A half laugh, half groan spills out of me. “If you really believe that, you’re already jonesing. Check, please.”
Miriam goes to the hospital after breakfast in a flurry of scrubs and scarves. Dad, Jerry, and I bundle up in an equal number of layers, heading toward the madhouse that is the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. We traipse about Manhattan, guzzling Irish coffees between mittened fingertips, huffing excitedly under our breath as we walk, watching our words frost into the air. When we find the perfect spot near Central Park, we ooh and aah appreciatively at all our favorite floats.
“Did you do this last year?” Dad asks me.
“Fuck no.”
There are baton-twirling, leotard-wearing people who leave a trail of red glitter on the pavement: “They’vegotto be cold,” Dad mutters. There is a giant Olaf balloon smiling down at us that’s more frightening than it is endearing: “That the joker who likes warm hugs?” I laugh and snap a picture of Olaf to send to Alex, who promptly tells me he sometimes watchesFrozenjust to feel something.
“Is that Zack Travis?” Jerry asks, catching the low tenor of a country singer as the next float comes into earshot.
Dad bursts out laughing. “I think it is.”
“Oh my God.” I touch my mittens to my mouth. “Is he singing…”
The lyrics float toward us, clearer now.Rollin’, tumblin’, stumblin’ down that wretched road, the road to heartbreak, I’m not sure I’ll ever wake up again, but I don’t mind—
“She can break my heart anytime!” I scream. “Oh my God, he would be singing your least favorite song—”
“Ridiculous lyrics,” Dad mutters. “Repetitive chords. Someone should have a word with Zack’s songwriter.”
I take a video of him smiling awkwardly as Zack’s float passes by, post it to my Instagram story with the captionIYKYK. Thirty minutes later, I’ve got a handful of replies from friends, a handful more from confused strangers who follow me only because of YouTube, and a DM from Alex:WTF, even I know that song and I’ve never even been to the South!
In a state of utter confusion, I call him immediately.
“Casey?”
“You’ve never been to the South?!” I screech.
“Um.” There’s shuffling on the other end of the line. Someone’s dog barking. “No?”
“What the fuck, Alex?”
“Who’s Alex?” Jerry asks. I duck away, pressing a mitten to my opposite ear so I can hear Alex better.
“Miami?” I ask. “New Orleans? Austin?”
“No, no, and no,” Alex says. “To quote Casey Maitland, it just never happened for me.”
“Charleston. Atlanta.”
“Wait, I’ve been to the Atlanta airport!”
I smack a hand to my forehead. “All right. This is a thing I need time to process. Goodbye, Alex.”
He laughs, and I want to capture the sound, steal it from my speaker and put it in my pocket for later. “Goodbye, Casey. Happy Thanksgiving.”
We go shopping at Hudson Yards on Black Friday, which is a logistic disaster, but Dad gets a new leather satchel from an obscure kiosk in the mall, and Jerry thinks the Vessel is the coolest, so I count it as a win. Saturday, we museum-hop—MoMA, the Met, the Museum of Natural History—flying through them at rapid speed, the only apparent way to keep three successive museums interesting. It’s my first time visiting any of them, and although I was skeptical at first, I’ve come around to the idea that maybe there’s something to be said for a tourist’s approach to the island.
On Sunday we visit Times Square, then hole up in the M&M’s store while we wait out the frozen sleet pouring down on the city. When Dad lines up to buy our selection of treats, Jerry asks to take my picture in front of the rainbow M&M wall. Notourpicture,mypicture. I balefully agree, standing in front of it during a break in children, hands stiffly by my sides, feeling like a world-class idiot.
When Jerry lowers his cell phone, he says, “You look happier.”
“Of course I do,” I retort. “Five minutes ago, I was slipping on ice and trying to dodge someone who wanted to sell me a walking tour, and now I’m literally smiling for your camera.”
Jerry shakes his head. “Happier than you were in college. I couldn’t tell then, which I’m loath to admit, but I can tell now because the difference is kind of astounding.”
My eyebrows draw together. “Am I really that easy to read?”
