The Break(50)

“They’re even more gorgeous up close,” I say. “Like powerful machines, all tight and sinewy and explosive when they race, and some are treated like royalty, bathed to a sheen, but I think it was conflicting for him because he knew some were being treated terribly and exploited for profit. I was too young to understand any of that when he used to take me to the racetrack, up until I was twelve or so and then it was just so early I wanted to sleep in instead. He’d get up at five a.m. to go,” I clarify, so that Harrison doesn’t think I’m some spoiled brat who couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed. “Because he had to be in his shop by seven thirty. Looking back, I wish I made more of an effort to hang out with him at his shop, or just figure out ways to keep doing things together.”

“You could still do that. The next time you’re home,” Harrison says.

He’s right. I should. “I owe them a visit,” I say. I shake my head, slow down a bit. “And then my mom, well, she’s trickier. We don’t have an easy relationship. She can be very cold with me, and she’s really prone to depression, so sometimes she couldn’t get it together enough to mother us and she just took to her bed.” I let out a strangled laugh. “Sorry,” I say. “Took to her bed. That sounded so old-fashioned. And sorry I’m going dark on you here. But she’s complicated. And some of the ways she withheld love probably have to do with the ways in which I seek it.”

Harrison’s eyebrows rise. “That’s pretty astute for someone your age,” he says, and somehow the way he says it doesn’t come out insulting toward all young people; it comes out like he thinks I’m a marvel. “It took me a long time to work out my stuff with my parents,” he continues. “And they’re gone now, so I’m glad I did. It’s amazing the influence those early years have on your entire life. My mom cheated on my dad—she had several affairs, actually, and a bunch of times I knew what was happening, and it nearly killed me,” he says. The waitress sets down a bill and smiles at us. She must have heard what he said, but she doesn’t let on. Harrison puts his credit card down quickly and she takes it.

“I’m so sorry,” I say when she leaves.



“Yeah,” he says. He looks at me and I hold his eyes. “I remember this dress she used to wear when she wanted to look beautiful, attractive, and it weighs me down how often I think back on it. It feels like carrying around a loaded weapon I never wanted in the first place.” He looks away. “She was very beautiful,” he says, and then he shakes his head like he’s trying to set free the memory of her and what she did. “One of the things I like about New York is how forthcoming people are about their pasts. So don’t apologize for going dark. Wasn’t even that dark.”

“I could go darker,” I say, trying to make him smile, because when I think of a boy growing up knowing those things . . .

“So could I.” The corner of his full mouth lifts into a smirk.

The waitress appears again, thanking us and setting down the check. “Thank you for dinner,” I say.

He signs it, and I think of all the actresses he’s taken out for a meal. “I’ll take you somewhere nicer next time,” he says when the waitress is out of earshot.

“Next time?” I repeat playfully.

“Next time,” he says, confidence in his voice, the same confidence I hear at work, one of the things about him I’m drawn to.

I want to kiss him. And he wants to kiss me. He’s the first person I’ve wanted to kiss since that misguided mess with Sean.

We leave the restaurant, and outside the night is dim. Taxis and delivery trucks and bicycles zoom by, but I feel quiet somewhere deep inside me. Night in New York does this to me, but so does Harrison. I take his hand as we walk, and it feels so good. He’s warm, and I’m not sure whether that’s because he’s nervous or that’s just how he always is. I guess if this keeps happening, I’ll find out. We walk along the street and I think about him undressing me, staring at me, really seeing me. I think about where it will happen: My bedroom? No—no way. I can’t take him to my apartment. Not because it’s small and kinda crappy but because I can’t bring a guy home with Sean there. I get a chill just thinking about how awful that would be.



Harrison and I walk silently toward the theater’s neon sign—PLAYWRIGHTS in yellow, HORIZONS in orange—emblazoned over steel planks and wide glass windows. But no matter how excited I am, I can’t shake Sean. He’s a hulking presence, a storm cloud hovering in my thoughts.

Belonging—that’s what it is. Sean thinks we belong to each other, and I haven’t figured out how to tell him he’s desperately mistaken, and I’m not sure what he’ll do to me when I do.





TWENTY-FIVE


Rowan. Friday afternoon. November 11th.


Lila wails inside her car seat. I’m stuck in a clogged line of traffic on the way back downtown from my mom’s. Rain pounds the windshield. “Oh, Lila, sweet girl,” I say, gripping the steering wheel, barely inching forward. “I’m so sorry.” Panic is a hard knot in my chest and I’m desperate. My rational mind knows we’re safe—that Lila’s strapped in, that we’re going from one secure location to another, and that that’s not the case for many mothers and babies across the globe—but my body won’t listen to my rational mind: it’s like there’s a disconnect, like Lila’s sobbing makes me insane and nothing will bring me back from the brink until she’s in my arms and I can settle her.