Chapter Twenty-Three James #2
The bride, who placed her veil on Madison’s head a few minutes ago, catcalls as the rest of the bachelorette party whoops and hollers.
I’m not even sure how we ended up here, to be honest. We wandered around outside the Color Factory for a bit, googling what we should do next.
A karaoke bar in SoHo popped up in the results—and it might as well have had Madison’s name in neon.
We Ubered over only to find out it was by reservation only. All the rooms were booked up.
Madison went to the bathroom, came back with a bachelorette party and a bride whose dress she’d saved from a drink stain, and bam, we were invited to join their party. Now Madison is endearingly drunk and singing at the top of her lungs.
I’m sitting on the bench lining the plush wall, squinting now and then as the disco ball mirrors a flashing neon light into my eyes. But I don’t care. I’d stay here all night to watch Madison laugh and dance like that.
Suddenly, a female form cuts off my view of Madison. One bachelorette plops down right into my lap and hooks her arm around my neck. “Hi,” she says, so close to my face. “Want to make out? My boyfriend said whatever happens tonight is fine with him as long as you’re gone by the morning.”
“Generous,” I respond, then look up and catch Madison’s eye.
She’s still singing, but she’s gone down a sad octave and her words are two beats behind.
Who knows, I might be imagining it, but even in my imagination I don’t like the sight of Madison hurt.
So I stand slowly, giving the lady time to find her footing as she’s forced to stand too.
“I’m going to have to pass. I think my friend needs me to jump in on this chorus. ”
“Awww, that’s actually cute,” says the woman, who is now behind me.
I make my way to Madison, holding her gaze the entire time until I’m right in front of her. Unspoken words pass between us. I don’t want her. I don’t want anyone else but you. Even if I can’t have you.
I lean down into the microphone and sing, “. . . I feel like a woman, oh, oh, oh.”
Madison cackles, the bachelorettes cheer, and together Madison and I finish the song plus an encore of “No Scrubs.”
10:55 P.M.
“Drink this,” I say, uncapping a bottle of water and pressing it to Madison’s mouth. “You’re dripping sweat.”
“Quit trying to hydrate me and dance,” she says, still vibrating with dance moves as she wipes the back of her mouth with her hand. Her arms are doing some sort of waves before she turns around and backs it up on me.
“I don’t like to fall into many stereotypes, but please hear me when I say I am a farmer—”
“Cowboy.”
“—and so I do not dance.”
“I’ve seen you line dance though!” she yells up at me, unable to stay still.
“Would you like me to line dance to this techno music?”
Over at the bar, a loud cheer erupts from the bachelorette party that invited us along after karaoke. They just threw back shots and Madison throws her fist up in the air out of solidarity.
I can’t help but smile down at her flushed face, sweat-damp hair clinging to her temples. A little drunk from her steady stream of drinks. I stopped after my pink drink at karaoke so I can make sure Madison stays safe.
“Are you having fun?” I ask her, pretty much acting as a human pole for her to shimmy and bump against.
“The best time! I can’t believe all of this was under my nose the whole time and I never experienced it!”
It’s good, I tell myself. This is what I wanted for her—to see this city differently, to feel like she could actually belong here if she wanted. But I didn’t plan for my heart to sink down into my gut at the thought of her actually staying, choosing a future I’m not in.
And for one selfish minute, I wish I hadn’t made this night happen.
11:32 P.M.
We’re in the back of our new friend’s Mercedes, headed to a drag club. Some guy Madison was dancing with mentioned he and his husband had a babysitter for the night and were going there next. They invited Madison to come.
(And me, by default.)
They’re nice guys—currently belting old-school Britney Spears from the front seat. Rich, too, judging by the model of this vehicle and the fact that they can afford to own a car in New York City.
“What’s that?” I ask, peering over at Madison’s phone just as a cartoon monkey swings across the screen and plants a kiss on the glass.
“An e-card from Tommy.” She grins and tilts the screen toward me. The note attached reads: Let me swing by and pick you up sometime?
I groan. “Is he still harassing you?”
He sent her a diamond necklace the other day. That she returned to him, saying she didn’t feel right keeping it.
Now she gasps, mock offended. “How dare you! This is classic wooing. He’s doing a great job.”
“In what world is that good?”
She laughs. “Okay, fine. Tommy’s pursuit is kind of like if a thirteen-year-old suddenly came into a lot of money. But that doesn’t mean it’s bad. He’s being sweet.”
“He’s being a relentless pain in the ass.”
She slides her phone back into the crossbody purse she’s had slung across her chest all day. “You’re just jealous because you don’t want to share my attention.”
It’s a joke. But the guys in the front don’t know that.
The tall one in the passenger seat turns around with a wistful smile and a dramatically pursed lip. “You two are so cute. I miss being young and in love,” he says, reaching across to squeeze his husband’s biceps.
Neither of us corrects him.
1:00 A.M.
“I can’t believe I met Audrey Hepburn in real life!” Madison says, slumped against me on the sidewalk outside the drag club we just left.
“She was pretty awesome,” I say, steering Madison in the right direction.
“I can’t wait to show Amelia. She’s going to be so jealous.” A huge yawn tumbles out of her. She switched to water at the start of the show, so I think she’s mostly sobered up at this point. Exhaustion is setting in now.
“Where should we go next?” she says, eyes closed, head resting against the outside of my biceps like this is completely normal for us. And oddly, it does feel normal—just as every second of the day has so far.
“Next? I’d say sleep.”
Her groggy eyes pop open. “We can’t call it a night yet! I haven’t even been arrested.”
“We have to leave something for next time,” I say, checking my phone to verify the car pulling up is our rideshare.
“Can we at least tell everyone I got arrested?”
“Sure.” I gather her wrists behind her back and she grins up at me.
After opening her door, I place my hand that’s not holding her “cuffed” wrists on the top of her head and guide her through, down into the seat.
She scoots over, making room for me. The driver—with a Star Trek emblem hanging from his rearview mirror—looks concerned that he’s just picked up two people who are into kinky stuff.
I give him the code and we’re on our way now to the apartment where Madison used to live.
Fatigue is heavy after our nonstop night, and Madison has gone into full zombie mode, her dazed eyes staring out the window, head tilted back against the seat, absolutely silent.
A rarity for her. All I want to do is sleep for a million hours.
When we’re about five minutes from the destination, a slow rain trickles down onto the car, followed by a full-on shower.
Suddenly, Madison rockets forward. “Hey, sir, can you stop and let us out here?” she asks the driver.
Again, he looks concerned. “Here? It’s raining. You’re still a few blocks from your stop.”
“Yeah, I know. Stop here!”
He does, with a “whatever, lady” shake of his head.
She leans around me and opens the door, exposing us to a wall of rain.
“Madison. What are you doing?” I ask as she attempts to shove me by the shoulder out of the car. “That’s the wet world out there. The wet world is a bad place.”
She laughs. “Come on! One last adventure together in New York. Let’s run in the rain.”
That word—together—sticks. Lodges somewhere beneath my ribs.
I loll my head in her direction, and she combats my protest with big anime eyes. “Fiiiine.” I unbuckle and jump out into the rain first. I extend my hand and she takes it, joining me out here in the ocean.
For three heartbeats she looks up at me, water dripping over her smile, and I feel the kind of happy that scares a person.
The kind I’ve been terrified to experience, because then I’ll know the lack of it.
But then the driver peels away like we’re psychopaths he’s afraid are going to try to stuff him in the trunk and steal his car, and the moment is shattered.
We laugh, and then it’s like the sky opens and the real downpour begins, so heavy it’s hard to see a foot in front of us.
“Oh my god!” Madison yells, laughter spilling out with the rain. “This was a bad idea! Seemed cuter in my head—Wait, is it hailing?!”
I grab her hand. “Let’s run!”
So we do. Feet sloshing through quickly flooding sidewalks. Free hands hovering above our heads to protect us from the small, but definitely present, hail.
Finally, drenched and exhausted, we make it to the brownstone apartment building. Madison shoves a key into the old, rickety lock while telling me how glad she is she forgot to give her key back to her landlord. As soon as the lock clicks up we burst inside, letting the door fall shut behind us.
The sound of the rain fades, and after one final sigh we look at each other—half-drowned and deliriously happy. Water drips off our clothes, splatting on the old hardwood floor, and I’m not sure where to go from here. And I don’t just mean in this apartment.
“You know . . . I don’t normally do this for guys who aren’t wearing boots, but . . . do you want to come up to my place?” she says in a dramatically sultry voice that is one hundred percent playful but also, unfortunately, one hundred percent turning me on.
I gesture toward the stairs with my hand. “After you, Chef.”