We practiced for weeks. Him on the electric guitar, me on the bedazzled acoustic he’d gotten Taylor Swift to sign for me two years earlier. He’d been so excited for me to perform his latest breakout song (albeit recorded by someone much more famous), blasting that fall on every country music station in Nashville. Dad and Jerry, who was only his boyfriend at the time, had shown up to the school auditorium with a video camera and a bouquet of flowers. But I couldn’t even muster up the courage to make it onstage.
They hadn’t cared, of course. We left the talent show early and went to Bolton’s for hot chicken, then home so I could perform the song for an audience of two. Jerry clipped the flowers and rained the petals down on me. It was a good day, in its way. But thinking about it still breaks my heart a little. Dad leaves his legacy behind with every song he writes, and I couldn’t honor it the way we both wanted me to.
“I won’t be good at it,” I admit to Alex softly, biting my lip. “Even worse, I’ll probably choke.”
His expression goes soft and open, and maybe even a little bit tortured, like my words have bothered him in a way I didn’t intend and certainly don’t understand. He opens his mouth and pushes himself off the wall, but right then, the elevator doors open.
We step inside and move to opposite corners, the silence clawing at me. Two older gentlemen stand in front of us, mutely staring at the silver doors. I don’t dare look at Alex after what I just admitted to him. But halfway up the beanstalk, the men exit together, and when the doors close, he slides down the rail toward me.
I glance up, expecting that same soft openness, but he’s already back to his neutral state. “I’ve been thinking a lot,” he begins, his voice like a scratched-up record in a vintage store. “About you.” I gulp, and his eyes drop to my throat. “About the things you said to me during that happy hour. The things I said to you.”
“And?”
He sighs. “And we hurt each other’s feelings.”
“We—” I shake my head. “You didn’t … hurt my feelings.”
“Okay. Fine. I didn’t hurt your feelings when I implied nobody would want to be with you. Just like you didn’t hurt mine when you boiled my whole job down to my bloodline.” He looms over me, casting me in shadow.
“What’s your point?” I bite out.
His eyes drop to the narrow strip of space between our bodies just before he steps away. “I guess I don’t really have one. But I’ve been thinking about it. Wondering if it’s even possible to prove you wrong about who I am, or if it isn’t, because you’re right.”
The elevator peels open on the ninety-eighth floor, and Benny nods a greeting from behind the concierge desk, halfway finished with the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup he’s stress-eating. (I really need to have a conversation with him about allergen-friendly workplace behavior.)
Alex steps toward Benny. But like an afterthought, he throws back to me over his shoulder, “I’m dying to be wrong about you, Casey. You’re not making it easy.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
There’s a note from Miriam stuck to our fridge, scrawled in pink Sharpie on the back of an Ulta receipt:
BE HOME AT 3 A.M. BRIJ MENTIONED Y’ALL ARE GETTING DIN TONIGHT. COULD YOU GUYS CONSIDER ITALIAN?? I WANT GNOCCHI!!!
I text him a picture of her request. When we made plans earlier today, he’d had his heart set on tamales, but he also has his heart set on Miriam, and I know for a fact he will recalibrate to Italian so she’ll have the leftovers she wants after her shift.
I swipe a tepid Diet Coke from the counter—cluttered with everything that doesn’t strictly necessitate refrigeration—and walk into my bedroom.
Once, a three-night stand during my first whirlwind month in New York described this room as what he assumed a thrift store would look like. I’ve latched on to that ever since like it was the biggest compliment in the world, even though I’m pretty sure the dude meant it as a dig. The furniture is ramshackle, my “closet” is just a freestanding Ikea rack of vintage clothes and sample sale purchases, and I can’t see out the window because it’s mostly taken up by the AC unit. Also, it smells like Chinese food from the restaurant one building over mellowed out by sage smudges.
I like what he’d said, though, about the room being thrifted, because that word never fails to remind me of Mom. She died of lung cancer when I was six—a chain-smoker till the end, as Dad tells it with equal parts annoyance and affection—but in every rare, precious photo of her, she’s wearing all these awesome outfits you’d never find in Aritzia. I think part of her fashion sense came from being a Londoner and part came from being a concert photographer. Whatever it was, the woman had style. I was too young to remember most things about her, but I remember sitting on her bed while she got dressed every morning, designing her OOTD in the floor-length mirror. That, I remember.
And suddenly, I’m feeling homesick, dialing my father.
“Hi, honey!” Dad shouts on the other end of the FaceTime call. I wince at the piercing shrill of his voice and hold the phone away from my face, but I can’t help grinning. Dad has a graying ponytail and weathered skin, and his cheeks get rounder each time I see him.
“Hey, Dad. What’s good?”
“Casey!” My stepdad, Jerry, appears, bald with wire-rimmed glasses that frame bright green eyes. He and Dad grin in a way I hardly deserve. “Look at my amaryllis! Here, gimme that.”
There’s a scuffle, during which I hear, “Jer!” Then the phone drops, and the screen goes black. I bite my bottom lip, fighting a snort.
“Casey!” Dad bellows. “Are you okay?”
“Oh my God, you guys dropping your own cell phone can’t hurt—never mind.”
The phone is scooped back up, and I get a glorious view of Jerry’s nose hairs. “Come with me,” he tells me.
“Right behind you.”
Thirty seconds later, he flashes me the amaryllis in question after I give him pointers on how to flip the camera to its front view. I sit up in bed, genuinely astounded. The amaryllis is healthy and vibrant, with tall, green stalks and gorgeous pink flowers.
“Wait, is that the same bulb?” I ask in disbelief. “The dried-up one—”
“That I got from the neighbors’ compost bin? Yeah!” Jerry sticks a thumb up in front of the camera.
Dad snorts somewhere nearby. “You stole it from the neighbor’s compost bin.”
“I didn’t steal it.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“They threw it away.”
I tilt my head from side to side. “I mean, they could have been experimenting with how it would fare in an environment of biological degradation.”
“Only we would do something that weird. I thought you were on my side with this one.” Jerry pouts.
“I am. I can’t believe you got it to bloom.”
“I did exactly what you suggested,” Jerry says proudly. “I mixed three parts Miracle-Gro with one part sandy soil, seven days outdoors and two days in. Water sparingly.”
“The student has become the master,” I brag.
“Don’t push it, sweetheart.”