Chapter 13
The sun glints off the glass lobby door as I pull into Ro’s lot, but its shine is nothing compared to his smile. He’s beaming.
It takes more effort than it should to walk to the entrance like a human and not like a human who knows she’s being watched.
I try to focus on not wondering how long Ro’s been at the door waiting for me like this.
Until now, I’d never seen a man go golden retriever in real life, but the mental image it conjures—phantom tail wagging and all—lightens the weight of the anvil Liv’s words left lodged in my stomach.
Guys that look like this don’t have friends that look like you.
“I still need a few more minutes,” he says, holding the door wide for me.
With each step I take toward Ro, my nerves dissolve a little more. Like just sharing his air makes it easier to breathe. But I meant what I told Liv earlier—a casual hookup with an actual friend is just not a thing. Not a thing I’m signing up for, anyway.
So when Ro squeezes the back of my neck as I slide through the space he’s left for me between his chest and the doorframe, I ignore my body’s response to his touch. I ignore the goosebumps that prickle across my exposed flesh—my skin reaching out to get even a fraction of an inch closer.
“You cool to hang for a few?” he asks, pulling his hand away before I can embarrass myself by leaning into it.
“This is your day,” I say, regaining some physical distance and my composure. “I’m only here for a change of scenery.”
Ro disappears up the stairs, seemingly oblivious to the way my body briefly betrayed me back there. I unlock my phone for company as I wait. Scanning the weekly ads emailed from my pharmacy and scrolling through other assorted nothingness to look busy.
Ro’s dad’s voice booms through the lobby as the garage doors shut behind him. “He gotcha on payroll now?”
I return his easy smile, because it’s good to see him—but also because, considering my professional prospects, that’s actually not a terrible option.
“Ro just ran up,” I explain, as Mr. Jackson takes me into one of those dad half hugs and leads me toward the register.
“You two headin’ out soon?”
I nod, leaning my hip into the counter. “Yeah, in a couple minutes. He’s just wrapping up.”
“Sounds about right,” Mr. Jackson says with a laugh. “That boy’s always needed ‘one more minute.’ Used to drive his mother nuts. The mind of an artist, I suppose.”
“I wouldn’t know. Only thing I paint are my nails, and even those look like I do ’em blindfolded.”
“Yeah?” he says, grabbing a towel to wipe the grime from his hands.
“I just assumed. Ro doesn’t usually take us laymen to these shows.
He’ll share his finished stuff sometimes, but otherwise keeps all that to himself.
Been that way since ol’ whatshername. Glad to see he’s breaking his own rules today. ”
“Oh. I didn’t realize—” And what is her name? I can’t ask aloud.
“You ready?” Ro says, walking up with a black leather bag slung over his shoulder.
Mr. Jackson winks at me before shaking Ro’s hand, like they’re finalizing a business deal.
“Take care of yourself while I’m gone.”
I expect those words to come from Mr. Jackson, but it’s Ro saying them. “Mom’s on her way,” he continues. “Try to go easy on her.”
Mr. Jackson must be confused by the exchange, too, because when I turn to say a last goodbye, his eyes are clouding over. Searching for understanding, and a million miles away.
—
Between Liv’s certainty that I’m on an accidental date, that thing my body did at the shop, and the bomb Ro’s dad casually dropped before we left, my mind’s working overtime as Ro and I start our drive.
It might be time to unpause those apps again. Breaking Zo’s no sex rule with a guy lying about his name, age, height, income, relationship, and felony status might actually help clarify things in my life for once.
“You good?” Ro asks, finally. He’s been watching me since we passed the Connecticut–New York state line. “You still want to do this?”
“Of course! Sorry, I’m just stuck in my head.”
“Should I be worried?”
I wince at the memory I know we’re both revisiting now. The last time being “stuck in my head” and stuck in this truck resulted in me not so politely asking Ro to shutthefuckup. “I think you’re in the clear.”
His elbow nudges mine on the console, and I appreciate the gentle ways he checks in. Though his next inquiry isn’t nearly as subtle.
“Anything specific going on up there?”
“Kinda,” I start, attempting to meet his directness. “I’m trying to figure out why I’m here. Why you wanted me to come. Your dad said something about you only doing art stuff with art people.”
“Those technical terms? Art stuff and art people.” Ro’s words are as relaxed as his posture. “Don’t listen to Pops. I just don’t bring him. Last time he was at a show, he was all loud, talking ’bout Banksy like he’d discovered an unknown artist on the come up.”
His sarcasm is laced with an obvious affection for his father.
“So, I shouldn’t lead with the Van Gogh trivia I memorized last night?”
Ro laughs. “Naw, but if you got anything on that new Mona Lisa joint…”
And I hate how acutely aware I am that our arms are still almost touching on the console.
“I asked you to come because I like hanging out with you,” he says easily.
“And because even if you don’t know all the art words, you get it.
More than most people. I watched you in the shop that day,” he admits, without looking embarrassed.
“The way you studied murals most people don’t even look up from their phones long enough to notice.
It’s wallpaper to them. But you really saw ’em.
Felt like you saw me too.” His eyes dart toward me and back to the road so fast, I might’ve imagined it.
“I just wanted you to see a little more.”
I’m quiet again, searching for the right response, but what do you say when someone hands you something sacred?
—
Ro and I hardly notice the traffic that turns what should’ve been a one-hour drive into two. We’re too deep in the throes of the musical trivia game I walked in on him and his dad playing at the shop.
My abs physically ache from laughing at how bad Ro is at losing.
After a particularly poor showing on a Kendrick Lamar round I’d expected to be a gimme for him, Ro eyed a passing service station with a little too much interest. Very likely considering the most efficient means of unloading his problem passenger.
But as we cross the bridge into Manhattan, I’m still here.
And impressively, so is Ro. We both know he’s going down, but he’s going down swinging.
“Try again,” Ro offers, leaving the artist for me this time.
“Pfft. Please,” I say, offended he thought he’d get me with this. “If you’re coming for me with some Aaliyah, you’re the one who needs to try again.”
Ro kisses his fingertips and raises his pointer and middle finger to the sky. “Rest in peace, Babygirl.”
We let the song play, and when the chorus drops, Ro hits me with a falsetto I could never have seen coming. But then again, I’d also never expected spending two hours on the torn pleather seats of an off-duty tow truck to be the most fun I’ve had all summer.
In what feels like a blink, we’re driving along the Hudson River toward Manhattan’s named streets downtown. I don’t hesitate when Ro asks if I’m hungry. The answer is: always.
“You have a place in mind or should I look something up?”
“I know a spot,” he says, baiting me with a look. “If you’re feeling adventurous.”
I don’t hesitate this time either. “Immediately yes.”
We pass a stretch of vacant curb that would be a snug fit to park a Hot Wheels, but before Ro’s rear bumper passes it completely, he hits the brakes.
“Think I can make it?”
I don’t bother looking again or mincing my words. I’ve seen all I need to see.
“Sure don’t.”
“Care to place a wager on that?”
“I mean I’m good to let this one go, but if you feel like leaving your insurance information on dashboards around town, I’m not gonna get in your way.”
“What happened to your sense of adventure?”
“I wasn’t aware it would involve public vandalism.”
Ro’s laugh fills the cabin as he leaves the too-small-spot behind. “You’ve got no faith in me, E. I’m hurt.”
I suck my teeth. “Damn, I kinda thought you’d at least try to prove me wrong.”
The afternoon sun has been cooking the cab all day, and the lack of shade on this stretch of Seventh Avenue offers no relief.
I forgo the buttons of my cropped knit sweater in favor of convenience, peeling it over my head all at once.
But when I emerge from the discarded fabric, Ro’s eyes are on me, dusky and alert, following the thin straps of my tank top toward the scoop at my neck.
Lingering there just long enough that my skin flushes for an entirely different reason than the sun.
His observation of me is penetrating, but I wouldn’t call the sensation that accompanies it uncomfortable. My body, flaming and thrumming to attention as I shift in my seat to relieve the tightness coiling between my thighs. Ro follows my movements like his gaze is bound to my body by string.
He shakes his head, flicking his eyes back to the road to sever our connection.
“Nah,” he says, in response to my forgotten challenge. “You got in my head. Made me all nervous.”
—
A delivery truck abandoning its parking spot saves us from an overpriced garage, but it doesn’t save me from Ro’s continued insistence that he could’ve fit back in that first spot.
Today’s my first time back in the city since coming home though, and we couldn’t have chosen a better or more cloudless day for it. Not even Ro’s overly descriptive parking simulations can ruin it for me.
Ro hasn’t told me where we’re eating yet but when he joins me on the sidewalk, he extends an arm to show me the way. “You think you’d ever move out here?”