of-thing.” I pointed at a white horse with a black, flowing mane and rainbow colored accouterments. “She’s my favorite.”
To my surprise, Ryan laughed and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Someday, I’m going to get you on an actual horse.”
“But this has a soundtrack!” I protested, smiling.
When we tried to buy our tickets, the vender refused to let us pay. “Win against those damn Steelers,” he told Ryan, shaking his head. “If I have to listen to my brother-in-law gloat one more time...”
Ryan smiled. “I’ll do my best.”
I shook my head as we walked by, entering the carousel’s enclosure. “I must have seen that man half-a-dozen times and he never waved my fee.”
“Half-a-dozen times? Rach, sometimes I worry about you.”
I laughed. “Pick your steed, sir,” I said, in a fairly awful English accent. Ryan tugged my hair affectionately and stepped toward the closest horse, a brown bay. “No, not that one.” I dropped back to my normal voice. “You should be on one of the armored horses.” I dragged him about until we found a brown horse covered in red and blue and green armor, plated up his neck and head. A blue saddle sat atop his protective blankets.
“You have a lot of rules.” But he got on the horse.
The other horses filled with children and parents. One of the fathers took a second glance at Ryan but was quickly distracted by his crying two year old. Then cheery organ music filled the air, and we started to move. Looking over at Ryan, bobbing slowly up and down on his horse of many colors, warmth bubbled up inside me. “Smile!”
“I look ridiculous.”
“So what?” I craned my head to watch the green of the park spin by as we faced the entrance. When we cycled into the covered portion of the ride, I twisted to see the carousel’s inner column, painted pale blue and decorated with carnival themes.
When I looked back at Ryan, he was grinning at me, eyes dancing. I made a silly face, just because I could, and he made one back. Then we were laughing as we whirled, up and down, a blur of colors and music and laughter as we rode nowhere on wooden horses.
When the ride finished, we wandered through the park. The gray sky contrasted sharply with the yellow and orange leaves, making them appear brighter than usual. We pointed out our favorite parts of the park to each other. I loved the Conservatory Garden, while Ryan had a fondness for the Marionette Theatre that rivaled mine for the carousel. We ended up standing behind the Met, studying the pitted and weather-worn hieroglyphs on Cleopatra’s Needle.
“I always loved Egypt,” Ryan admitted as we walked around the obelisk. “When I was a kid, that’s what I really wanted to do. Be Indiana Jones. See Egypt and Greece.” He smiled, animated. “Did you know this isn’t actually from Cleopatra’s time? Thutmosis the Third built it, and then Ramses added inscriptions a couple centuries later.” He tilted his head, studying the hieroglyphs. “I used to think I’d learn to read them.”
“You still could.”
He shook his head. “No. I don’t know. Now I’d just be happy to see where everything’s from.”
“I read this really funny article on Alexander the Great’s Indian campaign recently.” Then, without meaning to, I ended up telling him all about the tabloid manuscript.
“I’d buy that. Are you going to put it out?”
I shook my head rapidly, curls flying around my face. “Oh, no. It was an unsolicited manuscript. We don’t touch those.”
“Why not? You like it. Talk to your boss.”
“It’s not done.”
An odd expression passed across his face “You’re scared.” He paused. “I can’t believe you’re scared of anything. What’s she going to do, say no?”
“Or never give me a job!”
He grinned, and desire clenched my gut. “Then I’ll hire you to ghost-write my memoir.”
I stared at him. “You have no idea how much I envy you right now.”
“Come on, Rach. I don’t believe for a second you could be afraid of anyone. Ask your boss about it. At least she’ll know you’re passionate, and you’ll have shown initiative.” His phone beeped, and he looked at it. “Oh, shit. I have to head out now—the plane is leaving for Pittsburgh in forty-five minutes.” He made a face. “Sorry I never got you to your stop.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s just outside the park.”
I walked with him to his bike, passing again under the arching yellow branches of old, tall trees, brushing by bushes bright with red leaves. I let out a sigh of total contentment. Here I was, in my favorite city, in one of my favorite parts, in my favorite season. That thirst for more that sometimes came when the seasons changed, the longing for something special was for once completely quenched. I stopped, and looked at Ryan, looked my fill, studying the sharp angles, the square jaw, the long, pale lashes. He returned the gaze with a quizzical one. “Something on my face?”
“I’m really glad we came here.” And then, without letting myself think about it too much, I stood on tip-toe and pressed my lips to his, balancing myself with hands lightly against his chest. His lips were warm and soft, welcome after the chill wind, and he tasted like cinnamon.
It was a gentle kiss, and when I drew away he looked pleased and surprised. I smiled, pushing my hands into my pockets. My fingers curled slightly, rather like the warmth in my stomach. “See you.” I took a couple steps back, feeling a little shy.
His bemused expression cleared, and he grinned, white teeth and twinkling eyes. “See you,” Ryan repeated, and when I turned my back on him, it was all I could do not to skip all the way out of my park, to my train, and home.
Chapter Thirteen
Dad picked me up at the train station in Worcester. “There’s my big-city girl!” He enveloped me in a hug. He smelled like wood smoke; he’d probably thrown some steaks on the grill, to go with the more traditional kugel and sweet carrots and challah. “Good trip?”
“It was fine.” I kissed his cheek. My father was of the scrawny, professorial mode, and it was only in the last decade or so that he’d begun to put on the weight that had eluded him for most of his life. Recently, the remainder of his hair had also gone wispy and gray. Mom called it distinguished, but usually only when he became moody after she teased him too long about his bald spot.
“Been to any of the museums yet?” he asked as we got in the car. I shook my head. “I’ve been trying to get your mother to take a weekend and go with me to the city, but she says there’s no way she’d go half the places I like.” He made his sad-dad face. “You’d go with me to museums, wouldn’t you?”
“Course I would, Dad.” I shook my head and grinned. Poor art history professors. They can’t enter a museum without delivering a thesis. “Hey, has David arrived yet?”
“I picked him up this morning.” Another sad face. “That’s all I’m good for. Chauffeuring my ungrateful children around.”
“I know, it’s quite tragic. But don’t feel too bad; you’re pretty good at cooking and cleaning, too. Is Sophie there?”
“Who?”
I rolled my eyes. “David’s girlfriend?”
“I knew that. Yeah. She’s there, too.”
“And? What do you think?”
“She seems sweet.”
Getting Dad to say something unkind was like getting the tooth fairy to leave more than a quarter. “You think all of his girlfriends are sweet. Do you remember her?”
He looked confused.
“From when we were little! She was my grade.”
“Really? No, I don’t.”
&nb
sp; I snorted. Mom would remember. I wondered whose side she would take.
We pulled up in front of the house. It was a Model Number 3, out of the seven different housing plans in the neighborhood. David and I had mockingly called it Three Point O growing up, since our first house had been of the ram-shackled farmhouse variety. In this development, neatly cut lawns containing copses of trees framed pale pastel houses. Middle-schoolers roller-skated and biked past, kids I’d baby-sat as a teenager but who probably didn’t even remember me.
“In here!” Mom hollered when we opened the door. I kicked off my shoes and dropped my purse, heading into the kitchen. Mom stood at the counter, chopping carrots into thin rounds.
“Hi, Mom. L’shana tova.”
“Hello, sweetheart!” She put down the knife and gave me a quick, hard hug. “Happy New Year! How was your trip?”
“It was fine. What’re you making? Sweet carrots?”
“Just for you.” She moved us apart a foot, keeping her hands on my arms. “Did you gain a few pounds?”
“Mom.”
“It’s all that processed take-out food. Is that the coat Daddy and I bought you? It looks good. But what is that shirt? Is that a hole in the hem?”
“It’s comfortable,” I said defensively as she scrutinized the near-invisible rip. I actually thought the red V-neck looked good, though I should have known better than to expect my mother not to notice the hole.
Mom, of course, looked perfect. She’d managed to bake cakes and pies throughout my childhood without gaining an extra pound, juggling housekeeping and child rearing along with a career in law. When she was twenty-three, she lived in Chicago working as a paralegal. I doubt she once had to weigh the pros and cons of a new pair of boots versus eating Ramen for three weeks.
“Hey, Rach.” My brother came up from behind Mom and wrapped me in a bear hug.
“David!” I squeezed him back. Despite being taller and three years older than me, our shared coloring and features meant we’d been mistaken for twins as children. I’d missed him, when I wasn’t busy being irritated by him.
He stepped back, gave me a stern look, and gestured someone else forward. “Sophie, you remember my sister, right?”
