Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(23)

“This had better be good, Mr. Kelly.”

“Oh, it is. I promise.”

She sighs again, like she can’t believe she’s falling for my tricks. And I can’t believe it, either. “There’s a Starbucks on the corner of Eighth Avenue and Forty-third Street. Be there at seven.”

“Leaving now!” I say. “I’m wearing a purple Bruisers shirt. You can’t miss me.”

“See you there,” she says. There’s a click. And then I’m running into my bedroom looking for a sheet of paper to write on.

I can’t let Delilah go back to California without explaining that I never meant to stand her up. It won’t change anything, but at least I’ll feel better about it.





Delilah





I’m stalling.

It’s a hot summer day in New York. I’m supposed to be on my way to a ball game with a cute hockey player. But instead I’m staring at the bottled sodas on offer at Starbucks, trying to decide which one will shore me up enough to face Brett Ferris at this meeting.

“Omigod,” Becky says. “Choose something while I’m still young.”

I wave Becky toward the counter to order her own drink. I don’t follow, because I’m busy eavesdropping on the women behind me. They’re at a table, each of them with babies in strollers. I don’t like to make assumptions based only on skin tone, but after listening to their conversation for three minutes, I’ve already established that they’re nannies of the children in their care.

“It all comes down to four weeks of day camp,” one of them is saying to her friend. “If I could pay for August, I could cobble the rest of the summer together with relatives’ help.”

“How much is Mia’s camp?” asks the other one.

“Three hundred dollars a week. So that’s twelve hundred bucks. It’s more than a third of my income. But if I don’t pay for the camp, then I’m going to have to quit this job or leave her home alone all day.” She groans. “Nine is too young to stay home in the Bronx, even if I pay for a second phone instead of camp, and then call her every hour.”

I’m still staring at the bottled juices, but my mind is somewhere else now. The Bronx? I’m not familiar enough with New York to guess where this nine-year-old lives. She’s sitting on a window seat, staring outside while other children pass by on the street. She’s lonely, because her mother is holding someone else’s baby for money.

This is how all my songs start out—with a picture in my mind.

“I don’t know what to do,” the woman says.

“Would you ever ask your boss if you could have a nine-year-old helper for a couple of weeks?” her friend asks.

“A month, though.” I hear her sigh. “That would be a last resort, I guess. But the family won’t like it. It pierces the bubble, you know? I always try to make them think I put their baby first.”

“As if,” the friend says.

“Dee,” Becky says under her breath. Becky never says “Delilah” in public, because sometimes the big sunglasses and the hat I’m wearing aren’t enough to keep curious eyes off me.

I pick up a juice bottle and hand it to her, and with a sigh of relief, she goes up to the register to pay for both of us.

By the time she’s back, I’ve already written the check. It’s for $1200—enough for four weeks of day camp. I leave the “To” line blank.

“Here,” Becky says, handing me my drink. “What are you… Oh, Dee. Really? Which one is it for?”

I tip my head toward the young woman with the blue stroller. “Summer camp for her own child. Trust me.”

“You are such an easy target,” she whispers.

“No I’m not,” I argue. My checks say D Spark and the address is a post office box in Culver City. When I make these little donations, nobody even knows.

“Now go, okay?” Becky checks the time on her phone. “You’re going to be late if you don’t leave now.”

“So?” I argue. “Why are you so twitchy today?” Even as I ask, I see Becky checking the door.

“I’m not. But go anyway. I can’t give that woman this check until you get out of here.”

“Fine.” I’m not trying to create some kind of PR moment. When I do my little random acts of kindness, it’s supposed to be anonymous. “I’m going. But I don’t want to.”

Becky gives my bodyguard—Mr. Muscles—a wave across the room. “I just want to say one more thing before you go into that meeting. Every woman has a man she regrets.”

“Tell me about it,” I mumble.

“I’m trying. Because you tend to beat yourself up over Brett Ferris. But not today, okay? Today he’s just an oops. We all have them.”

“You are full of wisdom.” I uncap my juice and take a sip.

“Now go. Unless you need me to come along as your emotional support animal.”

This makes me smile. “I’m going. What are you doing, anyway?” She’s glancing around the room again, as if she lost something.

“Maybe I’ll sit here a little while and return some emails.”

“Whatever floats your boat. Later!”