“That’s not nothing. Have you seen a—”
“It’s nothing. A psoriasis flare. I’m used to it.” He’s pulling on his jacket, his movements stiff. It can’t be comfortable, putting that wet sleeve inside the tailored lines of the jacket.
I’m watching closely enough that I see him cringe, minutely, as it settles over his skin.
“Reid.”
“Don’t,” he replies. I see the word in my head, shaped as a set of double doors closing—on one side,on the other. A tiny sliver of space between, narrowing and narrowing as they shut in my face.
He bends, picks up his now-empty cup, and gives me one brief nod of farewell.
And before I can think of any words to stop him, he’s gone.
Chapter 11
“It’s the guy, isn’t it?”
Lachelle has basically shouted this at me across the small table we’re crammed around at Cecelia’s favorite neighborhood restaurant, a vegan place that serves all-organic cocktails and menu items featuring an abundance of kale. It’s Friday night, and the place is packed with regulars, but also with the many guests who’ve come out for a happy hour in honor of Cecelia and her husband Shuhei’s anniversary. When I’d walked into the somewhat shabby, too-small space, determined to stay at most for an hour so I could get back to my very important schedule of staring at blank pages and moping, I’d been met with a crush of people, the room noisy with conversation and the sizzle of the grill at the back, wafting delicious, spicy food smells into the dining room.
I’d pasted a smile on my face and felt a clenching pang of longing for Reid.
Reid who has been ignoring me for a whole week.
“What guy?” I say, and Lachelle throws a kale chip at me.
About a half hour ago, after I’d given my gift to Cecelia and Shuhei, smiled and small-talked my way through the rounds, I’d started inching toward the exit, toward the silent safety of my apartment. Sibby’s at Elijah’s tonight, probably opening up an advent calendar of “days until I move away from Meg,” and I’d been thinking of how much I needed to tidy my bedroom, evidence of my newly returned block everywhere. Crumpled paper on the floor, half-done sketches scattered across the desk, pens left outside their color-coded cups.
But then Lachelle had spotted me—why did I wear this dress with gold Hello Kitty faces on it?—and had pointed at her table’s empty chair. “You’re staying, Meg,” she’d said. “I’m not going home until after the kids’ bedtime, and you’re the only person here other than Cecy I know well enough to talk to for another hour.”
That’d been fair enough, so in spite of the self-imposed exile I’ve been in for days, I’d taken a seat. And once I’d settled in, I’d been grateful for the way Lachelle had taken over with a very long story about her very passive-aggressive sister. By the time I’d ordered my second cocktail, I’d thought,Well, this is better than moping, at least.
But now? Now there’s a kale chip stuck to one of my Hello Kitty faces, and Lachelle is looking at me like she knows exactly what guy, and my moping plan is mocking me for abandoning it.
“The guy you went on a date with last month.”
I pick off the kale chip. “It wasn’t a date.”
“Okay. But it was the guy, then?” She smiles, self-satisfied. “I knew something was wrong with you this week when you came in for supplies.”
I sigh, resigned. I open my mouth, thinking I’ll say,We’re just friends, but then I close it again. The expression doesn’t seem right for what Reid and I are.
Or were.
“I don’t think it’s going to work out.” That feels—accurate. It’s not going to work out with me and Reid, whatever “it” is. These last seven days of silence have proven that.
“He lives in the city,” I add, which I figure will be effective as an explanation, since Lachelle thinks people from Manhattan should have to get a passport before they come to Brooklyn.
It doesn’t work. “Yeah, that’s a real barrier, given all the mass transit options. What’s the problem, really? No job? Lives with his parents? Oh, is he in a band?”
That last one makes me smile, imagining Reid in a band. “No, none of those. He works on Wall Street.”
Lachelle’s eyes widen comically. “I hope you only met him in public,” she says, clearly remembering the day I’d been headed to the Promenade. “That’d be terrible, having you get murdered by an investment banker on my conscience. A friend of mine went out with one who wanted her to dress up like that blue woman from the comic book movies. He was going to pay for her to get painted all over, scales and shit.”
“He’s not an investment banker. He’s a quant.”
“I don’t know what that is, but he’s probably still got something wrong with him.” She takes a drink of her martini. She’s wearing a gauzy black cape and a pair of beaded hoop earrings. I suddenly feel as if I’m on a field trip and she’s the chaperone.
“He doesn’t. He’s a nice guy. A really nice guy.”
