It’s just after eight on Tuesday evening when Tyler and I make our way to the Lowell on Sixty-third and Madison. The sun is slowly starting to dip behind the buildings of Manhattan as Tyler drives south along Park Avenue. He’s wearing a pair of black shades as he drives, with one hand on the wheel and the other toying at his hair, his elbow propped up against the door.
“I think they’re punking us,” he murmurs after a while. “The Lowell? Give me a break.”
I glance over at him. “What?”
“C’mon.” He scoffs, and despite the fact that I can’t see behind his shades, I can tell he’s rolling his eyes. “Rachael and Meghan are college students. You think they can afford that place? I mean, Meghan just got back from Europe. She’s probably only got ten bucks to her name.”
“Tyler, you were a sixteen-year-old high school student when you bought this car with that big old trust fund of yours,” I remind him, and then, to prove my point, I add, “You really think sixteen-year-olds can afford cars like these?”
“I’m just saying,” he says, ignoring my comment.
It only takes us ten minutes to reach Sixty-third Street, and Tyler reverses into a free spot in one swift maneuver, right in front of the Santa Fe Opera. My parking skills aren’t on a par with his—I’m still getting used to his ability to park in less than six seconds.
While I step out of the car, Tyler throws his sunglasses onto the dashboard right before slamming the car door behind him, and I can’t help but arch my eyebrows as I follow him along Sixty-third Street. I’m not sure what his problem is.
The Lowell is only a few buildings down, just off the corner of Madison Avenue. With red bricking and gold-plated doors and a gorgeous white canopy, I stare at it from outside for a while before Tyler groans and pulls me inside by my wrist. A doorman greets us and holds open the door, welcoming us to the hotel and wishing us a great evening. I get the impression that Tyler doesn’t particularly want to be here when he sighs. Right now, he’s either anti-luxury-hotels or anti-Rachael-and-Meghan.
The lobby is small but inviting, with plenty of seating, and Tyler and I briskly whisk past the front desk and head for the elevator. Rachael and Meghan’s suite is on the tenth floor, so that’s exactly where we head. Tyler folds his arms across his chest and leans back against the hand railing.
“What’s your problem?” I ask, finally.
“Why am I here?” he replies without missing a beat.
I furrow my eyebrows, perplexed at his question. “They’re your friends.”
“Eden,” he says, “I don’t think I’ve spoken to Rachael more than six times in the space of a year and I haven’t spoken to Meghan at all. Neither have you. Admit it.”
I shrug. He’s right in a way. Meghan doesn’t particularly make much effort to talk to any of us anymore. It’s almost like she was glad to leave LA. The only time I really got the chance to talk to her was when she occasionally came home. Even I don’t feel as close to her as I used to be. “Okay, sure, Meghan’s a little more difficult to stay in touch with,” I admit.
“C’mon,” Tyler says with a harsh laugh, “she clearly doesn’t wanna deal with any of us anymore. She’s all about Utah and that Jared guy. Are they married yet? Because they sure as hell act like they are.”
“Jesus, Tyler.”
“Look,” he says quietly. “I just think it’s awkward. I’m not friends with them anymore. It’s just what happens.”
The elevator comes to a smooth stop and the door pings open, cutting our conversation short. I’m not sure I would have mustered up a reply, anyway. Tyler still looks moody as hell and he doesn’t even attempt to hide it as we head along the tenth floor. I pull out my phone again as we walk, double-checking Rachael’s texts to ensure I’ve got the details right, and then draw Tyler to a halt outside the correct door. I rap my knuckles against it.
As we wait, my eyes drift to Tyler. He’s staring at the door, expression now nonchalant, and I can’t help but study every inch of his face. His tanned complexion and his dark, tousled hair that he blames on his Hispanic genes, his vibrant emerald eyes that alternate between dull and bright, his perfectly defined jaw with just the right amount of stubble . . .
All of that . . . All of that is mine.
“What?” he says, catching my stare. Those green eyes gaze into mine.
I can’t even begin to hide my smile, and as my lips curve further up into a sheepish grin, I just shrug. “Nothing.”