The doorbell buzzes. I run to the intercom and buzz Logan in. Lighting! We need romantic mood lighting up in here. I get a few candles from my room and put them on the table and bar. Where are the matches? Why are there never any matches when you need them? Rosanna might be right about organizing. At least then you know where everything is.
I open the door for Logan right before he knocks.
“Hey, babe,” he says, all lanky sexy sloucher.
Maybe I’ll eat him for dinner.
I let him in. Then I kiss him like I haven’t seen him in weeks.
Logan breaks away. “What’s that smell?”
“You mean the freshly crisped almond aroma? It’s a new trend. Per Se started it.”
“Is something burning?”
I grab the front of Logan’s shirt, yanking him toward me. He came straight from work. He took that job at the bike shop and apparently didn’t change his shirt before coming over. But the grease stain on the front of his shirt isn’t even bothering me. I press up against him, avoiding contact with the grease. “Oh yeah. Something’s definitely burning.”
“No, I mean . . . for real.”
How is Logan not all over me right now? Since when can he resist a sexy innuendo?
“There was a culinary mishap,” I disclose.
“Was Sadie cooking?”
“Guess again.”
Logan smirks. “We know you weren’t cooking.”
“Then how did I make you this?” I sweep my hand at the table, hastily set with incomplete dinner plates, an absence of silverware, and unlit candles.
“You cooked?”
“Only for you.”
“Why?”
“Um, because I wanted to make you dinner?”
“Oh,” Logan says. He looks mildly disgusted. Maybe the burned almond stench is making him nauseous.
“What’s wrong?”
“I thought you were ordering in.”
“That was what I told you to cover up the surprise. See? I cooked dinner for you. You’re the only one I’ve ever cooked dinner for. Ever. And it turned out to be a complete disaster. Surprise!”
Logan attempts a smile. “That was sweet of you, babe. I appreciate it.”
“But . . . ?”
“No, it’s just I thought you were ordering from Strip House. I was psyched for steak.”
“Seriously?”
“You made it sound so good.”
“Yeah, no, I planned a whole thing. I went to Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s for ingredients. I started cooking two hours ago and it didn’t even turn out right. After I followed recipes and everything.” Why is he being such an asshole? Has he always been an asshole and I just never realized it before?
Logan stretches his arms out to me. “Come here.”
“You are the only one I’ve ever cooked dinner for,” I repeat.
He puts his arms around me, hugging me softly. “I’m sorry. This is coming out all wrong. I’m flattered you cooked for me.”
“Attempted to cook. Everything is ruined.”
“Let’s see.” We go over to the table. Logan examines the plates.
“The au gratin is almost done.”
“It looks good,” he says.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Because it’s not.”
“I’m cool with eating everything you made.” He pauses. “But we can go out if you want. Your call.”
Not cool, Logan. Not cool. You should be sitting down and digging into this meal the girl you adore put her heart and soul into. Even if it’s only 30% edible. You should not be shifting awkwardly by the table, hoping to go out and eat somewhere better.
Would he even treat for dinner? Or is he expecting me to treat again? I pay almost every time we go out. Which, whatever, I love treating my friends. But Logan is more than my friend. He was my boyfriend before and apparently wants to be my boyfriend again. He paid almost every time we went out in Santa Monica. Shouldn’t he be trying harder to win me back?
“Would you treat if we went out?” I ask.
“I can treat. Do you want to go out to dinner?”
“Of course I don’t want to go out to dinner!” I snap. “I just spent two hours cooking for you!”
“But if you don’t like how it turned out . . .”
“You should be more supportive. You should be eating this gourmet fail no matter how bad it tastes.”
He looks at me blankly. “You’d really want me to eat something that tasted bad?”
“Hello, I’m exaggerating. It’s not that bad.”
“Then why did you say it was?”
“Because I was embarrassed! Cooking is supposed to be this easy thing anyone can do. Except me, apparently.”
“So it’s not for everyone. So what? You’re talented in lots of other ways.”
Now he’s saying I suck at cooking. He took one look at the dinner I made him and can’t wait to get out of here.
I give up.
“Hey.” Logan slides his hand through my hair. His dark eyes smolder. I try not to lose myself in them. “It’s okay. We’ll do whatever you want.”
“What if I don’t want to do anything?”
He tries to touch me again. I shrug away from him.
“Do you want me to leave?” Logan asks.
“That’s the best idea you’ve had all night.”
So he leaves. No kiss. No see you tomorrow. He just walks right out.
I may be talented at lots of other things, but Logan is a master at leaving me behind. Good to see that making a huge effort for someone who is supposed to love me has such awesome results. But didn’t I already know relationships come with way too much disappointment?
TWENTY-ONE
ROSANNA
WHEN D TOOK ME TO Central Park movie night, it was like a big, friendly outdoor party. People were respectful of our space. I had the best time leaning back against D, watching the movie and getting swept away by what was probably the best summer night of my life.
Bryant Park movie night is different.
They haven’t even let people in yet, and I can already tell things are about to get real. D can’t come until later, so he told me to save us a spot. But he also warned me that Bryant Park movie night was cutthroat. Sadie advised me to get in line before five. She explained how everyone lines up on the gravelly path around the rectangular grassy area where you sit to watch the movie. At 5:00 on the dot, a whistle blows. That’s when you are allowed on the grass. I heard it gets insane when the whistle blows. People run to stake out spots so fast Sadie nearly got knocked over one year. All the good spots are pretty much taken by 5:15. Five seemed way too early to show up for a movie that doesn’t start until after eight. But I got here early anyway just to be on the safe side. I’m glad I did.
We have a few minutes to go until the whistle blows. Like Sadie said, we’re all lined up on the path surrounding the lawn. I can’t believe how many people are here already. We’re lined up two deep on the path. Some people behind the front row are even trying to push their way up to the front. A low rope extends around the perimeter of the grass. I wonder what would happen if someone stepped over the rope. Not even if they went all the way onto the grass. Just put one foot over. Would an emergency siren go off? Would that person be restricted from movie night? I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a no-watch list.
A college girl carrying a heap of blankets drops her big Ikea bag. She slowly lowers herself to retrieve the bag, the blankets blocking her vision as they mash up against her face, and feels around for the bag’s handle. I want to go over and help her. But I’m worried that if I step away from the rope, I will be trampled when the whistle blows. Then I’ll never get a spot and D and I will have to stand in the back or something. I’m about to go over to help her anyway when a guy standing next to her picks up her bag. He does the right thing. I need to get better about jumping into action when someone needs help. There’s no excuse for my behavior.
&nbs
p; New Yorkers waiting for the Bryant Park movie night whistle are wound up so tightly you can almost hear them twanging. Being a part of real New York life is thrilling. I am blending in with New Yorkers as if I’m officially one of them. Feeling included in a way I never have before makes me so happy that sometimes I bust out smiling just walking down the street, or on a crowded subway where you’re not supposed to bust out smiling for no apparent reason. But this experience might be a bit too scary for me. I might not be ready for cutthroat movie night.
The whistle blows. The crowd engulfs the lawn in a human tsunami. This surge of people running onto the lawn is so powerful that someone could seriously get trampled. Like, to death.
I snap into action. People are throwing sheets and blankets down on the first available spots. I run farther onto the center of the lawn and frantically fling out the old sheet I brought with me. It unfurls enough to spread over a small patch of grass. By the time I bend down to try spreading it out more, people have taken up all of the spaces around my sheet. My sheet is already completely bordered by hardcore New Yorkers with sharpened blanket maneuvering skills. I can’t spread my sheet out now. I look around for a larger free spot, but there are none. You can’t even see the grass anymore. In the space of one minute, the entire lawn was covered.
What just happened?
I collapse on my sheet. A huge group to my left managed to put a bunch of blankets down so they can all sit together. How did they pull that off? They must have done this before. Bryant Park movie night might be an annual thing for them. Or even a weekly thing.
People are taking off their shoes to use as anchors along the edges of their blankets. The shoes are also boundary markers. One guy arranges his flip-flops in a line along the edge of his blanket. The girl on the blanket next to his places her bag right up against his flip-flop divider. Everywhere I look, people are exhibiting major territorial behavior. A tiny blond girl behind me whips off her sandals. Then she proceeds to shove a sandal against my butt.
“You’re on my blanket,” she informs me.
“Oh.” The edge of her blanket is overlapping my sheet. By about three millimeters. “I think your blanket is on top of my sheet.”
The tiny blond girl chomps her gum. “That’s how far it spreads out.”
“You’re lucky. I didn’t even get to spread my sheet out all the way.”
“But you have enough room.”
“My boyfriend’s coming later. There’s barely enough room for the two of us.”
“That sucks.” For a second I think she’s going to offer to pull her enormous blanket back a little to make enough room for D. Instead she says, “You’re still on my blanket.” Her beady eyes are defiant.
Seriously with this?
I scooch up two millimeters. Then I take my book out and start reading so she’ll stop hounding me. I am the only one reading. Everyone else is laughing with friends and spreading out picnics and reclining on their fully unfurled blankets. I either need to come to movie night every week until I master the mad dash or never come again. Can’t decide yet.
The buildings surrounding the park are beautiful. They remind me of when I was younger, watching movies that took place in New York. I would watch movies like The Family Man and In Good Company, longing for the time when I could live here. Even when I read books that took place in New York, I knew this was my true home. Sitting here alone surrounded by clusters of friends talking and laughing and eating their picnic dinners, I try to feel like I belong. That feeling I had before about blending in with real New Yorkers is gone. Now I feel out of place by myself, adrift in a sea of groups.
The sky melts periwinkle into azure. I sit up, craning my neck above the crowd to see if D is looking for me. He was supposed to meet me here at six. But it’s almost seven and I still don’t see him. He can’t call me on my nonexistent cell phone. I would borrow someone’s phone to call him, but I don’t want to seem even more pathetic than I undeniably am. All I can do is wait and hope we see each other in this insane crowd.
I wait. And wait. And wait.
Reading is impossible. I’m afraid that I’ll miss D while I’m staring down at my page. I keep reading a sentence, scanning the crowd for D, then glancing down to read the same sentence all over again. Some girls on a sheet next to me are giving me weird looks. They’re sharing food containers from a big Zabar’s bag, passing around roasted chicken and macaroni salad and sautéed red potatoes. You are not supposed to read here. You are not supposed to come alone. You are supposed to be eating your gourmet picnic dinner with your friends and laughing hysterically like you’re having the time of your life. If I were those girls, I’d be giving me weird looks, too.
I scan the crowd again. Not only am I trying to find D, I want to make it obvious that I’m not here alone. Or that I won’t be alone for much longer. I have a boyfriend. He’s meeting me here. He wants to be with me. I exaggerate the motion of looking around, turning my head more than I need to so anyone looking at me knows that I’m waiting for someone.
My thumb is snapping against my middle finger again. I really need to get this nervous tic under control. How long have I been snapping? Have I been sitting here snapping like a spaz the whole time? I put my other hand over my snapping fingers to calm myself. Just like D put his hand over mine when he caught me snapping at Press Lounge.
The Zabar’s food containers smell amazing. My stomach growls. I grabbed a bagel on the way over here, thinking that would be enough for dinner. But these elaborate picnic spreads are making me hungry.
The azure sky blends into the darkest shade of blue. The guy who set up the flip-flops barrier is telling a loud story involving a blue French horn on the wall of a restaurant. The Zabar’s girls are eating cheesecake drizzled with caramel and chocolate, gushing over how good it is. The tiny blond girl behind me is popping her gum as her boyfriend rubs her back. I am alone and miserable. Should I get up and look for D? Not if I want to get back to my spot. Once I leave my sheet, it will either get covered with overspill from the surrounding groups or I won’t be able to find my way back. Either way I have to stay put.
The movie starts. I point my eyes at the screen. I try not to cry.
My boyfriend stood me up. I’ve never been stood up before. Probably because I’ve never had a boyfriend before. Although you’d think a boyfriend would be less likely to stand you up than a casual date. There’s a chance we missed each other. But the sick twisting in my stomach tells the truth. He was never here.
Of course this is happening on Friday the 13th. Classic.
D will blame this on me not having a cell phone. That tends to be what people do when they are running late or decide not to show up because a better offer came along. But I don’t think a cell phone would change anything. D would call and tell me he’s not coming. Or I would call him to find out he’s not here. Yeah, already picked up on that.
The tiny blond girl behind me is leaning back against her boyfriend, a wide pool of free blanket space around them. She’s leaning the way I leaned back against D at Central Park movie night. I wonder if that night was remotely as intense for him as it was for me. Does he even care about me the way I care about him? Making time for him is my priority. But he’s been working late at his internship, putting in extra hours to get a stellar recommendation letter for grad school. Between that and hanging out with Shayla, it feels like he’s slipping away.
Maybe I just have to get used to him working late. Everyone seems to work late in New York. Sadie told me that even people like teachers who leave work earlier take home tons of work. She’s seen lots of teachers in cafés grading fat stacks of papers. New York runs on the energy of millions of people with the strongest career drives and the highest aspirations. D will be like that when he starts working on Wall Street. He’s already like that now.
What if we stay together? What if we’re still a couple after he’s done with grad school and he’s starting out as an investment banker? D told me those new guys put in
the longest hours. They can work 110-hour weeks with no days off. That only gives you eight free hours a day. Would D choose to be with me during those few free hours? Even if he did, he would still have to sleep. Is our relationship enough of a priority for him? Will he get sucked into the Wall Street world so hard that his obsession with success will push him to work longer hours than he needs to?
When we first started going out, I was okay with not seeing D every day. I wasn’t even sure if I liked him enough to want a relationship with him. But everything’s different now. I’m different now.
Now I’m in love.
Sitting alone in the crowd, I wonder if moving here was the right decision. Yes, New York City has been my dream forever. And yes, I love it here. But it might be too hard to try to survive in an outrageously expensive city when I’m barely scraping by.
I tilt my head back and look up. I can’t see the stars. Somehow along the way, the stars got lost. Before I came here, I knew where I was going. I had a clear vision of how I would achieve my goals. There was an inner light guiding me, pushing me forward on the days when I was afraid. But now, under a purple sky without stars, I feel like I’ve lost my way, lost my sense of direction, lost the light that was guiding me.
Maybe some dreams are not meant to come true.
TWENTY-TWO
SADIE
I HAVE TO GIVE DARCY credit for cooking Logan dinner. If Darcy were a National Geographic subject, the kitchen would not be considered part of her natural habitat. I felt bad that her dinner was kind of a bust. She just took on too much. But it freaking rules that she never gave up. Even after smacking the smoke detector to smithereens. I’ll have to talk to the landlord about replacing it. Or am I supposed to call UNY student housing? I don’t want them to know we smashed the smoke detector. If they think we’re rowdy, they might not let us stay here freshman year.
After calming Darcy down enough to get ready for Logan, I left to give them private time. I thought about calling Brooke and some other friends to get together, but I decided to go for one of my night walks. Night walks always give me an epic feeling of anticipation. I get so excited thinking about the possibility of everything. Friday the 13th has always been a lucky day for me. I took ownership of Friday the 13th back in middle school. That’s when I decided that just because everyone says a certain day is unlucky doesn’t mean it has to be unlucky for me. And it’s been a lucky day ever since.