Maybe he’s not wrong.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s do it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
James
2:23 P.M.
“Tell me the truth—how many attractiveness points did I lose when you saw me in sneakers instead of my boots?”
“One million.”
“Dammit!”
“Honestly, I’m cured.” Madison sips her coffee and smiles over at me, Central Park buzzing around us. “You’re basically a dork now.”
“You’re not into dorks?”
“Nope. I’m very basic. My type is tall with dark hair. Muscular and suntanned.”
The exact description of me settles between us, and somehow our joking moment turns serious. She pivots away from it. “And boots cemented to his feet that never come off.”
“Niche.”
“I’m nothing if not specific.”
We continue to walk for a bit, and I wait for her caffeine high to kick in. Everything is green. The trees are big and beautiful, and everywhere you look someone’s doing something interesting. That guy has an easel set up, painting a portrait of his nondescript, fuzzy gray dog lying on a picnic blanket. There’s a woman rollerblading in an all-pink spandex outfit.
“Look over there,” I say after we visit Bethesda Fountain. “If you lived here, you could do yoga in the park.”
Her gaze follows mine to the twenty or so people moving through a downward dog pose.
“Do I want to do yoga?” she asks, giving it serious thought.
“I don’t know—do you?”
She squints and then says, “No. I prefer to be tricked into exercise.”
“How do you do that?”
“Go outside on a windy day holding a very important piece of paper, then spend thirty minutes sprinting after it when it gets ripped from your hand.”
I bump her shoulder lightly. “Your spaghetti noodle arms are making more sense now.”
She bumps my shoulder back. “Hey. By the way, I noticed you ordered decaf coffee.”
I grunt. “Might as well have gotten water.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”Oh my god, there’s a person walking a cat on a leash.
“Taking care of yourself,” she says, and I have to look down at her because I’m not sure anyone has ever thanked me for choosing myself before. Thanked me for sacrifice, yes. Thanked me for all the ways I’ve helped them, absolutely. But never for the things I’ve done to help myself.
I’m at a loss for how to respond, so I say a very pathetic, “Sure thing.”
3:45 P.M.
