EZRA
‘ T HIS IS WHAT BEING MARRIED TO A POLITICIAN MUST FEEL LIKE .’
‘Gross.’
‘Speak for yourself. I’m pretty sure I’d thrive as a trophy husband.’
‘I think I’d rather be the controversial ex-girlfriend,’ Nicole muses. ‘Sell stories to tabloids. Do the reality TV circuit. Start a line of flavoured vodkas, maybe.’
‘Not tempted to get out there and do some schmoozing of your own? I mean – you said you’re a freelancer, right?’
‘Yep,’ Nicole says, pausing to take a sip of her beer. ‘And I would, totally. Only networking sucks and it makes me want to peel my own skin off.’
‘Oh, that.’
‘ That , yeah. Have you ever noticed it’s almost exactly the same as a bad first date?’
‘I’m probably not the person to ask.’
‘Then I’m telling you. Dry questions, forced laughter – God bless the Internet.’
‘For facilitating hook-up culture?’
‘For social media.’ She smiles. ‘It’s how I book most of my gigs. And I mean, the apps are fine too, but I prefer an old-fashioned meet-cute.’
‘You and me both,’ I say mildly, and her smile becomes a grin.
‘I know. Marika told me you met Audrey in a back alley.’
‘Well – that makes it sound a lot seedier than it actually was,’ I begin, and Nicole cackles with laughter. I’m resisting the urge to ask her what else Marika’s said about me, now. I’m not actually convinced that she likes me all that much, but given her emotional (and literal) proximity to Audrey, I’d prefer it if she didn’t totally hate my guts.
At least Nicole seems amenable to my presence. I found her doom-scrolling in a corner not long after Audrey got dragged off – Marika had offered us a half-hearted introduction earlier, and we’ve since bonded over our mutual desire to get out of here as soon as humanly possible.
Still, it’s taken sincere, concentrated effort to stand here and make conversation instead of trawling this party to find Audrey. I just can’t stop thinking about earlier – about that brief, shining moment in which kissing her seemed like a reasonable thing to do. No, not reasonable, right, hence my desperation to finish what we may or may not have started. What if I do track her down, though – what then? Hover behind her like a creep? Throw her over my shoulder and carry her out of here?
‘I might head outside for a cigarette,’ I hear myself say then, slightly discomfited by how appealing that second scenario currently sounds. ‘Want to come?’
‘I’m good,’ Nicole says lightly. ‘I have my flawless complexion to consider.’
‘Gotcha. Uh – if you see Audrey …’
‘I’ll send her your way.’ She smiles. ‘Godspeed.’
I offer a smile in reply before I duck away, slipping through the crowds and out of the door. As soon as I’m in the hallway I make a beeline for the stairwell – this building is fancy enough to have an elevator, but I’d rather work off some of this pent-up energy. I stop dead in my tracks, though, when I see a figure sitting hunched on the top step, a curtain of pale hair obscuring her face.
‘Of all the stairwells in all the apartment buildings—’ I begin, only to have my stupid little joke cut off by Audrey looking up at me with a blotchy, tear-stained face.
‘Ezra.’ She sniffs, hastily wiping her face. ‘Hey.’
I clear the distance between us in a second, dropping down to crouch beside her.
‘I’m fine,’ she says quickly, but no, she’s not. Her eyes are glassy, her make-up smudged – there’s goosepimples standing up on her arms. I move to pull off my jumper – Mac’s jumper, actually – but she puts out a hand to stop me.
‘I’m fine. I just – I want to go home,’ she says stiltedly.
‘Okay.’ I nod. ‘We’ll get you a cab. I’ll go with you to your apartment.’
But fresh tears are brimming in her eyes and she’s shaking her head, face crumpling.
‘ No ,’ she says, voice breaking. ‘I want to go home. I want – I want my mum .’
And then she abruptly dissolves into sobs, hiding her face in her hands like it’s something shameful. I put my arm around her as she curls back into herself, breathing hard and ragged – the gesture feels tepid, ineffectual, but she leans into the embrace. Soon I’m holding her and I can feel every shudder, every hitch of her chest as she struggles to calm down enough to breathe.
‘It’s okay,’ I tell her, not knowing if it is. ‘You’re okay.’
She doesn’t want to go back to her apartment. Doesn’t want to be alone, I’m guessing, and I’m relieved that I don’t have to leave her. She nods when I suggest my place and says nothing during the cab ride, head bent over her phone as she taps out a message to Marika.
‘Can I use your bathroom?’ she asks when we get inside. Now that she’s calmed down, there’s a flatness to her voice that unnerves me.
‘Yeah,’ I say, and while she’s in there I make coffee, pour a glass of water, fetch a sweatshirt from my room – I don’t want her to feel like she has to keep asking me for things, so I try to anticipate what she might need. I’m sitting at the dinky little kitchen table with a New Yorker crossword and a coffee of my own when she finally returns.
‘Hey,’ I say, lowering my pen.
‘Hi,’ she replies, hovering for a second before she comes and sits opposite me. I push a mug of coffee and the water towards her, handing her the sweatshirt. She takes it from me, holding it to her chest. She’s washed her face, and I can see purple smudges of sleeplessness under her eyes.
‘How are you feeling?’ I venture.
‘Tired,’ she says. ‘It’s been a long day – a long week. I’m homesick. I let it get on top of me.’
That flatness, still – every word rings false. I want to get down on my knees and grab her hands and fucking beg her to tell me the truth.
‘I think I might go and get some food,’ I say instead. ‘The place on the corner is always open – is there anything you want? Or don’t want?’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Okay.’ I nod. ‘But I’ll get enough for two, probably. I like leftovers, so …’
‘You don’t have to look after me,’ she says, voice small. ‘I mean – I’m really grateful and everything but you don’t have to go out of your way.’
‘I’m not,’ I tell her. ‘I eat too, you know. It’s a habit of mine.’
She doesn’t smile. Just stares at me with those big, dark eyes.
‘It’s fine,’ I reiterate. ‘Don’t feel like I’m doing you any favours. This is all normal stuff for me.’
‘It’s not for me,’ she says quietly. ‘I’m not like this. I – I barely ever cry.’
‘I have no reason to believe that,’ I reply and that makes her smile – briefly, albeit. It’s like a crack of sun through the clouds.
‘That’s fair,’ she says softly. ‘Fair enough.’
We’re both silent for a moment, and she takes a small sip of her coffee. Then:
‘Can I come with you?’ she asks. ‘To get the food?’
‘Course,’ I say, my heart lifting. ‘You want to borrow a jacket?’
‘No, this is good,’ she says, tugging the sweatshirt over her head. Her hair is all askew when she emerges, and I reach out to smooth it down without thinking. I offer my arm, too, when she wobbles and nearly falls trying to wedge her feet back into her heels. Maybe that’s why it doesn’t feel particularly strange when she slips her hand into mine afterwards, squeezing it gently. I squeeze it back, a reply.
Neither of us lets go this time.