In a New York Minute(75)

“Um, water’s good.”

She grabbed two glasses and passed them to me. “Water’s in a pitcher in the fridge,” she said.

There went my great exit.

“Sure, yeah. And then I’ll probably head back into the city,” I said, admiring how, for a New Yorker, and a single one at that, Franny had so much food in her fridge. And not takeout containers either—neatly stacked Swiss yogurts and glass containers of sliced vegetables.

“Nice try, The Third,” she said, turning to shove the bowl toward me. “I have one more thing to teach you before you can go.”

She nodded toward the couch, moving first to slide over the fireplace screen, and then settled into a corner, curling her legs under her and grabbing the remote off the table by the bay window. I followed, planting myself on the other side of the sofa, putting our drinks and popcorn on top of a pile of Italian cookbooks that sat stacked on the floor in front of the couch. Her smart TV clicked on, and she tapped the remote with purpose until she found what she was looking for. “Okay, I’m gonna give you one last chance,” she said, fixing her gaze on me. “Tell me you’ve seen Moonstruck.”

“Francesca Doyle,” I said, “forgive me. But I have not.”

“And here you had the audacity to lecture me on my heritage while never having seen what is possibly the greatest New York love story of all time? I am sincerely offended.”

“I thought SubwayQTs was the greatest New York love story of all time.” I said it as a joke, but as the words left my mouth they felt anything but funny. They were honest and true.

“We’re a close second,” she said with a smile, running a hand through her curls. “Do you have to be up early tomorrow morning?” she asked, pointing the remote at me.

I shook my head. I was supposed to meet Perrine for a run at seven, but I had nixed that via text when Franny had taken a moment to lean over on the bridge and gaze toward the East River. It wasn’t that I’d known the night would end up here, with me on her couch, trying not to show how nervous I was. But something inside me had felt hopeful that the night would just go on forever. And so I canceled plans I would never normally cancel simply because of that feeling. Because of maybe. Because of what if. Because there was something so possible about this night.

“Good,” she said. “We’re watching Moonstruck.”

“Moonstruck,” I said, my mind scrambling to place exactly which movie this was. “With Cher?”

“Yes, with Cher. What other Moonstruck is there?” She reached for a handful of popcorn and tossed a piece in my direction.

“Hey!” I swatted her away defensively. “I’m game. But what am I missing here?”

Franny’s eyes narrowed. “Hayes…”

“What!” I said with a laugh.

“This is not only the most important representation of Italian Americans on film, but it takes place on this very street.”

“Cranberry Street.”

“Oh my god, yes, Cranberry Street. Why are you so clueless sometimes?”

There was something in me that twitched when she called me clueless, that feeling of fear that maybe I was misreading things. But then she scrunched up her nose and smiled at me as she stretched out in my direction and leaned back into the couch cushions, the popcorn bowl between us. I tried to turn my attention to the TV as she hit PLAY, but my eyes kept betraying me and focusing on her instead. Every lean toward the popcorn brought us closer and closer together, until she finally moved the bowl to the ground, tucked a pillow under her head, and lay down so her hair grazed my thigh, just so.

Could she feel how tense I was? How every cell in my body was sending signals to that one spot on my leg to play it cool? I was barely holding myself together, contemplating whether I should simply ask, “Is what I think is happening between us actually happening?” or just bend down and press my mouth against hers, no words said. Instead, Franny twisted in place, looking up at me with a smile, and then grabbed my hand from where it rested on the back of her couch, tense and electric, and brought it down to wrap around her, her fingers laced in mine.

I expected this to undo me, but instead my shoulders relaxed. The sensation of my hand against hers soothed me, like the feeling of a cold washcloth pressed against my feverish forehead as a kid. I could breathe again. I traced slow circles on her skin with my thumb. Everything in my body slowed, as if to say This is where you should be. Stay.

And then, to my own shock, I got sucked into the movie unfolding before us. I got why Cher and Nicolas Cage yelling at each other about love was intoxicating. It was loud and passionate and angry, but it was honest and pure too, and watching their back-and-forth made me think of Franny and me. It was messy, but it made complete sense. We made sense. About halfway through the movie, I leaned down to tell Franny, but she was folded into herself and fast asleep.

It was nearly 3 a.m. when the movie finished. Franny was still asleep on the couch, our empty glasses and decimated popcorn on the floor, our hands still entwined. One of her legs had stretched out, and I’d stared longer than I cared to admit at the curve of her calf, her smooth skin. I felt delirious, exhausted but still wide-awake. I gingerly untangled our fingers and slid up and off the couch slowly so as not to wake her. There was a gray knit blanket slung over the back of the couch, and I draped it over Franny. I grabbed our glasses and the popcorn bowl, and crept to the kitchen, sliding my socked feet along the old floors so as not to wake her with the sound of creaking wood.