A.That’s…awful.
Q.Can we get you something, Mr. Falk? A glass of water, maybe? You’re white as a sheet.
A.Yes, thank you. I’m sorry for getting so emotional—I just need a second to pull myself together. This is all very upsetting.
Before
Frankie
September 5
Finally, the Seventh Street door to the bar opens. But instead of Noah, another man steps in—nondescript, black sweater, jeans, baseball cap. Aggressively generic. He heads toward a table in the shadows at the back, sits alone. He doesn’t belong at Joyface. Or even downtown. And just like that, I am thinking of Richard, imagining him here. He’d be out of place, too.
“Who are you staring at?”
I startle and turn. Noah. “Nothing. No one.”
“Well, that was believable,” Noah says as he takes the stool next to me.
I motion dismissively toward his sports jacket, trying to change the subject. “You look like Clark Kent.” Noah is ridiculously gorgeous, with a Superman jaw, perfect arms, and longish, prematurely silver-streaked hair. Thick eyelashes that make it look, intriguingly, like maybe he’s wearing just a touch of mascara. He somehow gets better-looking with each passing year—and he knows it; it would be impossible not to.
“I came straight from work,” he says, stripping off the jacket and revealing his arms. “Full-day conference.No onelikes to hear themselves talk more than a bunch of psychiatrists. I swear I fell asleep six times.” He motions to the bartender and orders a beer. Then, after taking a sip, he finally turns to face me. “So, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’re all…hunched.” He imitates the way I’m sitting. “Plusyou put all these emojis in the text asking me to meet you. Something is wrong, obviously.”
I am not an emoji person. It’s true. And deep down I know why I called Noah. Noah is who I always call when I need someone to give me advice. Especially advice I don’t want. A therapist by profession, Noah is very good at letting you talk your way into a corner where you’ll have no choice but to face the music.
“I said I’d see him.”
“Ahh,” Noah says.
“What?” I ask sharply.
He raises his palms. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You said, ‘Ahh.’ Like you’re fucking Sherlock Holmes. Like you have it aaallll figured out.”
“Seriously?” He raises an eyebrow. “You invitedmehere. On a Friday night, when my adorable husband is home on our cozy couch. With our even more adorable dog.”
“You’re the one who recommended the climbing company!”
“You asked me to ask my parents.Theyrecommended it.”
“Still, we could say this is all your fault.”
“We couldalsosay you’re delusional. We could say all sorts of things.”
I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes and sag into the stool. “Ugh,” I say finally. “I’m obviously conflicted.”
“I’d say.” He takes another swallow of his beer and waves his phone in the air. “I have about twenty texts from you saying you’ll never see him again. Just want to remind you that someone has the receipts in case you need to reference them.”
“Okay,thatwas passive-aggressive.”
Noah smiles, then reaches over to squeeze my hand. “I think just aggressive.”
We both start to laugh, hard enough that soon my eyes water. It’s such a relief. It releases the tension that’s been building inside me since Richard texted yesterday and suggested getting together. We’ve been texting occasionally ever since we got back, but we haven’t seen each other. And I promised myself I wouldn’t see him, promised Noah, too, after I told him about the texting andhow conflicted I felt. Richard is married. Sure, some of the messages have been a tiny bit flirtatious, but there is nothing about the texting that makes it specifically wrong. I flirt with Noah, too, and our other NYU friends. It’s harmless.
