13
“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?” I ASK, EYEING PARKER. HE’S BEEN QUIETER THAN usual. On the way here, he wouldn’t stop fidgeting. As we walked into the building, he looked almost wistfully back at the entrance. “Beyond the obvious,” I say, just to see if I can get him to glare at me.
He doesn’t. He just swallows. His hands are now pointedly rigid by his sides.
We’re one of the first ones in line, and then we’re in an elevator. Parker stares at the air above my head for the forty-something seconds it takes to get to the ninety-something floor. I’m not sure he’s breathing.
We’re at Summit One Vanderbilt, a newer NYC attraction. It was a real score for the studio, according to Sarah, who was so happy that I had finished outlining a third of the screenplay that she told me to take a spa day on the agency’s dime. She also asked me for my New York address, and a celebratory champagne bottle with a box of chocolates showed up an hour later. I ate all of them while on the phone with Penelope. Now, as we are whisked away into the sky, my stomach flips, and I start to regret my life choices.
The first stop is called Transcendence. It’s a floor that makes me feel like I’ve somehow crawled inside an emerald-cut diamond. Endless panes cut the world into geometrical shatters. I squint after a few minutes, wishing I’d brought sunglasses—the sun is reflected everywhere, just like us. I look up, and there we are, upside down.
I lightly hit Parker’s arm with the back of my hand, so he can see too, and watch his eyes slowly slide up to the ceiling. He grunts in response, then goes back to a state that seems to be pretending to be anywhere but here .
Whatever. Notebook in hand, I start scribbling furiously.
Sometimes, locations in movies are ways to subtly show the progression of a relationship. If the characters are standing in here, they would be reflected everywhere, laid bare, nothing hidden between them. Maybe the actor can tell the protagonist how he feels here? Maybe she rejects him? Maybe this place becomes his own version of a horror house of mirrors?
We enter Affinity, an exhibit of dozens of silver balloons floating everywhere.
“I feel like I’m in a magical bubble bath,” I tell Parker, kicking the balloons around us. One hits the side of his head by accident, but he doesn’t even seem to register it. He clearly hates it here. I wonder why he agreed to come to this location to begin with. “You know, you could have said you were busy.”
He takes that opportunity to gently push one of the balloons toward my head. It’s moving about 0.2 miles an hour, so I duck in time. He smiles a bit, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. My chest tightens, from annoyance to concern. Did something happen? Is it something with the acquisition?
Why do I even care?
I want to ask him, but I don’t. If he wanted to tell me, he would. Maybe nothing’s wrong. Maybe he really would just rather be anywhere but in a skyscraper with me, for my screenplay, at nine in the morning. Maybe he’s regretting this entire agreement.
That’s fine. It’s not like it’s been a complete and utter pleasure spending so much time with him for me either. If there was any indication that I could keep writing without him, I would be the first one to call all of this off.
The reflective glass multiplies the balloons tenfold. It’s like we could drown in them. My excitement has withered, however. “Let’s go to the last part,” I mumble.
Levitation—the closest I’ll ever feel to flying. It’s a glass observation deck, a shard of transparent floor hanging off the side of the building. Even with Parker’s bad mood, I can’t help but grin. I’m walking right over New York City. Taxis look like toys; people are as small as pinpricks. Buildings look like Lego sets.
I turn, only to see Parker pressed against the wall. His posture is rigid. His face has turned paler than usual. That’s when it all makes sense.
“Oh my god. You’re afraid of heights.”
He doesn’t even try to deny it. He just continues to stand there, like he is physically incapable of moving even an inch in any direction. His head tilts back, his eyes on the ceiling.
I shake my head in disbelief. “But . . . you’re so tall .”
At that, he gives me an incredulous look. “Elle, I’m six four. Not a thousand feet tall.”
His eyes refocus, gaze shifting somewhere past me. Mistake. He shuts them. Swallows. He’s seen past my face, down into the depths of New York City.
“We can leave,” I say immediately, even though I want to spend more time on the glass strip. It could be the perfect place for my main characters to have their first big fight.
My words surprise me. I should be relishing in his discomfort. Right?
I’m not. His hands are in fists, veins visible, and I have the strange urge to uncurl every finger, to see him cocky and relaxed again.
What is wrong with me?
He shakes his head. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I will be.”
He makes to take a step, as if to prove it, his eyes cracking open just a little. The moment his foot connects with the glass again, every bit of him tenses, as if bracing for impact. He shudders.
I don’t know what makes me take his hand, but I do. I take one, then the other.
He stiffens again, like me touching him is worse than even his fear of heights. But a moment later, his fingers are folding over my own. His hands are enormous, almost swallowing mine.
“Don’t look down,” I say. “Look at me. We’ll do it together.”
His gaze meets mine.
Green. His eyes are like a maze I want to get lost in. He follows my order, staring intently, and my heart inexplicably begins to hammer.
I open my mouth, and his gaze slips to my lips. His thumb grazes the center of my palm, and I inhale too quickly.
It’s an effort to move backward, away from him, but I do.
And eyes never leaving mine, he steps forward.
“See? We’re fine. It’s solid.”
I take another step. His gaze slips down my body, then to a thousand feet below. He tenses again, but he doesn’t go still. He keeps moving.
“I’ve got you,” I say, and something in his expression changes. Loosens, just a little. The Parker Warren on the magazine melts away, and I see a glimpse of vulnerability. Trust.
He nods. Takes another step.
My back hits the wall, and I jump, scaring myself for a moment, but his hands grip mine. I’ve got you too, he seems to say, as he squeezes my fingers.
I’m dying to get my notebook, to put all these thoughts down, but I don’t. I tuck them in the back of my mind and hope I remember later. I’m not dropping Parker’s hands, not when his chest is still moving as quickly as it does when we’re running.
He’s not looking down anymore, though. He’s only looking at me.
“I’ve got what I need. Let’s go,” I say.
“Are you sure?”
I nod.
Hand in hand, we make it back the way we came.
“WHY WOULD SOMEONE AFRAID OF HEIGHTS LIVE ON THE SIXTIETH floor?” I ask. We’re sitting in a diner around the corner. Parker looked a little like he was going to pass out, and my first thought: Milkshakes . For his blood sugar.
I’m not actually sure if that’s a thing, but when are milkshakes ever a bad idea? I was ready to silently judge him as he looked at the flavor options, but then he chose cookies and cream, and I had no choice but to respect it.
“Did I pass your test?” he said. “Or did I choose the worst of milkshake flavors?”
It unnerves me that he’s starting to know me.
“Obviously not,” I said. “I ordered the same thing.”
He takes a sip of his milkshake before answering my question. “I figured it was one of the best ways to overcome it.”
I reach toward a fry on his plate because I finished mine. Fries also seemed like a good idea. For the nausea. “You don’t like having weaknesses, do you?”
Parker pushes the plate of fries toward me. “No. I try my best to conquer them.” He glances at me. “Not usually with an audience.”
It seems very unlike Parker to put himself in a situation where a weakness would be on full display. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him not be completely in control.
“You could have canceled,” I say.
“You would have been alone,” he says back.
I don’t have anything to say to that.
He watches as I dip a stolen fry into my milkshake before popping it into my mouth. “Is that how you eat your milkshake?” he asks. “With a fry as a vessel?”
The fact that he remembers that small fact from our conversation in the stairwell during the fire alarm surprises me. “Sometimes. I usually use the straw if I don’t have a spoon, but it didn’t seem polite to suck on it in front of you.”
Parker blinks at my choice of words. I wonder when the universe will allow me a delete key for real-life conversations. He’s looking at my mouth again. My lips part.
His phone rings.
He doesn’t reach for it until its fourth ring. Then he says, “I’ll be right back,” before sliding out of the booth.
Parker is outside for no more than a minute before returning. He frowns at the receipt on the table.
“You got the check?”
I give him a poisonous smile. “I can, surprisingly, swing two milkshakes and fries.”
His frown deepens. “I didn’t mean—”
“Is everything okay?”
He looks confused.
“The call.”
In the weeks I’ve known him, his phone hasn’t rung once. I get the sense that he’s told everyone to leave him alone during the summer.
“Just a snag,” he says. “I have to go back to San Francisco.”
“When?”
“Now.”
My emotions must be as transparent as the walkway we just conquered, because he seems to know I’m upset.
“Do you need me? I can see if—”
I shake my head quickly. “No, don’t worry. I don’t need you.”
I wonder who I’m trying to convince: him or myself.
“Right.” His eyes have lost some of their warmth. He straightens, and he’s back to the guy on the magazine: the aloof tech CEO. “I’ll see you when I’m back, then.”
We go our separate ways—him home, me to get more sticky notes for my plot monster—and I try not to examine the tug in my chest that withers in his absence.