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.”
II
The four of us start hoofing it up five flights of stairs at 520 East Fifth Street, one of those dilapidated but cozy former tenement buildings with both steel bars and flower boxes framing its windows. I almost slip on the worn-smooth black-marble steps twice before the first landing. Each time, Reid’s arm shoots out to steady me.
“And your major?” he asks, his hand hovering behind my lower back. He’d successfully guessed I was an NYU student.
“English. Mainly to please my mom. She’s an antiques dealer—a successful one—but she regrets that she didn’t have a proper liberal arts education.”
Even from the stairwell of the building, I can hear the rangy beat of music playing. By the second floor, I can make out the song: “Tugboat” by Galaxie 500. I thought no one else knew about that band.
“But I’m minoring in fine art photography, for myself,” I say. Even though he’s behind me, I can sense his bottled-up energy, feel that he’s reining in his pace to match mine. I let myself say the whole truth. “But also to please my father. He’s an art appraiser for an insurance company. By day. Buthe’s also an avid collector. You know Jerry Saltz ofThe Village Voice? He once called my dad’s eye ‘Nostradamusian.’”
I catch a hint of Reid’s scent and feel the impression of his upper arm as his hand reaches for the railing. “Seems like you lucked out with your parents,” he says. “A good combination of cool and stable.”
Inside the apartment, a series of warren-like rooms is choked with people our age clutching Yuenglings and cigarettes. Sweat and smoke throw a dim fog over the place.
We’re trailing behind Nisha and Cat as they scan the rooms for the musician. When they keep not finding him, Nisha’s disappointment is discernible, even on the back of her head.
“What about your parents?” I ask Reid. “Too much of one thing?”
“My mom was a backup singer for Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, which should tell you pretty much everything you need to know about her.”
“I disagree. I absolutely need to know more about her.”
After we’ve made a tour of the entire apartment—playing it cool is obviously not the goal here—Nisha turns back to me. “It wasn’t meant to be.” She does a cartoonish shrug-and-pout thing, but I know she feels betrayed by the workings of fate, which earlier had seemed to be on her side.
Cat slings an arm over her shoulder. “It’s still early. Drinking will make the time go faster.” She starts to steer Nisha toward the galley kitchen, then stops herself, turning to address Reid: “Don’t fuck this up.” She swings herfinger between the two of us, indicating exactly what it is that Reid must not fuck up.
It seems we’ve picked up a second wingwoman. I feel my face flush, though whether it’s in embarrassment or anticipation, I’m not sure.
“Sorry about my cousin,” Reid says when they’re out of earshot. He gives me an aggrieved look. “She wouldn’t understand subtlety if it punched her in the gut.”
I laugh. “Nisha is a lot like that too.”
Reid nods toward the kitchen, where we can just make out Cat’s buzzed red head over the crowd, then Nisha’s cackle, flitting through the crunchy bass of “Cannonball,” the new Breeders song I keep hearing on K-Rock. “Kindred spirits. I love my cousin, but I know she can be a lot for some people.”
“I like her a lot–ness. Nisha’s too. She absorbs the attention from the room, and that leaves me free to be kind of anonymous. Which I want to be, sometimes.” I tug at the ends of my hair, which fall almost to my waist, loose and sun bleached.
His eyes skim over my bare shoulders. “Why would you want to be anonymous?”
“So that I can exist without the pressure of performance. I’ve been trying to let go of that, though.”
He considers me, his brows pulled together. “I can see why you’re a good photographer.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “You’ve never seen my photography.” My voice has a playful edge, but something in me is giddy at the prospect of Reid seeing my work.
“I don’t need to see it to know you’re good at it.” He reaches up to knead the back of his neck. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you could be anonymous if you tried.”
