Chapter I #2
Cat cackles and elbows the guy. “I told you, you look like a fucking suit.”
“Well, I am one, for the summer.”
“Not record-label people, then.” I feel foolish, out of sorts.
I look out the window. The limo is gone. So are the musician and his gear, I discover as I glance around the room. Patrons are slowly making their way out to the street, into the hot, real world.
I feel a flicker of panic. I’m not ready to go back out there.
I’m not ready to face the impending school year—or the fact that I desperately need to get a job this semester after spending the summer doing nothing other than sunning myself in Tompkins Square Park and sneaking photographs of the leftover eighties punks, their mohawks drooping in the heat.
I’m not ready to replace the feelings this night elicited with the avalanche of things I need to do.
“I’m definitely not cool enough to be a record-label person,” the man says. “I have a temp gig at my uncle’s investment firm.”
“Which means he’s basically working for free,” Cat cuts in.
“I’m making enough to get myself this suit.” He brushes his hands down his pant legs.
“My point exactly,” Cat says. “Ten dollars an hour, Reid. I’d make more as a waitress at Veselka.”
Reid. So the man has a name. A good one too.
“You’re a waitress at Veselka?” I ask. If so, it would be a little like encountering East Village royalty.
“No.” Cat smirks. “But I did fuck a line cook one time.”
Reid laughs, then he turns back to me, his eyes studying something. I’m suddenly very aware that I’m not wearing a bra, and that the hard peaks of my nipples are likely making this obvious to him as well.
He clears his throat. “I like your camera.”
I fiddle with the strap. “Are you into photography?”
“Looking at it, sure. But I can’t be the one doing it, assuming you want your head in the photo.”
I try to fight a smile.
“Reid does write screenplays in secret, though. And they’re actually not terrible.” Cat arches her brows. I give Reid a glance that says, Really? and he returns one that says, Up for debate. “Which makes it even more of a shame that my dad has him identifying acquisition targets for IBM.”
“I’m not actually identifying acquisition targets,” Reid says to me, as if I know what those words mean. “I’m making photocopies and binding books out of research that other people did about identifying acquisition targets.”
“Yes, but what beautiful binding skills you have.” Cat grabs his chin between her thumb and her forefinger, giving it a squeeze. “My dad is no less immune to this punim than those girls are.”
She motions to the table behind them. The two women sitting there look away quickly, caught.
“They’ve been staring at you this entire time,” Cat stage-whispers.
Inexplicably, I feel a flare of jealousy.
That’s when Nisha reappears, announcing her return with a forceful “Lili!” Her usual entrance.
“Did you get to talk to him?” I scan her face.
“He left with some people from Columbia Records,” Nisha says. I exchange inside-joke glances with Cat and Reid. Reid’s gaze lingers on mine.
“But guess what I got?” Nisha asks.
“His panties?” Cat quips.
“Almost better.” Nisha waves a crumpled napkin in front of my face.
“The address of someone who knows Jeff Buckley’s manager.
Apparently the manager is having a party right now, and this girl said Jeff might come later.
We’re going.” She cocks her head, addressing Cat and Reid. “You guys could come, if you want to.”
I’m not surprised by Nisha’s invitation—this is not the first time my ever-magnanimous friend has encouraged strangers to tag along with us. Or the first time that a stranger has been a hot guy who I’m too shy to ask out myself.
“We have to go to dinner at my uncle’s apartment.” Reid looks at me like this warrants an apology. “I owe him . . . well, a lot. But at the very least showing up for dinner at his apartment.”
Before I can consider a response, Cat is shaking her head. Her stack of silver earrings clacks vigorously. “One does not just pass up an opportunity to party with Jeff Buckley. Let me call my dad and get us out of it.” She turns to Nisha. “Where is this thing?”
“520 East Fifth.”
Cat claps her hands together once. “I’ll use the pay phone on Sixth. We’re good to go. Allons-y.”
Already Cat and Nisha are halfway out the door. Reid is frozen in place on his stool, and I watch his face closely, attempting to read whatever he’s thinking.
He smiles, then stands. He’s taller than I would have thought. Towering. “I’ll come for thirty minutes, then I’ll head uptown.”
“Sure,” I say, like we both already know this bit. Like it’s a regular game we play.
His eyes soften when he looks down at me; it’s as if I’ve elicited that response in him a thousand times before, and now I am simply remembering it.
Then I feel a falling sensation in my stomach. A plummet.
That is new.
“Lili,” he says, and I can’t even remember whatever Jeff Buckley just did with his magic hands and his enchanted tongue—my name in Reid’s mouth is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard. I would do anything to make him say it again.
“Reid,” I respond.
That downturned smile. “Let’s see what’s happening on Fifth Street.”