Chapter Twenty-Four
The next few weeks fly by like a trash-scented New York City dream. Henry and I have started to meet up multiple times a week for a new adventure. One day, I helped him with an engagement shoot in a sculpture park in Astoria. The next, we took a sommelier class in Little Italy. Henry described a particular Sangiovese as tasting like “the inside of a leather jacket after being sat on by a sweaty mall Santa,” and now I can’t help but chuckle whenever I have a glass of red wine. We went to the Rockaways and had cheap hamburgers and slushies on the beach. We walked the Bronx Botanical Garden at night, the dark sky cocooning us inside a warm greenhouse with the most beautiful orchids I’d ever seen. We went to a speakeasy in the back of an art gallery after spending the day in the Museum of Natural History gaping at dinosaur bones.
When we realized we hadn’t been to Staten Island yet, we took the ferry across the Hudson and crowded against the railing to see the Statue of Liberty. Jokes were made about how we truly were acting like tourists, but what’s wrong with that? The funny thing is that the more I act like a tourist, the less I feel like one.
We saw a one-woman play that was so terrible it made us both pee our pants with laughter afterward, at the bodega across the street from the theater. One week we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and my sandals rubbed a blister in my heel the size of a quarter. Henry carried me piggyback the rest of the way and then took me to a discount shoe store to buy the most ridiculous Hello Kitty sneakers I’ve ever seen.
Every day I notice a new feature of Henry I like. A mole on his neck, the dip in his cupid’s bow, the way his glasses lie slightly crooked across his face, the tiny specks of yellow in his green eyes, the way his walnut-brown hair appears reddish in the sun, the way he laughs so loud, unafraid of causing a scene. I admire the way his voice catches when he talks about his dad, the way he cleans his glasses with the bottom of his shirt, leaving them even more smudged than before. I watch him when he moves, his broad shoulders and long limbs seeming to take up exactly the right amount of space in every room. I start to notice myself touching him on the arm, sitting an inch closer to him than I would have even a month ago. I notice myself wanting more contact, more laughs, more, more, more.
I suspect we both know I’m not looking for my passion anymore, but we keep the Passion Project title as a guise to protect whatever is happening between us. Because I told him I only want to be friends. At the time it was true, but now everything in my body is screaming at me to try. Just try.
Having your shit together is not a prerequisite for love.
That sentence spins through my brain at the bodega, at the grocery store, at the library. It ricochets through my bones when I meet Sonya and Jamie at happy hour, and when I visit Sonya at Harper & Jane. It swims in my veins when I hear from Sal or Marjorie, or when I call my mom to tell her about something we did that week, or when Henry shows me the edits on his latest shoot. I refuse to believe I’m not enough. I won’t do it anymore.
Today we take a lazy walk through the Cloisters, taking our time silently studying fifteenth-century art, gaping at stained glass, and exploring the arched walkways and impeccable architecture. Like the library, the Cloisters makes me feel like I’m suspended between yesterday and today, standing next to historical artifacts with an iPhone in my pocket, walking through floors built a hundred years ago in a pair of sneakers and denim shorts that would cause the architects to spit their tea out if they saw. I imagine myself as the thing being studied, rather than the art. Look, a twenty-five-year-old woman, see how she stands so close to that brown-haired man with a camera around his neck. What do you think she’s thinking?
When we finish our walk through the museum, we stroll through Fort Tryon Park. It’s the perfect backdrop for Henry to take free portraits of people going about their daily lives, enjoying the gardens and the beautiful weather. I hang back to watch him snap pictures, happy to take him in. Watching him when he’s calm, quiet, focused, is one of my favorite lenses to see him through.
We find a stone bench with a bit of shade and settle in, shoulder to shoulder. Henry skims through the photos on his camera, sometimes smiling a bit to himself at ones he particularly likes.
“Hey.” He clicks his camera off and puts it in his bag.
“Yeah?”
“I, um…I’ve been thinking.” He gazes out over the garden, not looking at me.
“Yeah?”
“I know we agreed to be friends, but lately it feels like…” He glances down at me and then quickly looks away. He’s nervous. “It feels different. I don’t know.”
I expect panic to rise in my stomach, but it doesn’t. I’m cool, calm. He continues. “I could be reading it wrong, but if something’s changed…” He clears his throat. “If something’s changed…do you want to go on a date with me?”
I pull away slightly, just so I can get a better look at him. Is this real? He looks serious, but he was the one who rejected me. I think back to the bathroom at Sonya’s party, to the bed at Marjorie’s place.
I never got clarification as to what he meant when he said he knew what he wanted, but maybe Jamie was right. Maybe in the bathroom, he just wanted to be sure I was ready, that I knew what I was doing. Maybe now he can sense that I’m inching closer and closer.
He swallows. “I mean…let’s redo our first date. Let me take you out for real.”
I pick at the edges of my frayed denim shorts as I consider. This is a chance to restart. To not be so scared. To actually go for it. Of course, it’s also a chance to make a fool of myself in a hundred new and even more humiliating ways.
It’s a chance to get heartbroken again.
What if I’m not ready?
He taps his knee lightly. “You don’t have to answer now. Let’s just say I’ll be at Rosencrantz & Guildenstern on Friday at five thirty.”
I look out over the gardens, pink roses and gladiolas swaying in the breeze. Maybe this thing between us is already different, already changed, despite my efforts to keep it in control. Maybe the train has left the station and I either have to grab on or let it leave me on the platform. Maybe if I can admit that I want something bigger and better than just friendship…maybe I deserve it.
I don’t want to be left at the station. I swallow, closing my eyes to the warmth of the sun and leaning my head on his shoulder. “I’ll be there.”
Every time I check my phone, the clock hasn’t advanced. Not even a minute. I tap my foot under my desk and bite my lip. Now it says four fifty-six. Four more minutes and I’m off. And then…Henry.
I woke up at six this morning, unable to sleep. I tore my closet apart looking for something to wear, which was silly, since he’s seen me in all my clothes already. But I needed something special. First-date special. In desperation, I knocked on Sonya’s door. She was more than happy to help. Actually, she was euphoric. She blasted ABBA, she swiped makeup across my lids, she dressed me head to toe. I ended up with a gorgeous deep blue dress that Sonya wore on her first date with Jamie.
Now I’m shivering at a brand-new Carlyle assignment as time ticks by, waiting until I can be released for my date. Carlyle needed someone to fill in at this stuffy corporate event space, and though I’ve been assigned to the only library since Sal left, they insisted they needed me to work the front desk.
Why am I nervous? This is what Henry and I do. We hang out. Nothing is different. But also, everything is different. I fight the urge to check my bag to make sure Sonya’s blue dress is in there where I left it and it hasn’t decided to spontaneously grow wings and fly away.
I’ve straightened up everything at the desk three times, I’ve checked that the conference rooms are empty twice, and I’ve locked the keys in the safe box so no one can get in overnight. I have to leave right at five to make it to the restaurant, and my phone is almost dead. Would anyone mind if I slipped out early?
I haul my bag over my shoulder and make a beeline for the door.
“Bennet,” a voice calls from one of the offices. “Going somewhere?”
I whip around to see Anna, clutching a Carlyle Staffing Solutions clipboard to her hip. Memories of her firing me from NYAC flash through my eyes.
“Hi, Anna,” I say, and my stomach drops. This must have something to do with why they suddenly needed me to switch locations today. “My shift just ended. What do you need?”
She twists her mouth into a frown. “Probationary checkup.”
Fuck.
I glance down at my phone. Four fifty-nine. Of course, now time is moving quickly.
“Can we do this another time?”
Anna tuts. “These are always a surprise, Bennet. We can’t make an exception for you.”
Text Henry. Tell him you’re running late. He’ll understand. I open my messages and start to type.
Caught up at work. Wait for m—
But as my thumb hovers over the key, the screen turns black. No. My spit goes sour. No, god, no.
“Bennet?” Anna clicks her pen.
I hold the power button on my phone hoping it’ll come to life, but it’s dead. “Oh god, not now,” I mumble under my breath, pleading. I look up at her, desperate. “Can I please borrow your phone?”
“Miss Taylor,” Anna says in a powerful, clipped voice. “I need to conduct this check-in now or you won’t be able to work any shifts with Carlyle.”
Run. Just go. Who cares? Just do it, Bennet. Go.
But…I can’t. If I don’t have this job, I won’t eat. I’ll have to leave the city.
“Of course,” I say. “I apologize.”
I follow her into a small office, where she asks me a series of questions about my shifts and my coworkers. Any incidents? Nope. Any difficult guests? Nope. Any life-changing dates you’ve potentially missed due to work? Yes. Then she reads a lengthy report by the library manager, which, thankfully, is positive.
There’s no clock in this room, otherwise I’d be studying it, watching every second tick by. Every second Henry sits alone at that bar is pure torture. A cruel repeat of our first date. I wish I could telepathically tell him, I’m coming. I’ll be there.
Finally, Anna clicks her pen and smiles. “Everything looks great. Good work.”
“Thank you,” I exhale as I dash to the door, turning back to ask, “What time is it?”
She glances at the watch on her wrist. “Five thirty-seven.”
···
I sprint to the train station, tapping my phone against the pay-pad on the gate only for the turnstile to slam into my gut, unmoving. Right. My phone is dead. I can’t pay for the train this way.
Come on.
I dash to the kiosk and insert my debit card. The machine spits it back out.
A sign scribbled on top of the machine says Cash Only .
The next machine takes my debit and, after what feels like an hour, delivers a new MetroCard. I swipe through the gate and run down the stairs in enough time to see the train race away, carrying with it the last shred of hope I had of making it to the bar before Henry throws in the towel. No. Don’t give up. I haul ass back up the stairs to the busy street, but I can’t call an Uber because my phone is dead. I see yellow cabs zoom by in the intersection, not stopping long enough for me to call one. God, this is so stupid. I’ve never called a cab before, and I don’t really even know how. The train is my only option. I scurry back down to the subway, pay again, and race to the platform praying that a train is coming. It’s torture waiting here, and my dreams of changing into the pretty blue dress or even making it to dinner are dwindling away bit by bit. I’ve never felt time move slower. Never in my life. By the time a train comes, it’s six fifteen, and I’m forty-five minutes late already. I catapult my body onto the train and hope Henry hasn’t given up on me.
Sonya’s blue dress is in a wad in my bag. Her makeup job is smeared. I don’t care.
Just get there.
The train turtles along the whole way down to Delancey Street. I zoom out of the subway station, practically plowing people down on the way. My lungs hurt and my forehead is dripping wet.
I yank open the door at Rosencrantz & Guildenstern and make a beeline to the bar.
No Henry.
I fumble through the dining room, checking every table for him. He’s not here. He’s nowhere.
I head across the street toward L’italiano. I’m sure that’s where he’ll be. Just like last time.
I grasp the door handle and take a deep breath. But when I see who’s sitting at the bar, I’m confused. It isn’t Henry. In fact, it’s one of the last people I expected.
“Jamie?”
When she sees me, she jumps to her feet. “Bennet! Where have you been? I’ve been calling you.”
“Caught up at work. My phone died. Is Henry here?”
I look around the dining room, checking every table.
“No. Sarah said he came by after you didn’t show. But he’s gone.”
“Oh! Sarah!” I walk back toward the bar and see her polishing glasses. “Do you have Henry’s number in your phone?”
She frowns as she scrubs the rim of a glass. “Why? So you can ghost him again?”
“I didn’t mean to,” I say. “I got caught up at work and the train was slow.”
“Why don’t you ask Jamie? Since she’s the one that asked him to go out with you in the first place,” she says.
Jamie looks at Sarah with daggers in her eyes.
I shake my head. “Sonya found him on a dating app. Jamie didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“You really think it’s a coincidence that Jamie happened to work at the same restaurant as the guy her girlfriend set you up with?” Sarah cocks her head.
“Sarah, stop,” Jamie interjects.
“No.” Sarah sets her polishing cloth on the bar. “A half hour ago, someone I really care about came into this restaurant after being ghosted by her for the second time, and he was miserable. I don’t like to see my friends miserable. Especially Henry, who’s, like, always happy.”
I feel the floor shift under my feet. Henry was miserable. Jamie somehow set us up. I’m so confused.
“Jamie, what is going on?” When I look at her, she’s dodging my eye.
She takes a deep breath and finally looks at me after a long moment. “Don’t be mad,” she says. “But I might have lied about how well I know Henry. We worked together before he went back to Denver. Sonya wanted to find some way to get you to stay in New York. When she thought about sending you on a date…I…I reached out to him.”
“You reached out and…and what?”
“I asked him to go on a date with you,” she says, cringing. “Cheer you up.”
“What?”
“Yep,” Sarah says. “He owed her a favor for all the shifts she covered when he was in Denver.”
“Oh my god.” I step back, away from Jamie. “It was a pity date?”
“No—” Jamie insists. “It was never a pity date. But, yes…he knew.”
“What did you tell him? Did he know about…” My throat tightens. “Did he know about Sam?”
Jamie shakes her head quickly. “All I told him was that you were in a tough spot, and I wanted you to have some fun.”
“How did you even match us together on the app? I saw his profile. He liked my photo.”
Jamie swallows, uncomfortable. “I had him make a profile, and then I swiped on his phone until I found you. It didn’t take too long once we narrowed the search range and the preferences.”
My mind flashes to the moment Sonya saw Henry’s like on my photo. She talked a mile a minute about how gorgeous he was—how pretty his green eyes were. The realization that it was Jamie on the other end is humiliating.
“Fantastic. This is…this is really great. It feels great to know that I was such a sad, pathetic bummer of a person that you had to ask someone to go on a date with me and pretend to like me and take me on adventures so I wouldn’t mope around the apartment.” I’m suddenly more embarrassed than I have been in my entire life. “Did you tell him that? That I’m a depressed mess and need to be saved from myself?”
“No. It was all very…informal,” Jamie says, nervously stepping toward me. I jerk away, prompting her to stop. To not touch me. “It wasn’t a conspiracy. He was just trying to help.”
This changes everything. Everything about the past few months. Every time I asked why he was hanging out with me, he lied. Every time I asked what was in it for him, he lied. What else has he lied about? Henry didn’t find me on an app and choose to swipe right. He was asked to. As a favor. I doubt he would have even wanted to go on a date with me in the first place if Jamie hadn’t convinced him to do it. What must he have thought of me, that first night in the bathroom? Wow, everything Jamie said was right. This girl is a disaster. How bad must he have felt to insist on the Passion Project? Was I that obviously desperate?
I feel a bit of bile rise up from my stomach.
“That is so fucked up,” I say as I step backward, inching toward the door.
“If you’re mad at anyone, be mad at me,” Jamie says. “Sonya told you the truth up front about why she was setting you up, and Henry was just being a good guy. He’s a really good guy, Bennet. And he likes you so much. And you seem happy together. I’ve never seen you so happy. And Sonya says the same thing. She says she hasn’t seen you smile like this since before Sam.”
“I can’t…” I say as I take another step backward, my fingertips buzzing. “I can’t even look at you.”
I stumble through the door to the street. It all makes sense. Henry pushing me away when I tried to make a move. Henry constantly saying that we should stay just friends, insisting that I’m not ready. That I’m confused. He was doing Jamie a favor.
But then why would he even ask me out a second time? Just a cruel extension of this whole fucked-up favor? I imagine him telling Jamie that I’m still depressed and maybe if we go on another date I’ll finally turn the corner. Suggesting that if we take it to the next level, I’ll finally be happier. Or…oh god. Jamie told him about our talk on the roof. He asked me out because he knows everything I said about him. That I started to have feelings for him.
I felt hope for the first time in years. I liked myself for the first time in years. And it’s all fake? I wasn’t wanted. I wasn’t considered. I wasn’t desired. I was a favor.
I rush to the subway as fast as I can, hoping I can outrun this feeling. I think I hear someone call after me, but I don’t stop. I don’t stop until I get home.