Page 171 of 72 Hours of You

TUESDAY NIGHT I STAND OUTSIDE the Plaza Hotel waiting for Peter. He had some appointment he had to go to with his mother, so we planned to meet up instead of taking the train in together. He was pretty dodgy about what this little errand actually entailed but my money is on Al-Anon or something.

It’s different being in the city at night. You can’t see the stars, obviously, but you can sort of feel them, hovering above all those misnomered skyscrapers. It makes it feel like the universe is secretly watching behind the curtains of clouds and light pollution, waiting to see what kind of shit you’re about to get into.

I pull my long sleeves down over my palms. I didn’t realize how strange it would be to be here without Peter. Even taking the train without him. Apparently, I’ve kind of gotten used to him … being there, tapping through pages on his Kindle app. Don’t love that for me, but whatever.

I take a breath and scan the block for any sight of his tall body. I check my Apple Watch. He said he’d meet me at 6:00 p.m. It’s only 6:02 p.m., so I should probably relax. It’s just, I get the idea that Peter is not the kind of person who shows up late.

And maybe it’s the night, or the fact that we’re meeting instead of coming in together, or maybe it’s all the people who are already drunk and falling all over each other, but this feels different than the rest of our time in the city. This feels suspiciously like a date.

Which it’s not.

Not even close.

We’re here for one purpose. To give almost-dead people a tiny sliver of compassion before they kick off. But the date vibes are kind of choking the life out of me right now. I need him to just show up so I don’t have to stand out here in the cold with my goddamn thoughts.

Finally, Peter’s tall frame and brown waves appear, rounding the corner of the building as he walks toward me.

“Hey.” He’s wearing this white long-sleeve waffle shirt and dark jeans and his hair is just a little ruffled and his cheeks are the tiniest bit pink, like he ran here, and I could see how technically a person might think that he looks kind of gorgeous or whatever. “Sorry I’m late. The thing with my mom turned into a whole other thing.” He sighs and messes with his hair before smiling at me.

I resist the urge to push on the where and what of it all and just say, “No problem.”

“Really?” He tilts his head. “You’re not going to verbally assault me? Or make fun of me? Not even a glare?”

I glare at him.

“That’s better,” he says. “You okay, though? You seem a little … off or something.”

“I’m normal,” I say. Hah. As if that’s ever been true.

“You sure? You’re kind of shivering.”

Shit. Most people get all hot and sweaty when they’re nervous, but I swing all the way in the other direction. My body temperature plummets, and I freeze. Not that I am nervous. Whatever. I pull my arms tighter around myself. “I’m really fine.”

Peter frowns. “I wish I had a jacket I could give you …”

“Seriously,” I say. “It’s not that cold. It’s a perfect temp for running, actually. If I had my sneakers right now, I’d be pounding the pavement pretty hard.” Jesus Christ what the fuck.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” Peter says, looking sideways at me as we start wandering down the block. His face is all concerned and careful. Shit. Why did I even mention running? We’re both definitely picturing me face-first on the concrete right now.

I must look kind of anguished or something because Peter quickly adds, “No, not about that. I just mean … you’re so fast. Why aren’t you on the track team or anything?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Do I look like the kind of person who would enjoy a team sport?”

He pauses. “I heard you used to be on the team.”

Oh. Oh shit.

“You were like some kind of phenom in freshman year, and they let you join varsity?”

“Uh-huh.” A taxi rolls by with its light off and two people pressed against each other in the back seat.

“And by sophomore year you were captain.”

“Right.” The traffic light changes from STOP to WALK. We don’t move.

“But then something happened. And you never showed up for the final meet last year. And then you quit.”

“What’s your point, Peter?” I tear my eyes from the group of pedestrians swarming the middle of the road, weaving between black SUVs and taxis blocking the crosswalk.