In a New York Minute(11)

“I told you,” I said as the line moved forward an inch. “I was only trying to help. It was no big deal.”

I shook my head, exasperated, and paused to order, finally—arugula, beets, cucumber, grilled tempeh, lemon vinaigrette. The man working behind the counter nodded in recognition. It was the same thing I ordered every day.

“You know, you really should try something else,” Perrine teased, poking me in the ribs with a laminated menu. “Chickpeas or avocado. Or, oh, I know, maybe add some cheese. Now that would be wild.”

I didn’t give her more than a quick smirk. The teasing had been the same since we were little kids, because, well, I guess I hadn’t changed much. My mom lovingly called me “particular”; Perrine called me a “high-maintenance diva.” I was an acquired taste, apparently.

I’d never felt insecure about my personality until I read the documents served to me by my ex-wife’s lawyer. Incompatible. This had been Angie’s reason for our divorce, and the word had secretly haunted me for the past three years, lurking behind me every time I struck up a conversation or considered a first date. Incompatible. This was the label I wore every day now, tucked into my jacket like a pocket square. Even, I guess, when my jacket was now on the back of a stranger.

I paid for our salads, tossed a ten-dollar bill in the tip jar, and followed Perrine to a table by the window.

“So, what, you just let her have it?” she asked, shoving a forkful of greens in her mouth.

I nodded, sprinkling just the right amount of salt into my palm before tossing it onto my salad.

“That sounds like jacket-splaining to me.” She paused for effect, desperate for me to acknowledge her joke. “Get it? Like mansplaining? Only with your coat.”

“Yes, I get it. You’re hilarious.” I threw a napkin at her head. It landed on her brow and sat there for a beat before she yanked it off and tucked it in her lap. I held my hand out for a high five, and she begrudgingly reciprocated.

“And let me guess who made it—Armani?”

This was a classic line of teasing between us, and our extended family, even though I constantly reminded them I would always rather have one expensive, well-made thing, as opposed to a ton of cheaper stuff that didn’t last. Especially when you considered the impact on the environment. But above all, I just liked things that last. This was why my short-lived marriage was also another punch line among the Montgomery clan. Luckily, Perrine wasn’t going there today—yet.

“Gucci,” I said before taking another bite. “From their sustainable line that came out a couple years ago.”

“You gave a Gucci jacket to a stranger?” Her mouth was caught somewhere between a grimace and a grin.

“It’s just a jacket.”

“But…” Perrine stared at me. “Why?”

“Because it was the right thing to do.” I pressed my lips into a straight line. I wasn’t used to this, the strange, self-conscious discomfort that came with having to explain myself.

“And,” I added, “it was the polite thing to do.”

That would shut Perrine down. My actions were almost always clear-cut, done with precision and reason. These were easy decisions to explain. But it was a lot harder to justify a random act of kindness to a stranger.

The problem was, the woman on the subway hadn’t felt like a stranger. Something about her had felt deeply familiar, like slipping into a favorite old sweatshirt. I’d noticed it immediately, right when she stepped on, before her dress fiasco. And then I couldn’t stop glancing at her, the way the curls of her hair touched her forehead just so, her delicate lips like a perfectly tied bow. But her eyes were so sad, like a kid whose dog had just died.

What I felt wasn’t sexual, not exactly. It was just a feeling, and it scrambled my brain. Like when you see a stranger and you can’t stop staring at them, and you want to know what’s going on in their head at that very second. And then when her dress ripped, and her expression downshifted into horror, well—I couldn’t have stopped the urge to help her if I’d tried. And that uncontrollable, inexplicable feeling annoyed the crap out of me.

“But was she pretty?” Perrine said, interrupting my thinking.

“I mean”—I shrugged—“sure. But it’s not like I was trying to ask her out.”

The woman on the subway hadn’t looked anything like the women I’d dated before or after Angie, or what my mother called my “blond army of exes,” a flip remark she’d made last summer while offering her thoughts on the status of my dating life (or lack thereof).

“The Hayes doth protest too much, methinks.”

“I wasn’t!”

“Fine,” Perrine said, narrowing her eyes and letting it go. But I knew thoughts were still churning away in her head. Perrine was calculating, and as inquisitive as a cat. Nothing got past her. Literally, nothing. It’s what made her an amazing surgeon. But it’s also what made her a pain in the ass.

Now my brain was off and running, remembering the long slope of the woman on the subway’s nose, and her bright lips, and the way her short, wavy black hair framed the angles of her face just right. What had Perrine called it when she’d cut her hair short a few years ago? A bob? The first thought that had popped into my mind when I’d turned and seen the woman frantically wrestling with her dress was how my hands would fit perfectly in her curls. I shook my head to get the thought out of my brain, did a few neck rolls to loosen the tension that had settled there. Everything about today was just off.