Chapter Two
Back in my apartment, I’m doing the thing where you flip through streaming services without actually watching anything, the modern equivalent of staring into the abyss.
My apartment is that eerie quiet that makes you hyperaware of every small sound—the refrigerator buzzing, the distant honking of cars, the slight wheeze in my breathing that I’m pretending isn’t there.
That’s when James Bond shows up to ruin my night.
Not literally, obviously. Though honestly, at this point, actual espionage might be a welcome refuge from how my life is tracking.
The trailer fills my living room with an orchestral swelling that’s designed to make you feel like your own life is inadequate and blow out your speakers.
There’s Gavin Bradford, Hollywood’s current “it” actor, adjusting his cufflinks with the casual confidence that suggests he’s never doubted himself for a single second in his perfect, symmetrical life.
The tagline flashes: Gavin Bradford is…James Bond. Coming this winter.
I sit there, remote in hand, watching the universe personally troll me. Gavin Bradford gets to be James Bond. I can barely get through a conversation with my PR rep without wanting to hide under a blanket fort.
The trailer is a blur of explosions and exotic backdrops; Gavin striding through it all like he could save the world before lunch and still squeeze in a GQ cover shoot on the way home.
Meanwhile, I’m sinking into my couch in sweatpants that retired from respectability years ago, debating whether to order pizza or just commit to the bleak dignity of dry Cheerios for dinner.
Before I can make a dinner decision, my phone buzzes. The name on the screen makes me groan out loud: Zoe. I let it buzz. And buzz. And buzz.
Her voicemail notification pops up after I screen the call.
I don’t listen right away. First, I opt for the Cheerios dinner, then I click on her voicemail message.
“Liam,” she begins, and I can hear the exasperation in her voice.
“You forgot, didn’t you? Lila and I are here in New York.
For her birthday. The same birthday you promised you’d plan something special for. Remember that?”
There’s a pause that feels loaded with all the ways I’ve disappointed people lately.
“Don’t bother lying,” she continues. “Call me back before I tell Mom.”
The threat of maternal involvement hangs in the air like the sword of Damocles. My mother has this way of expressing disappointment that makes you feel like you’ve personally let down every ancestor who ever sacrificed for your existence.
I call Zoe back.
“Well, well, well,” she says by way of greeting, which is never a good sign.
“Look, I didn’t forget exactly,” I say, which is technically true if you squint at the definition of forget. “Things have just been…a lot lately.”
“A lot?” she repeats, like she’s tasting the words and finding them inadequate. “Is that code for sulking alone in your apartment?”
“I’m not sulking.”
“Really? Because I’ve seen you sulk, Liam, and I’m betting that’s exactly what you’re doing. I can literally hear you sulking over the phone, probably eating a bowl of dry Cheerios.”
This is the problem with siblings. They know you too well to let you get away with anything.
“Okay, fine,” I admit. “I forgot you guys were coming to New York for Lila’s birthday. What do you want me to do? What’s the plan?”
“We’re staying at the Midtown Marriott,” she says, and I can picture her pacing around the hotel room the way she does when she’s trying not to strangle me. “Lila’s been talking about nothing but seeing her Uncle Liam for weeks. She thinks you’re going to take her somewhere fun.”
Fun. Right. I used to know how to do fun.
“Somewhere fun,” I repeat, buying time while my brain scrambles for ideas. “Like, uh, the zoo? We could do the Central Park Zoo! Penguins and, uh…”
“It’s getting renovated. We passed by it in the cab from the airport.”
Of course it is. Even the penguins are having a better year than me.
“The aquarium?” I try. “Is there an aquarium in New York? Or a museum! We have a bunch of those. Art ones and dinosaurs and…other historical stuff.”
“Museums are for school trips, Liam,” Zoe cuts in, her patience fraying audibly. “Figure it out. You’ve got until six tonight. And for God’s sake, bring her something better than another signed hockey puck.”
After we hang up, I stare at my phone like it might suddenly develop the ability to solve my problems. Then, with the kind of desperation that makes you do questionable things, I call Rocky.
He picks up almost immediately, which is either impressive or deeply concerning.
“Look who we have, if it isn’t Mr. Sunshine LeClerc,” he says. “What’s the occasion?”
“Hey, Rocky,” I say. “Look, I need those ballet tickets you offered earlier.”
There’s a beat of silence that stretches long enough for me to question every decision that led me to this moment.
Then Rocky laughs. “You’re serious? The Swan Lake tickets? The ones you ridiculed into oblivion earlier?”
“Yeah, those,” I say. “Those exact ones.”
“Oh, this is rich,” Rocky says. I can hear him rubbing his hands together. “What’s the angle here? Trying to impress a date?”
“Something like that,” I respond.
“I’ve been out of the game a while,” Rocky continues, “but I’d recommend wearing a shirt with some type of collar. Hoodies don’t make a great first impression, at least they didn’t in my bachelor days.”
“It’s not like that,” I snap. “Just…can I have the tickets or not?”
“Absolutely,” he says. “I’ll email you the details. And they come with backstage passes—how about that? Don’t forget to thank me later when this broad, whoever she is, swoons over how cultured you are.”
“Thanks,” I say flatly, already halfway to hanging up.
“Wait, wait, one more thing,” Rocky adds. “Do me a favor. Try not to nod off during the performance. It’s bad PR for everyone if you snore during a grand jeté.”
I hang up, tossing my phone onto the couch with more force than necessary. Of course Rocky would milk this for weeks. But for Lila, it’s worth it.
Probably.