The Becoming of Noah Shaw (The Shaw Confessions #1)(16)

“What are you going to do?”

I look at my girl. “Whatever we want.”





11


WHAT YOU SEE

WE CLOSE DOWN THE BAR and form a quivering circle on the street. The scale ranges from tipsy (Jamie and Sophie) to piss drunk (Mara and Daniel). Goose is solid, having inherited his tolerance from a long purebred line of alcoholics. I’m a blaze of energy standing between him and Mara, listening to the rumble of the subway beneath us and the footsteps/heartbeats/chatter of (mostly) students far more pissed than we. The moon hangs in the faded blue sky, and I feel a hundred times awake.

“Cab?” Jamie asks us. I realise then I’ve no idea where he’s been staying.

“Train,” Sophie says. “I’m in Lincoln Center.”

Daniel shakes his head. “Come back to Palladium with me? I’d feel better if you didn’t go home alone.”

“Some of us have to get up early.” Do I detect a sliver of resentment beneath that formerly cheery soprano?

“Then I’ll go with you.”

“We’ll all go with you,” Mara says. I can tell she doesn’t want to let Daniel go quite yet. She looks to me for agreement, and I give it. After a fashion.

“We’ll come for the ride, though Sophie volunteers as tribute to hold your hair when you vomit,” I say to Daniel, and he’s not so wasted that he can’t glare. “We can all take the F.”

A sceptical, slow stare from Mara. “How do you know?”

“While you were sleeping I memorised the MTA transit map.”

“Really?”

“No,” I pull her into my waist. “But you get carsick, so, I’m calling it. Goose?”

“Whatever, mate. This is your town.”

Jamie snorts. “I can take the F too, so. I’ll make sure you . . . toffs . . . don’t get lost.”

“A-plus use of ‘toffs,’?” Goose says brightly.

“Wait,” Mara draws out the word. “Where are you staying?”

“Aunt’s.” Jamie’s voice is clipped. A shiver ripples through Mara, and something closes off behind Daniel’s eyes. I don’t miss the exchange that passes between them—but it’s hardly the time to ask.

We walk to the F, noisily (Goose), quietly (Daniel), nervously (Sophie), pensively (Jamie). Mara’s melting into dead weight in my arms.

“How much did you drink?”

She holds up three fingers.

“Did you eat?”

“Mmmhmm.” Lying.

“We’re going to have to work on her,” Goose says, tipping his chin toward Mara. “Unless you prefer them unconscious now?”

“Were you always such an incredible cunt?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“How did I miss that?”

“You didn’t.”

Jamie cuts in. “If I’d had to guess, between the two of you, I personally would’ve thought Noah would be the one with a predilection for geese. He does love animals.”

“Mm, no,” Goose says. “That’s the Welsh. And sheep.”

“An ugly stereotype,” I say.

“Did you know,” Mara says to Jamie, “that Wales is a whole different country?”

Jamie looks me in the eye. “She is very drunk.”

“They have their own language! It’s crazy!”

“Never,” Daniel says slowly. “Mix. Alcohol. And. Jet. Lag.”

Mara pats her brother’s shoulder. “Thank you, Gandalf.”

“I prefer Giles! We’ve been over this. Tolkien is problematic.”

“Maybe. Who cares? I love him anyway.”

“That’s the title of your Lifetime movie,” Jamie says, “I Love Him Anyway: The Mara Dyer Story,” and even I start laughing, because it’s fucking brilliant.

Mara manages to give him the finger and descend the stairs to the subway simultaneously. I’m quite proud.

We’re swallowed by heat beneath the city, as well as about a dozen New Yorkers milling about on the platform, still clinging to the edges of the night. Mara leans against me, Jamie flirts rather bizarrely with Goose, and Sophie and Daniel settle into a quiet but relaxed silence as I observe what the East Village at two a.m. has to offer; a birdlike girl with wide-set eyes, headphones far too large for her blond head, standing at the very end of the platform. A woman in a black suit, typing furiously on her laptop in one of the bench seats. There’s a somewhat round student in bright blue jeans and a gold cardigan with another boy—bearded, curly haired—tugging at his jeans and pulling him in close for a kiss. Farther down, a guy our age looks down the tunnel. He’s not tall, but holds himself as though he wants to be. He’s thin but soft-looking, somehow, and quite pale. He stares at the tunnel, waiting for the train like everyone else, I think—until I catch him watching me. His eyes are a startling, unclouded blue. I hold his gaze until it slides past me, into shadow.

Each person is thinking a thousand thoughts I’ll never know, living lives I can only pretend to invent, and then wonder what, if anything, they see and think when they look at me—at us, my eyes flickering toward Mara’s for less than a second. Are we the students we’re pretending to be, exhausted from drinking too much and laughing too loud and dancing too hard tonight? Or aimless gap-year wanderers, on our way to the next adventure? Are Mara and I girlfriend/boyfriend? Not husband/wife, surely?