The Assistants(51)
It was the website. Our website. Wendi had fiddled with it since I’d last seen it. She’d made it cleaner, sharper, less wordy, and she’d added two scrolling tickers across its top.
“We are live,” Emily said.
The ticker on the left was labeled Members. It started at two. Emily and me, I guessed.
The ticker on the right was labeled Money Raised. It started at $250,000. The amount taken in from tonight’s tickets, I supposed.
And then it happened. The numbers started rolling.
The site reached fifty-two members in less than sixty seconds.
“Look at ’er go,” Emily said, reluctant to step away from the microphone. “Your donations made this possible. Thank you.”
The Members ticker rolled like it was on molly. We reached 102 members in less than another minute.
“But if you’re feeling a little extra generous,” Emily said, “after all the delicious beverages you’ve enjoyed tonight, provided by Patrón and the Brooklyn Brewery . . .”
She smiled. Sponsorship shout-outs, check.
“. . . our diligent volunteers are coming around with iPads . . .”
Out came Wendi and Lily, each carrying an eye-high stack of iPads. They were both wearing T-shirts featuring our logo. Our logo was just the words The Assistance in a cool-looking font, but this “design” was garnering lots of attention because the designer was some kind of art star. “I could have done that,” I whispered to Emily when I first saw it, and I’ll say it again here. Design is a career that baffles me, along with consulting and hedge fund management, and waving the flag at a construction site. But I digress.
Lily’s T-shirt was pale pink; Wendi’s was black and she’d torn off the sleeves, so it was more of a muscle shirt. The iPads were unknowingly on loan from the Titan digital supply closet.
“Feel free to pick up an iPad,” Emily said, “and donate a dollar, or ten dollars, or ten thousand dollars, just to see the ticker here on the big screen change.”
What a bunch of fools. Would you believe they actually fell for this? Half the crowd scrambled for an iPad and began tapping away at it while watching the big screen.
The Money Raised ticker started to flip as quickly as the Members ticker.
I figured it was safe for me to leave the stage at this point. My work for the night was done, at last.
Kevin appeared the moment I stepped down and handed me a glass of wine. “I’m so proud of you,” he said.
I gratefully accepted the wine, as well as his praise. “Thank you so much for coming,” I replied, which was a throwaway comment, but I followed it up with, “I’m really glad you’re here.” And the moment I said it, I realized just how much I wasn’t bullshitting him. I actually was glad he was there. I would rather have had him there with me than anyone else in the world. Which may not sound like much—but I’d never been able to say that about anyone before.
Kevin put his hands on my bare arms, and they felt so warm. He slid them up to my shoulders, then back down to my elbows, and pulled me in toward him. He kissed my cheek, then my neck, and then whispered into my ear, “I love you so much.”
Love, he said. Love. For the first time.
He reached for my face and kissed me with a passion that brought even the tickers to a stunned halt. If a photo of the moment hadn’t been Instagrammed, I would have been sure I’d imagined it. I would have been sure I’d imagined the entire night.
22
I AWOKE the morning after the launch party to the sounds of hipsters gossiping their way to Sunday brunch, which told me I’d slept till at least eleven. My alarm clock verified this and Emily arrived shortly after, still wearing last night’s dress.
“Walk of shame?” I asked.
“I didn’t walk.” Emily reached for my coffee cup and finished what was inside. “The young gentleman I went home with last night was the most generous lover I’ve ever known. I think his father is some sort of Russian metals tycoon? He bought me a thirty-dollar breakfast.” She unzipped the back of her dress. “Eggs Benedict.”
“Congratulations,” I said, reaching for an Oreo from the stack on my nightstand.
Emily waddled into the kitchen on bare feet, her dress wide open in the back. She returned with a fresh cup of coffee for herself and resumed her striptease, ceremoniously stepping out of her dress and then wrapping herself in a silk kimono robe that my mother surely would have described as Oriental.
“Have you looked at the website?” she asked. “How much money did we raise last night?”
“I don’t know,” I said with my mouth full. “I haven’t checked.”
“Are you kidding me? You’re just lying there eating cookies and didn’t even think to turn on your computer?”
“Why didn’t you check?” I shot back in the vicious manner of voice I usually reserved for the a-holes who worked at the South Williamsburg post office.
“My phone is dead or I would have. What the hell is your problem?”
“Kevin told me he loved me last night.”
“Whaaat?” Emily pulled her silk kimono tighter and took a seat on the edge of my bed. “And what did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”