In between bites of food, we’d talked. It’s clear Reid’s least favorite topic is his job, but he’d told me more about his family, and I’d even gotten him to tell me about the pool smell: he swims laps at the gym every single morning, five a.m. to six a.m. After he finishes, he eats the same breakfast each day: three eggs, one sliced tomato, one banana, one cup of—“Let me guess!” I’d interrupted—hot tea. And he’d listened with interest while I’d told him all about my first few months in New York—well, leaving out the crying parts—exploring the city with Sibby.
It was easy and honest and fun, and I’d felt Reid’sEspecially mesparking like electricity in my fingers the whole time.
I’d drawn all through the train ride home, and I’ve kept drawing. At cafés, in between meetings with my regulars. At the shop, sometimes sitting and chatting with Lachelle or Cecelia, neither of them asking why I’ve been around more lately. At the apartment, in my room, sometimes with the occasional interruption from a text exchange with Reid—more pictures, more small games we’ve played. I’ve worked enough to have one complete treatment for the Make It Happyn job, something I’m pretty happy with, and I’d still managed to get time in for Lark’s commission.
Now I lean away from it all, giving Lark a better view and an apologetic smile.
“It’s possible I overdid it.”
She smiles back—a knowing, indulgent smile, one that makes me think Lark and I could probably be friends.
“But remember, what we’re looking for here is related to composition—a set of shapes that stick out to you. Try to ignore colors, for now.”
With this direction, Lark eliminates a few entries. Even though I told her to ignore colors, I pay attention to where she lingers, for future reference. At one point, she sets the tip of her index finger to a pale-pink and pale-green juxtaposition, inspired by the drinks I’d insisted on ordering at the taco place: one lime soda, one watermelon soda. I’d tasted both first and passed the lime one to Reid.
“This one’s not so sweet,” I’d said. “But mine tastes like cavities.” I’d taken a big drink just to see him shake his head in charming disapproval.
I look down at where Lark keeps her finger. Outside of the memory of the drinks Reid and I shared, this isn’t really to my taste—it sort of looks as if I drew this for the Lilly Pulitzer catalog. But maybe Lark—in spite of the skinny black jeans she’s wearing, the faded Ramones T-shirt that’s too big for her—has a secret hankering for flower-patterned sundresses and sweaters tied around her shoulders.
“If you’re into pastels,” I venture, “that’s a good option for the chalk wall.”
She pushes the sheet away reluctantly.
“No, I’m into—you know. Black.” She gestures down at her outfit. It looks as though she Googled “How to Dress Like a New Yorker.”
“Sure, we can stay neutral. But even an accent—”
I’m interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and closing, the loud, warning beeps of the alarm system. At first I think it must be Jade, who’d taken off to run errands for Lark when I’d arrived, but then I hear a deep voice call out, “Goddammit! How do I shut this fucking thing off?”
Lark stiffens atop her stool, obviously surprised. When we’d set this meeting, she’d said Friday afternoon worked for her, that Cameron would be out late scouting locations for a new shoot he’s working on. “Cameron,” she’d said, going for the natural beginning to almost sixty percent of her sentences, “prefers if I handle everything related to the house.” As though having to be involved in small decisions about what will greet his eyes every morning on the wall of his own bedroom is too much of a hardship for his artistic sensibilities.
There’s another muffled curse from the entryway.
Lark gives me an embarrassed wince. “Sorry,” she says, and then she calls, “Babe, remember? Put in the passcode!”
Silence. Lark seems to count to herself.
“Our first date?” she calls out.
More silent counting; then she slides off her stool. “I’ll be right back.”
The beeps are getting louder, closer together. I’d be nervous, I guess, to meet the half of this job who seems to be gumming up the decision-making works, but I’m too busy wondering if he’ll be wearing that beanie and the leather bracelets.
When Lark and Cameron come into the kitchen, they’ve got those pinched-but-polite looks on their faces couples sometimes get, when you can tell they’ve shown up to a party after having a massive fight in the car about who always empties the dishwasher. My parents used to be super good at that look, always more polite than pinched. Lark and Cameron clearly need practice, but still—I feel an answering quiver of recognition, a discomforting familiarity deep inside of me.
“Hi!” I chirp, which is also how I used to deal with my parents. It’s as though my brain has sent my mouth a message:default to protocol. I stand from my stool, stretching a hand out to Cameron. “I’m Meg Mac—”
“Look at you!” Cameron says, pumping my hand. I don’t like it, thatLook at you!As if I’m a toddler taking my first steps. “The Planner of Park Slope, right? We’re pretty lucky getting you to this side of Brooklyn.”
“Yeah, a whole two miles!” That works because I’ve said it so cheerfully, and Cameron smiles his bright white smile. He’s not wearing the beanie, but he is wearing the bracelets, which look more ridiculous in person. I have the feeling he gave Lark the idea for her outfit, because he’s got on a version of the same thing—black boots, dark jeans, vintage-looking black T-shirt. He’s handsome—not Reid Sutherland handsome, though I guess that’s an unfair standard for anyone to meet, given my personal preference for his face—but there’s something off-putting about his good looks, how he matches them with an aren’t-you-flattered-to-have-my-attention attitude.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he says. “The Slope is great for families.”
The Slope?I know from Cameron’s IMDB page that he’s from Malibu, so I’m pretty annoyed already. If Lachelle was here she’d be giving him alook, the kind of look where the twoo’s are drawn as to-the-side eyeballs, but I nod my head in agreement. There’s a strong smell of secondhand embarrassment coming off Lark, which at least is mitigating the smell of Cameron’s too-strong cologne.
“I love thefeelof it here, you know? It’s so . . .” I already know what he’s going to say next, and I brace myself for the impact of the irritation I’m about to feel. “Gritty,” he finishes.
“Uh-huh.” I drop his hand. I mean, okay. There’s an IKEA not far from here; I think he can stop being so smug about Red Hook. “Well, it’s really nice to meet you. You have a beautiful home.”That was built last year.
