That’s the second point at which they don’t stop.
The third is when his hands find their way under her puffy coat, meandering down the bare skin of her back, and then slipping beneath the silky fabric of the dress. He palms her ass and she can’t help moaning into his mouth and he could take one step and back her up against that wall.
There’s a part of Ari’s mind that’s throwing caution tape all over the encounter. The acceptable boundaries of “just friendship” are getting pulled and stretched to the point of imminent tearing.
But they don’t stop here, either.
Because something is incredibly right about it. There’s a pleasant ache in her belly and a tangled web of surging emotions and who the fuck cares about friendship when you can feel like this instead of being numb?
She’s reaching up to run her fingers through his hair—something she’s always thought about doing, if she’s honest—when a loud CRACK rips through the freezing air, snapping both of them out of their shared feverish haze.
They both recoil. Ari knocks against the back wall and Josh pulls his hands away like an old-timey schoolmaster smacked them with a ruler.
A sustained cheer erupts from somewhere to the south.
The thing that finally stops them from committing a misdemeanor is the starting pistol of the New York Road Runners Midnight Run.
They stare at each other for what seems like a full minute, both of them waiting for the other to do something. It would be easy enough to just step forward again. She could bite her lip. He might shrug and glance at the ground. They’d get back into it with a certain shyness this time. With more intention.
But as two, five, ten seconds pass, the strange, electric energy that enveloped them dissipates like a breath in the cold air.
Maybe it hadn’t been the pistol. It could have been a lightning bolt thrown down by the goddess of For Fuck’s Sake, Don’t Run This Friendship Off a Cliff.
Her throat is burning with the urge to explain why the kiss shouldn’t be the start of some epic romance. That they can just stay right where they are. Or, wherever they were yesterday. If one more precious thing in her life falls away, it’ll be unbearable.
But the world is still spinning a bit, like she’s just stepped off a carousel.
“That was…” She trails off, unsure what she’d intended to say.
Right now, “just friends” is a comfortable certainty. A gravity blanket. A subtle vanilla-scented candle.
And the alternative is a giant blinking cursor and a blank document. Sometimes it feels like Josh has already been poking around that page. Writing passages and deleting them before she’s ready to open it.
Something in his expression turns cloudy.
“It was just a New Year’s kiss,” he says after an eternity of honking horns and off-key renditions of “Auld Lang Syne.” “And the pot.”
“Right,” is all she manages, all her rhetorical skill apparently buried under the combination of mind-altering substances, adrenaline, and unfulfilled need.
“It doesn’t have to be…anything.” His voice is firm; his face tells another story. He must be transmitting some kind of clue, but Ari can’t decipher it.
A sharp gust of wind billows around her unzipped coat. He turns toward the incline that leads back to Central Park West. “We should move before they close off the path for the race.”
He heads through the arch, not waiting for her, not hesitating when she doesn’t immediately follow.
Ari stays put for a few more seconds, wondering if he might stop and turn around, giving her time to catch up. But he keeps walking away, not even slowing his pace.
Pushing off the wall, she hurries after him.
Maybe this will be fine. Maybe this is how normal people deal with mistakes. They just keep moving forward. She reminds herself to take some deep breaths, but the freezing air hurts her lungs.
As soon as she gets to the spot where the hill starts to rise, her beautiful, impractical stiletto slips on the frost-covered pavement again, sending a jolt of panic through her body as she catches herself.
“Josh!” She turns to the side and takes tiny, shuffling steps, feeling ridiculous. “I can’t get up the hill.”
“I guess you’ll just have to live there,” Josh calls over his shoulder. He takes his time coming back for her.
16
Wed Jan 4, 11:24 p.m.
Josh: I already selected tonight’s film.
Does Donnie Darko hold up?
Disaffected teen Josh Kestenberg thought it was the height of cinema.
11:34 p.m.
Ari: sorry can’t tonight
really busy
Josh: At 11:34 pm?
Ari: didn’t you say I should get back out there?
Catch up later?
Mon, Jan 9, 9:57 p.m.
Josh: Hello?
Still busy?
10:26 p.m.
Ari: hi
I served all the canapés in the tri-state area
Josh: Are you serving canapés on Sunday?
There’s a Buster Keaton series at Film Forum.
Ari: can’t
Helping with Radhya’s popup
Josh: Right.
Sun, Jan 15, 10:23 a.m.
Unknown Number: Ari! Abby Cohen here.
Had a lightning bolt idea. Would love to discuss.
Can you meet for a quick coffee tomorrow morning around 9?
* * *
—
THE INTERIOR OF BOHEMIAN GARDEN has a certain unpretentious charm. The smell of spilled beer and grilled sausage has been seeping into the dark wood paneling for fifty years. For today only, Radhya has masked it with turmeric, cardamom, coriander, and tamarind. She and Ari covered the beer promos with decorative pieces borrowed from Radhya’s cousin’s wedding: thick garlands of artificial marigolds in yellow and red, parasols hung from the ceiling, long strands of tassels and pompoms.
“Let’s review the evidence.” Gabe expertly spreads a block print tablecloth over a four-top. “You hang out. You text all day.”
“We really don’t,” Ari says, placing stainless steel spice boxes at each booth. It’s not a lie because they’ve hardly exchanged more than a handful of heys in the last week.
Conveniently, the gig economy provides evergreen excuses such as: “Can’t tonight, I’m pouring wine/serving shrimp puffs/walking five dogs/signing terrifying relationship-severing legal paperwork/writing a bar mitzvah speech.”
And it’s not avoidance if you actually answer the text.
Besides, Ari’s been going out more than ever—she’s never experienced this level of popularity on dating apps—but navigating the dynamics of dating and sex and boundaries and comfort levels with two strangers instead of just one has been exhausting. Witnessing “new to poly” couples steer themselves through the volatile waters of opening up their relationships for the first time, Ari feels a profound sense of relief that she can walk away from any of them, at any moment.
And there’s a Josh-shaped indent underneath all the new conversations.
“You spend hours on the phone at night, talking about God knows what—”
“Movies.” Ari busies herself by pouring Radhya’s spiced nuts and poppadoms into small bowls.
“I happen to know that Ari Sloane doesn’t actually watch movies.”
“I’ve been watching them,” she insists.
“You should’ve banged immediately and gotten it out of your system.” Gabe is loving this drama, practically dancing to the next table. “You let it fester—”
“Can you not use the term ‘fester’?”
“—then you bypassed the meaningless sex part and went straight for making out on a national holiday. Now he thinks you’re dating.”
“He doesn’t.” She’s pretty sure he doesn’t. “He’s a friend. We’ve been very clear about that.” Have we?
“Okay, but I bet he fucks.” Something clatters from the kitchen, as if to underline Gabe’s assertion. “From what I’ve seen, he has that ugly-hot thing happening.”
“Will you stop saying that?” Ari sets down a trio of decorative candles on the long, communal table. “It’s rude.”
Great, now all she can think about is whether she personally agrees that Josh is “ugly-hot” or just “regular-hot” and whether the distinction even matters.