I spin around to find Tyler approaching me again, a box in his hands. I arch an eyebrow and glance over my shoulder, down to the street below. We’re twenty floors up. “Are you crazy?”
“C’mon, you’re not gonna fall,” he says, but it doesn’t sound too reassuring. His expression has softened and he’s smiling again, like the past fifteen minutes never happened. He joins me by my side and places the box on the wall in front of him. It’s rectangular and wrapped in silver paper. “Sit on the wall or I’m not giving you this.”
I frown back at him, yet I am curious. “What is it?”
“A gift,” he says. He nods at the wall again and folds his arms across his chest, dramatically checking his watch. He clears his throat.
“Fine.” I sigh and turn around, pressing my palms flat against the top of the wall. The concrete feels rough beneath my skin and I push myself up. The wall isn’t narrow, but it’s still terrifying. I try not to look down once I’m up, and so I turn to face Tyler, swinging my legs over the edge. The extra height makes me taller than him for once. “Happy?”
“Here,” he says. He gently thrusts the box into my hands, his skin brushing mine for a split second, and then he moves his hands to either side of my body, pressing his palms down against the wall. And he remains there, never taking a step back. His close proximity is suffocating me again. “Open it.”
I gaze back at him skeptically before finally moving my attention to the box I’m holding. The wrapping isn’t the neatest, so it’s easy to tear off. Accidentally, I drop the ripped paper over the side of the building, and Tyler sighs. But I barely even notice my carelessness, because I’m left holding a box that I recognize all too well: the familiar, standard Converse box. I stare down at it for a minute, and then glance up to Tyler.
“Why?”
“We lost your other pair. Remember?”
How could I forget? That was the first night—the only night—we spent together. And in the morning I couldn’t find my Chucks.
“I told you I’d get you a new pair,” he says, but then he shrugs nervously and bites down on his lower lip. “I’m sorry it took me two years.”
The fact that he even remembered takes me by surprise. So surprised, in fact, that I don’t even reply. I drop my eyes back to the box. Carefully, I run my hands over the cardboard before opening it up. Inside, there’s a pair of new white low-tops. An exact replacement for the pair I lost that night, only without the lyrics I’d scrawled across the rubber.
“Tyler, you didn’t have to—”
“I did.” His smile widens and he takes the box from my hands, placing it down on the wall next to me. He nods to my feet. “Give me your old pair.”
I tilt my head and squint at him. I’m not sure what he’s thinking right now, but I do know that I’m too overwhelmed to question him, or even thank him, so I do as he orders. I’m wearing my white high-tops, a pair I’ve had for a couple years now, and admittedly, they are a little battered and worn. I reach down, slipping them off. Tyler takes them from me immediately.
“You can’t come to New York and not leave your mark somewhere,” he says slowly, his attention focused on my shoes as he ties the two sets of laces together. And then, right in front of me, he leans out over the wall, stretching down to tie my Chucks to a wire that’s running along the edge of the building. When he steps back, he offers me a smug grin. “Don’t even attempt to reach for them.”
“I can’t believe you just did that.” Carefully, I glance over my shoulder again and shake my head at my shoes that are now swaying in the breeze. It seems I’m never getting them back.
Tyler laughs as he picks up the box again. That positive vibe is back, and it’s giving me no choice but to smile, despite how much of a mess my head is. “As for these,” he says, “put them on.”
Delicately, I reach into the box and pull out the sneakers. They’re bright and fresh, and I slowly untangle the laces and then slip them on. They fit perfectly. I study them until Tyler catches my attention once more.
“Just one more thing,” he says, his voice suddenly filled with enthusiasm. He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, fumbling around for a second before pulling out a black Sharpie. He pops the lid. “No objections.”
I chew at the inside of my cheek, mostly to stop myself from screaming, and I pull my feet up onto the wall. At first I think he’s about to add some lyrics to recreate my old pair. He studies the new Converse closely, and he finally decides on a spot along the rubber. He concentrates on what he’s writing, and when he’s done, he takes a step back and watches me, waiting to see my reaction.
However, when I glance down, it’s not lyrics that I see. It’s three words, scrawled messily in his handwriting. Three words, and they’re in Spanish: No te rindas.
Before I can even open my mouth, Tyler’s already answering the question that’s on my lips.