Chapter Thirty-Three
Thirty-Three
TUESDAY NIGHT I STAND OUTSIDE the Plaza Hotel waiting for Peter. He had some appointment he had to go to with his mother, so we planned to meet up instead of taking the train in together. He was pretty dodgy about what this little errand actually entailed but my money is on Al-Anon or something.
It’s different being in the city at night.
You can’t see the stars, obviously, but you can sort of feel them, hovering above all those misnomered skyscrapers.
It makes it feel like the universe is secretly watching behind the curtains of clouds and light pollution, waiting to see what kind of shit you’re about to get into.
I pull my long sleeves down over my palms. I didn’t realize how strange it would be to be here without Peter. Even taking the train without him. Apparently, I’ve kind of gotten used to him … being there, tapping through pages on his Kindle app. Don’t love that for me, but whatever.
I take a breath and scan the block for any sight of his tall body. I check my Apple Watch. He said he’d meet me at 6:00 p.m. It’s only 6:02 p.m., so I should probably relax. It’s just, I get the idea that Peter is not the kind of person who shows up late.
And maybe it’s the night, or the fact that we’re meeting instead of coming in together, or maybe it’s all the people who are already drunk and falling all over each other, but this feels different than the rest of our time in the city. This feels suspiciously like a date.
Which it’s not.
Not even close.
We’re here for one purpose. To give almost-dead people a tiny sliver of compassion before they kick off. But the date vibes are kind of choking the life out of me right now. I need him to just show up so I don’t have to stand out here in the cold with my goddamn thoughts.
Finally, Peter’s tall frame and brown waves appear, rounding the corner of the building as he walks toward me.
“Hey.” He’s wearing this white long-sleeve waffle shirt and dark jeans and his hair is just a little ruffled and his cheeks are the tiniest bit pink, like he ran here, and I could see how technically a person might think that he looks kind of gorgeous or whatever.
“Sorry I’m late. The thing with my mom turned into a whole other thing.
” He sighs and messes with his hair before smiling at me.
I resist the urge to push on the where and what of it all and just say, “No problem.”
“Really?” He tilts his head. “You’re not going to verbally assault me? Or make fun of me? Not even a glare?”
I glare at him.
“That’s better,” he says. “You okay, though? You seem a little … off or something.”
“I’m normal,” I say. Hah. As if that’s ever been true.
“You sure? You’re kind of shivering.”
Shit. Most people get all hot and sweaty when they’re nervous, but I swing all the way in the other direction. My body temperature plummets, and I freeze. Not that I am nervous. Whatever. I pull my arms tighter around myself. “I’m really fine.”
Peter frowns. “I wish I had a jacket I could give you …”
“Seriously,” I say. “It’s not that cold. It’s a perfect temp for running, actually. If I had my sneakers right now, I’d be pounding the pavement pretty hard.” Jesus Christ what the fuck.
“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” Peter says, looking sideways at me as we start wandering down the block. His face is all concerned and careful. Shit. Why did I even mention running? We’re both definitely picturing me face-first on the concrete right now.
I must look kind of anguished or something because Peter quickly adds, “No, not about that. I just mean … you’re so fast. Why aren’t you on the track team or anything?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Do I look like the kind of person who would enjoy a team sport?”
He pauses. “I heard you used to be on the team.”
Oh. Oh shit.
“You were like some kind of phenom in freshman year, and they let you join varsity?”
“Uh-huh.” A taxi rolls by with its light off and two people pressed against each other in the back seat.
“And by sophomore year you were captain.”
“Right.” The traffic light changes from STOP to WALK. We don’t move.
“But then something happened. And you never showed up for the final meet last year. And then you quit.”
“What’s your point, Peter?” I tear my eyes from the group of pedestrians swarming the middle of the road, weaving between black SUVs and taxis blocking the crosswalk.
A fifty-year-old balding guy on a skateboard pops up onto the sidewalk and slides between Peter and me. But Peter keeps his eyes on mine. “I want to know why you stopped doing it.”
I look away, following the geriatric skateboarder, who attempts some sort of dumbass flip and narrowly avoids slamming into an overflowing trash can.
“Sydney.”
“What?” I say, unable to keep the edge out of my voice.
“Why’d you stop doing it? What happened at the track meet?”
“Nothing.”
“Jesus,” Peter says. He reaches out and rubs my arms. “You’re really shaking. Why don’t we just find somewhere we can go inside?”
I shrug as if I don’t really give a shit, but I’d give just about anything to go somewhere else and put a bullet in this conversation’s head.
“Come on,” Peter says. There’s this ratty bar down the street with the door propped open and no bouncer in sight. Peter takes my hand and pulls me inside. We find a booth in the back with peeling red leather seats and a dusty little lamp on the table, and we sit down across from each other.
“Should I try to get us some drinks?” Peter says.
“Yes,” I say. “No hard liquor, though, okay?”
“You got it.” Peter gets up and walks over to the bar, glancing back at me like he’s slightly afraid to leave me there. He’s always so over the top. It’s fine. I’m fine.
While I wait, I pull out my phone and check my messages. Just a block of eggplant and peach emojis and winky faces from Jules that I ignore. I scroll Insta and try to remind myself that it’s all good until Peter comes back.
He sets a hard cider and a Bud Light on the table. “Apparently, they don’t give a shit if you’re underage here.”
I look back at the bartender. She’s like thirty with long red hair and a tight tank top that her boobs are spilling out of like a flesh waterfall. And she’s still looking at Peter. Somehow I feel like if I had been the one trying to get the drinks, it wouldn’t have worked out.
Peter slides back into the booth and takes a sip of the cider.
“Oh, so the cider is for you?” I smirk.
“I know what you’re trying to imply, but I can assure you that drinks do not subscribe to the gender binary.” He winks and takes another long sip of his princess punch.
I hold on to the Bud bottle and roll it between my hands, the condensation making my fingers all wet.
“Listen,” Peter says. “We don’t have to talk about the track meet. It’s all good.”
I nod, using my thumbnail to peel at the label on the bottle.
“But …” Peter pauses, like he’s considering how far to push me. “How come you still run, though?”
I’m about to say something snarky about patriarchal expectations of the female body or running from potential predators, but instead I find myself telling him the truth.
“I read once that for every minute you run, you add a minute to your life. I mean, technically that minute is used up by the act of running, if you think about it. You get this extra time, but you also don’t because of how you have to get it.
It’s like …” I take a sip of the beer, the cold bubbles stinging the back of my tongue.
“Like when I run, I’m outside of time altogether. ”
“Like time can’t touch you anymore.” Peter leans forward over the table. “Like the clocks can’t touch you.”
I swallow. “Yeah,” I say. “That’s what it’s like.”
It’s wild, sitting here in this shitty hole-in-the-wall, across from this boy with these eyes that just keep seeing and not looking away. “Peter …”
A burst of noise erupts at the entrance to the bar. I whip my head around. About thirty people dressed in various shades of black are filing into the bar, hanging on each other, clapping one another on the back and generally being too excited about being alive.
“What the hell?”
“I think they’re a film crew,” Peter says.
“Really?” I crane my neck again. One dude with sunglasses looks vaguely familiar. “Oh, is that that guy from that thing?”
Peter squints. “I think so.”
One of the crew members starts screeching about how there’s an actual real live jukebox in here, and about thirty seconds later the Beatles or the Beach Boys (I can’t really tell the difference) are blaring and half the people are suddenly pressing up against each other, grinding like they’re in a club and not a rundown excuse for a bar. Even the famous guy looks semi-pleased.
“Well, this got …”
“Different,” I finish.
“Should we leave?” Peter’s eyes flick from the growing crowd back to me. “Or … ?”
Someone must’ve heard that famous guy was here in this shithole, because now some girlies have shown up, pretending to take selfies while actually snapping pics of him while he also pretends to be oblivious. Theater.
We should definitely leave.
But also … this song is good. Sort of. And we have this booth. And no one in here is dying. And who knows what’s outside.
I look at Peter and shrug. “Fuck it. Let’s stay.”