Chapter Twenty-Eight
We take an Uber to the hotel, gliding through the New York suburbs, the skyscrapers growing larger and larger as we travel closer to Manhattan. I stare open-mouthed as Tyler laughs beside me. ‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’ he whispers as the Empire State Building comes into view.
We’ve splashed out on a hotel right in the middle of Times Square and I emerge from the Uber to find it is huge and bright and loud and hot and teeming with people.
I can feel myself pulled in opposite directions: the introvert desperate to run up to the room and shut all the stimulation out and the extrovert desperate to find a bar and down shots with strangers.
And then there’s the other part of me. The girl displaced. The girl who should be putting all her energy into finding her way home and not on holiday in New York with Tyler Adams. Jesus. What the hell was I thinking?
‘Nope, nope, nope!’ Tyler says when he realizes I’ve frozen in front of the door to the hotel. ‘No meltdowns in the foyer. This is a holiday.’ He’s trying to be jovial. ‘I thought we made a pact.’
‘Did we?’
He shrugs and then holds out his hand, pinkie finger raised and waggling at me. ‘We might not have made it official.’ He waggles that finger again.
‘Fine,’ I say and hook my own pinkie around his. ‘I promise to just treat this like a holiday.’
‘Good. Now let’s go and freshen up and then we can get lunch. I’m starving.’
I have to admit that I hadn’t thought about the bedroom situation until we get to the check-in desk. I mean, what if he’s booked us just the one room, with just one bed? Okay, okay, so I confess that perhaps it isn’t the most horrible idea. It does have a certain romcom vibe to it, after all.
‘I booked us interconnecting rooms,’ he says to me, a blush spreading up his neck. ‘Is that okay?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, trying not to sound disappointed.
I mean, there’ll be a door between the rooms so we can visit each other but not …
well, let’s just say that I’m managing my expectations on anything happening.
After all, I have seen Tyler every day for weeks, got to know him in every universe and he’s basically the same in each one.
But he has known me, any version of me, for less than twenty-four hours.
So separate bedrooms it most definitely is.
I place my notebook on the bedside table, a reminder to myself that I really should write a note for this world’s Bethany before I go to sleep. Imagine how confusing it would be for her if I skipped in the night and she woke up tomorrow to find herself inexplicably in New York.
Tyler takes me to another fancy hotel for lunch and I have to admit that I’m a tiny bit disappointed. I’m craving a burger – or at least something quintessentially American – and an ice-cold beer.
‘Close your eyes,’ he tells me as we walk through the foyer.
‘I’ll fall over.’
‘I’ll catch you,’ he whispers in my ear. I do as I’m told and he leads me through the space. We come to a stop and I can smell beef and salt in the air. A crowd thrums in the background. ‘Ta-da,’ he says with a flourish.
I open my eyes to find myself in front of a proper burger joint – I mean, it’s even called Burger Joint – with scratched-up tables, high wooden stools and walls covered in posters and stickers. The place is heaving with people.
‘I thought you might like something a bit more casual for lunch,’ Tyler says.
‘It’s perfect,’ I tell him. And it really is. My burger is juicy, my fries are crisp and salty, my beer is delicious.
After lunch we go on a whistle-stop tour of all the places I’ve dreamt of visiting: a walk down Fifth Avenue, the Rockefeller Center, Macy’s, Ground Zero, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Mysterious Bookshop with its floor-to-ceiling shelves of crime novels, Dominique Ansel’s bakery for one of the famous cronuts.
I feel like we’re in a movie, living one of those perfect ‘falling in love’ montages but in real time.
He takes my hand as we walk down the street and I feel as if I could explode.
Then we head to the East Village for the most amazing pizza I’ve ever had: a thick base loaded with marinara, piled high with pepperoni and drizzled in hot honey.
He laughs as he tries to wipe the sticky residue from my chin with a napkin but only ends up making a worse mess.
I should be embarrassed, but with him it feels natural and wonderful.
We round off our magical day with a cocktail in a rooftop bar in the shadow of the Flatiron Building, standing shoulder to shoulder as we look out over the city.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper.
He puts his arm around me and for the first time in weeks I feel that I’m exactly where I should be.
My head is spinning and I feel almost giddy as we take the elevator up to our floor of the hotel. But, at the door to his room, I hesitate.
‘Umm …’ Tyler says. ‘We could … you know … have another drink. There’s a minibar in my room.’
I don’t want the evening to end and so I follow him inside.
A single gin and tonic costs $20 and I almost pass out when I see the price list. Tyler doesn’t even bat an eyelid.
I really hope he can actually afford this trip and isn’t just trying to impress me.
Oof, that sounds a bit off. Sorry. I don’t mean it like that, I mean more that he might trying to acquiesce me.
I don’t want him to pity me and pour money on me like I’m a charity case.
‘I can see you overthinking something,’ Tyler says as he hands me a glass, the ice cracking in that deliciously satisfying way.
‘No,’ I say quickly and shake my head theatrically.
He gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe me.
‘I’m just …’ I trail off and instead just motion around the room, with its sofa area and balcony. ‘You can afford this, right?’
‘Me? I thought you were paying.’ A look of terror crosses his features.
It takes every ounce of my composure to stop myself from dropping the glass. ‘Oh … I …’
But then he breaks into a grin. ‘I’m kidding.’ He laughs. ‘Oh wow. You should have seen your face.’
I want to punch him. And I want to wipe that smile off his face by kissing him. And I want … well, I think it’s pretty clear what I want, isn’t it?
We take our drinks out onto the balcony, the summer night warm and the air still. We can see the lights of the city all around us, feel the thrum of it like a heartbeat, the sense of chaos in the cacophony of sound rising from the streets below.
Then his mouth is on mine, his breath hot. His fingers comb through my hair, the other hand on my lower back, pulling me even closer to him. I allow myself to melt into the kiss, to enjoy the softness of his lips and the scratch of his stubble.
A tiny groan erupts from the back of his throat as he tightens his grip. ‘Jesus, Bethany,’ he whispers into my neck.
I wrap my arms around his neck and he lifts me off the ground to carry me inside. I can feel every inch of my skin throbbing, desperate for him. I haven’t felt like this in … well months, years. Have I ever felt like this?
He kisses me again and then lays me gently on the bed. I feel like I’m in a movie.
His hand runs up my thigh, under my skirt, his fingers light on my bare skin. My breath catches in the back of my throat. And then his fingers brush my underwear, so gently it could almost have been my imagination but still I gasp.
I can see the outline of him through his jeans and he seems just as turned on as I am.
With some kind of magic manoeuvre, he flips us so he’s lying on the bed and I’m straddling him. His hands slide under my top lifting the material away from my skin, his touch warm and gentle.
But then something catches my attention. I can see my back reflected in the combination of mirrors around us. And there, just below my right shoulder blade, is a bright pink and red design. I freeze, it looks like a Mobius strip. Tattooed onto my back.
I don’t have a tattoo.
‘Hey,’ Tyler says gently, moving his hands away from me. ‘Hey. You okay?’
I climb off him. Edging closer to one of the mirrors, twisting and turning to get a better look at the ink.
‘Is that a Mobius strip?’ he asks. ‘Cool. Nerdy, but cool.’
‘It isn’t mine,’ I whisper, the words catching in the back of my throat as I realize what this means. ‘This isn’t my body.’
‘Oh.’
I pull my top down to cover myself. ‘I … I …’ But I don’t know how to say it. How to articulate my thoughts. Not here. Not for him. Not here in this bedroom with him and everything that was meant to come with that.
‘Hey,’ he says. ‘It’s okay. I get it.’
I flash him a look that says I highly doubt he does, in fact, get it.
‘It isn’t your body. Your mind, yes, but not your body. And, therefore,’ he motions between the two of us, ‘this is weird and kind of creepy. Because the Bethany whose body you’re in can’t consent.’
Oh. Maybe he does get it.