It’d been uncomfortable, those last few minutes with Reid, the reminder of how we came together. It’d been uncomfortable to confront again, even in such a small way, what I’d done.
But so much of it, before that, had been the opposite of uncomfortable. It’d been easy to play those games with him. And it’d made it easier to draw for Make It Happyn. It’d made it easier with Lark today.
So maybe that discomfort—that risk of confrontation—is worth it.
I pitch my trash and snag another napkin, cleaning up more before I take my phone from my bag. Then I snap a few pictures, all from Joe’s storefront. ThePfrompizza,theLand theAfrom the Italian ice sign, theYfrom theopen 7 days. I wait until my phone’s clock turns from 4:59 to 5:00, and then I attach all four of the pictures in a message to Reid.
I type a single question mark, press send, and wait.
Within a few minutes my phone rings, and I can’t help but smile, knowing it’s him even without looking at the screen. I press the tab on my headphones, hoping my cheery “Hiya” chases away any of the lingering heaviness from our last conversation.
“So,” he says, and from that one syllable I realize that I’ve missed his voice. “You couldn’t find a question mark on a sign?”
My smile widens.It’s worth it. “Damn. You got me.”
There’s a small silence during which I hope Reid is smiling, too, though not at anyone in his immediate proximity, since I also realize that I’d feel more than a little jealous if someone else got to see the full force of a smileIcaused. It can’t be good, some of these stray, soft things I feel about Reid, but it’s so good to feel something other than stressed or lonely or blocked.
“You’re out walking?” On the other end of the line, there’s suddenly more noise, as though Reid’s only now stepped out onto the street. It’s nice, thinking he might’ve called me while he was still inside his office building, wherever it is. Nice to think he might’ve been excited.
“Yeah. In Brooklyn, though.”
“Ah.” Does he sound—maybe disappointed? It’s hard to tell over the phone.
“I thought maybe if you’re walking home from work, maybe we could . . .” I trail off, stopped at a crosswalk. I don’t want these two people waiting beside me—even though they are definitely not even paying any attention to me—to be witnesses to my potential rejection.
“Walk together?”
I look beside me, at the two people who are still simply staring down at their phones. One of them is tapping a thumb frantically on tiny, fuzzy monsters that float and scramble across his screen, which seems to me to be a terrible game.
See?I want to say to both of them, feeling smug.Itwasa good idea that I reached out to him.
“Yes,” I say, starting to cross the street. “I mean, we need a game, obviously.”
“Obviously,” he repeats, and actually I think Icantell something over the phone. I think he might be enjoying this already.
I feel sheepish now, not having thought of an idea before I called him. Doing our names had been easy, obvious, safe. I could suggest something similarly bland—spell out your birthday month, or the name of your first pet. But that feels ludicrously like the beginnings of an identity theft scheme, and anyway, I find myself wanting to have a different kind of conversation with Reid.
“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. “One word to describe your day.”
I think the sound Reid makes is a groan, and it makes me break stride, hearing that noise from him. It’s so—unbuttoned.
I swallow, collect myself. Collect a lot of unruly thoughts about Reid being unbuttoned.
“We can pick something else.”
“No, one word is”—there’s a pause—“fair. Hand-lettered only?”
“You trying to take the easy way out?”
“Alas,” he says, and I worry I’m going to start developing some kind ofMasterpiece Theatrelibrary of sexual fantasies.Alas, alas, alas.I’m thinking about the wordcravatswhen he finishes his sentence. “I am not in an area known for its hands-craftsmanship.”
I’m guessing that means he’s downtown. Phallic-skyscraper city, dollar-sign-eyed people all around him. Neckties, not cravats, which is a shame.
“Not hand-lettered only,” I say, but I’m already snapping a picture of a chalk-drawn sandwich board, focusing on theS. I already know what my word is going to be. “I can be flexible.”
Reid and I decide we’ve got fifteen minutes to find the letters for our respective words; then we’ll send them to each other all at once when the time is up. At first, I feel a pang of nervousness—will we hang up, find our letters separately? Or will we stay on the phone, a distant sort of togetherness, trying to find something to talk about?
But Reid settles that for us, because as soon as we start the time he asks where I am, what it’s like in the neighborhood I’m walking through, as though he wants to minimize the distance between us. I snap photos as I walk, do my best to describe the particular flavor of Park Slope on a Tuesday early evening. Strollers and schoolkids on the sidewalks, Subaru wagons on already-clogged streets. I tell him about how I was surprised, when I first moved here, that some of the shops close so early, and I tell him—as I make my way all the way down Twelfth—about my favorite bakery, which stays open until seven. When I get there, I tell him my cupcake options and ask him what I should pick, and he says, “I don’t eat many sweets,” which makes me laugh.
