8. Morningside Heights, USA
8
MORNINGSIDE HEIGHTS, USA
Before
“C an you try running it again?” Alex asked, shifting uncomfortably at the register of the liquor store.
“I already ran it twice, honey,” the cashier said, her warm eyes crinkling behind her reading glasses. “It says declined . Do you have another card?”
The truth was that, yes, Alex did have another card, but it was her debit card, and it had exactly the amount of money on it that she needed to survive for the rest of the month and make the minimum payments on the others—including this one, which she thought had a little bit of wiggle room left.
“Here,” Paul said, handing over his own card. “Put it on this.”
“Oh, come on, you don’t have to do that.” Alex felt her cheeks flush.
“It’s nothing.” He brushed her hand away with the effortless acceptance of true friendship. “But you’re carrying half the bottles.”
“Please,” she said, hooking a few of the paper handles in her hands, “I’m stronger than you.”
Paul pushed open the liquor store door with his back, holding it gallantly as Alex walked through. It was one of those blinding late-spring days in Manhattan where every color felt turned all the way up, and they both stopped to set down the bags and put on their sunglasses before continuing toward his apartment. Paul always looked best in spring: his freckles expanded across his cheeks, his slight southern drawl strengthened as his family came to visit from Charleston, and his favorite pastel color palettes felt appropriate rather than kitsch. She always stole glances at him when they walked together, drawing power from his prestige and attractiveness. Being his girlfriend had been intoxicating, yes, but being his best friend was an even greater victory: even without the pull of romantic attraction, he still chose her.
“Paul is just as lucky to have you as you are to have him,” her mother would often say, and Alex knew she was right on some level. But Elena couldn’t see what it was like when the two of them walked down Broadway or Amsterdam together, with people waving to him like he was the mayor of Morningside Heights. Alex may have been well-liked by Rochester standards, but to be popular here, the way Paul was, came with minor celebrity status.
Paul lived on a beautiful stretch of Riverside Drive at one of the more prestigious addresses in the neighborhood—and one rarely occupied by students. But his father had purchased an investment property there, and Paul got to live in it for free as long as he kept his grades up. This was a common arrangement for the Club members: parents using their children’s temporary zip codes to do a little real estate speculation.
“So where are we on Operation Crow’s Nest? Has the eagle landed? Is the fox in the hole? I don’t know what code names we’re using here.” Paul turned to face her as he slipped the key in his apartment door, precariously balancing his bags of liquor bottles with his forearms. From down the hall, a very fancy-looking older woman looked at them disapprovingly. “Hi, Leanne,” Paul called over to her, smiling.
There was no response, so he smiled wider and opened the door.
“There are no code names,” Alex clarified, following him in and bumping the door closed behind her with her hip. “But things are moving along.”
Paul’s apartment was one of the many reasons she loved him: an oasis of mismatched vintage furniture, professionally framed posters, and a record player he actually used, his living quarters were aspirationally chic. She loved to linger in there for hours, watching reality TV or talking about boys, him holding court while he walked around delicately watering his plants.
“What does that mean?” He set his bags down on the dining table and helped her lower hers as well, never without his southern manners. “Do you want anything?”
She flopped herself down on a large leather pouf his mother had bought in Morocco. “It means that I’m moving along. Things are happening. And I’ll take a Diet Coke, if you have it.”
“I’m making tea.”
“Well, then, tea.”
He poked his head out of the kitchen. “I’ll bring both.” He turned back toward the counter to put the kettle on while she pulled her bag onto her lap. “ I’m listening !” He called out in a sing-song voice.
“I know you are, I’m looking !”
“Looking for what?”
“The letter.”
“Oh my god .” He poked his head out again, making a point to roll his eyes at her before disappearing back behind the wall. “You’re actually doing that? Just talk to him, you psycho.”
“We’ve been over this,” she said, unfolding the papers she’d tucked away in one of her textbooks. “I get nervous when I talk to him about serious stuff.”
There was a brief pause between them as he prepared the tea, which she used to reread her letter for the hundredth time. She had spent months perfecting it, saying everything she felt without saying too much—even just looking at it made her feel closer to him.
“Well, then.” Paul walked back into the living room with an overfull serving tray, tinkling as he went, “Why don’t you show up to this party in a trench coat with some lingerie underneath, and then get him alone in a bathroom? That’ll break the ice.”
Alex set to busying herself with the tea, popping a small cookie into her mouth from the tray he’d prepared. “Very funny.”
“I’m serious, ” he insisted. “I feel like I’ve been watching you guys almost-fuck for, like, two years now. Just do it already.”
“I don’t want to fuck him, ” she said, shifting slightly in her seat as she pictured the act. “I want to be serious. We’re both staying in the city. This could actually be something.”
“I mean, sure.”
“Just because you’re not ready for a serious relationship doesn’t mean I’m not.”
“No offense, Lex, but you came out of the womb ready for marriage. You would have married me, for god’s sake.”
“I would still marry you,” she said, totally serious.
They sometimes caught each other off guard like this, aiming the full light of their affection at the other when they least expected it.
“Oh, babe—” he reached his hand over to cover hers. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, and that’s why I need you to let me do this my way, even if you think it’s stupid. I’m really fucking nervous.”
“Okay then, I’m done being a brat. What’s the plan?”
“The plan is that he’s not home—”
“He’s at the Statue of Liberty,” Paul cut in.
“Correct. And I just have to stop by their place to drop off the textbook I borrowed.” She couldn’t help but smile, giddy with her own scheming. “Dev’s going to let me in, and I’ll go drop the book and the letter on his desk.”
“Wow, you’ve really thought this through.”
“ And he’s going to arrive home just in time to get ready for Guy’s, meaning he’ll have the perfect amount of time to sit with the letter before we see each other.”
“Or he will not notice the letter on his desk, and then you’ll spend the whole night wondering why he’s ignoring you.”
“That won’t happen.”
“I mean, let’s be clear: it absolutely could happen.” He leaned back on the couch, stretching his arms and neck before continuing. “No one does a full inventory of their desk every time they leave the house.”
“He does.”
Paul breathed in deeply, willing away his usual frustration at Alex’s headstrong behavior. He knew that when she wanted to do something, there was no convincing her otherwise, and she had learned to allow him his moments of vague disapproval before inevitably getting on board.
“So what’s in the letter? I know you’ve been dying to get my take since lunch.”
“Thank you for asking.” She smiled, unfolding the pages she’d had resting in her lap. “I would love to hear your opinion. But be honest with me.”
He walked over, plucking the wrinkled paper from her hands and clearing his throat with a dramatic flourish. “Okay, let’s see what we’re working with here: ‘ Dear Danial—’ a little formal, no?” He looked up from the paper, tilting his head.
“Please shut up.”
“You said to be honest!” He paused, waiting for her to match his encouraging smile before understanding that this was, indeed, not a joke.
“Okay, okay.” He continued:
“Dear Danial,
I’ve tried writing this letter about a hundred times over the past year, and I always gave myself a good reason to not actually go through with it. Letters are corny, you’d think it was weird, we’ll just see each other around anyway and I can talk to you then. But then I would see you, and the words would never come. I was always too caught up in arguing with you to say what I actually wanted to say.”
As he spoke, she recited the words along with him in her head, having committed them to memory through her painstaking editing process. The words sounded different in Paul’s voice, and the reality of another person bringing them to life filled her with a nervous, fluttering ecstasy.
“And what I wanted to say is: I can’t stop thinking about you. When I found out that you got a job in the city, too, I wanted to jump into your arms and tell you how excited I was, because the thought of you going back to Los Angeles shattered me. How could I let you go to the other side of the country, when I can’t even stop thinking about you for a day?
“And I do think of you.
“I think of you first thing in the morning when I’m getting ready, and if I know I’ll see you, I make sure I look my best. I think of you in the evenings right before bed, wishing I could listen to you tell me about your day. My life is always colored by you, even when you’re not around.
“Part of the reason I never said this stuff is because I was terrified of losing our friendship, but then I realized, I don’t want a friendship where we can’t be totally honest with each other. And I might be wrong—and if I am, I’ll probably never forgive myself—but I know deep down that you feel the same way about me. We could go our whole lives without being the one to say it first, but I don’t want to live my life that way. I want to follow my heart, and my heart always brings me back to you, no matter how hard I try to run the other way.
“I love you.
“Alex.”
Paul brought the pages down and refolded them delicately. The room was silent, only the gentlest New York City noises slipping in through the slightly open window. Paul was still, the folded letter in his hands like a prayer chalice. They looked at each other for a good minute: her eyes wet with the lightest slick of tears, his face completely devoid of humor or sarcasm.
“Lex,” he finally said, restrained. “I don’t know if you should leave this for him.”
“ What?” she snapped, having expected nothing but praise and support. She shot up and grabbed the letter from his hands. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t get me wrong.” He faced her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I think it’s beautiful, but it’s… a lot to receive in a letter.”
“But it’s how I feel.” She felt the tears beginning to slip down her cheeks, shaking his hand loose.
“I know.”
“And I know he feels the same way.”
“He probably does,” Paul offered, not sounding totally convinced. “And I want you to have everything you want.”
“I know him.” She breathed in hard, willing her emotions under control. “If I write to him, that will give him space to process his feelings.”
“It will give him an hour. Maybe even less.”
“It’s better than cornering him in person.”
“Is there no middle option? We can’t have, like, a phone call or something?”
“No.”
Paul moved to the coffee table, arranging the empty tea cups and pot back on the tray. He worked methodically, as if Alex were a skittish animal he didn’t want to scare. His face was slightly pained, and he seemed to realize it every few seconds, softening his expression back to a resting point of tenderness. As he walked the tray back into the kitchen, he stopped, his face half-turned toward Alex, who was wiping away her tears with one of his embroidered napkins.
“You should do whatever you think is right, Lex.” He chose his words carefully, still not turning to face her completely. “I mean, the worst he can say is no.”