Will he take the subway? Does somebody as rich as Max even take a subway?
If it’s an easy ride, I suppose he might, though following him all the way down and onto the train seems like a pretty big commitment. Hard not to be noticed if it’s not crowded. And if I’m not in the car he rides, it’ll be hard to get off at the stop he gets out at.
I channel every action and adventure movie I ever saw as I follow him at a discreet distance, telling myself I’ll decide when I decide.
After high school I’d keep my ears peeled at parties, curious where he was auditioning. I knew he wouldn’t go for traditional, more established orchestras or ensembles; that wasn’t Max. He’d go for something up-and-coming. The sleek and exciting dark horse trio. Something with the edge and cachet to make you go ooooh.
My friends and I were surprised when pianists other than Max turned up in those ooooh sorts of positions, whereas Max’s name was nowhere, not even sitting in for concerts.
He was so talented and connected. What was he up to?
Then The Max Hilton Playbook: Ten Golden Rules for Landing the Hottest Girl in the Room came out. And there was nothing in his bio about playing piano. Like he’d erased that whole part of himself.
We were all stunned, even more when his guide sold millions of copies, earning him more money in a month than the most musicians make in a lifetime. A lot of us thought he’d come back to music after that, but instead, he took his mad money and built a global men’s style empire.
Max had more talent in his little finger than most serious musicians and he’d cast it all aside.
Now he has his own jet.
And a secret about Tuesday nights.
Much to my delight, he passes the 50th Street station and keeps going. I pull out my phone and text Kelsey. I told her about my suspicions, and she as interested as I was.
Me: Remember Max’s secret Tuesday night liaison? Hot on the trail!
Kelsey: Wut? Girl!
Me: I was monologue walking and…shrug emoji
He takes a few turns, walks maybe a total of six blocks until he arrives at a not-very-special building with a Korean noodles place and a Starbucks on the bottom, and five unmemorable stories up top.
Me: Subject has arrived at destination.
I text her a map link.
Kelsey: Don’t recall a stalking component in Max’s book.
Me: It’s there. Know your quarry.
I slink back into a doorway, all the better to watch him. He’s in the doorway on his phone, texting, presumably. I snap a picture and text it to Kelsey.
Kelsey: That is no foundation meeting!
He looks up, then turns and leans back against the wall. Waiting? Is he picking somebody up? Going in? The lights in the building are all off except the fifth floor.
The door opens suddenly. A statuesque woman with bright blonde hair comes out. Max kisses her cheek. My stomach jackknifes as they disappear inside.
I fold my arms, laser gaze set on reduce-to-rubble.
Me: Some woman came out and let him in.
Kelsey: frown emoji
I wait, watching for movement or lights to show me where they went. Finally I get what I want—or don’t want—up on the top floor, a corner window lights up, but three nearby windows go dark.
And then I see her back to a window sill. Her hands are out on either side of herself, like she’s leaning back and talking to somebody in there.
I punch the address into Google and get a series of hits. Eye doctors on the second floor; accountants, fabric wholesaler on the fourth and then a hit on Suite 500, the fifth floor. It’s a yoga studio. Namaste Way. Sure enough, there’s a neon lotus on the farthest window. The whole half of this side of the top floor is a yoga studio.
Me: They went into a yoga studio and turned most of the lights off.
Kelsey: frown emoji
Me: Private yoga lessons? In secret?
Kelsey: But why??????
The woman moves away from the window. I wait a few minutes. Then the neon lotus goes out. Moments pass.
Me: No more movement. What are they doing?
Kelsey: Why does a man ever meet a woman in secret?
Me: Then why not a hotel?
Kelsey: Perhaps he is an exceptionally acrobatic lover?
Something clenches around my heart.
Kelsey: Naked yoga? Troll doll full-costume sex fetish films?
Me: Shit! I was watching the window and somebody else went in!
Kelsey: Did you see who?
Me: IDK could’ve been more than one person.
Kelsey: Erp.
A few minutes later, somebody else emerges from the front door, all bundled up. The blonde. She turns and walks down the street.
Max doesn’t come out. And the corner window up there is still lit. I report back to Kelsey. Did those new people join him? I check the back of the building, but the yoga studio is the only lit-up area.
What does Max do in a yoga studio by himself that he has to lie about? He has a palatial apartment on Central Park; I’ve seen the photos. If he wanted a yoga studio, he’d have a yoga studio there.
I wait for a bit more, then I give up, cold and hungry. On the way home, I Google Namaste Way. The blonde is the owner, a former gymnast turned yoga teacher, which isn’t a big surprise in terms of career progression.
Kelsey and I eat cereal and discuss the new mystery. She’s wrangled another donation from another Max Hilton book victim. The woman wants me to know that I’m doing God’s work.
“Yeah, I don’t know about that.”
“You’re standing up to him, that’s what counts. He’s seeing what it feels like to have somebody work a system on him like he’s a piece of meat,” Kelsey says.
“I’m not going to overpromise,” I say. “Max is a man who is surrounded by gorgeous women. He probably has mysterious assignations all over the city, like a bee going from flower to flower.”
“And you’ll squish him,” Kelsey says.
“Well, bees are endangered, so…”