Yolk(54)

I hope this ensures that he’ll want to see me again.

“I love the subway,” I tell him in a small, light voice. “I’m easy.”





chapter 26


Patrick walks me to the train. We’re huddled under his umbrella, and he’s tilting it to favor my side, his shoulder getting soaked in the process.

When we get to the subway, he pulls me under the marquee of the Mediterranean restaurant on the corner. He closes the umbrella and hands it to me.

I shake my head, like a child, leaving the umbrella to hang between us.

“I’m older than you,” he says, urging it forward. “You’re taking it.”

It’s a nice one, a real one, not even the five-dollar kind you buy off the street.

“Thank you.” I smile at him.

He pulls his hood up and smiles back.

We stand there, cheesing.

He grimaces right as I feel it, the rude flick of cold water spraying us both as we’re almost decapitated by an advancing golf umbrella to our left.

I wipe my face as Patrick ushers me close with a hand to my hip.

We resume grinning, this time for being so oblivious. I nod at the subway stairs behind me.

“Wait,” he says, taking my hand. “When do you leave for Texas?” His warm thumb brushes the length of mine.

“Friday.”

“Let’s hang out before you go.”

“Really?” The hopeful lilt in my voice is mortifying.

“Yeah, really.” He chuckles.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

He leans in and kisses me.

“I’m glad you called,” he says, mouth inches from mine. I hug him hard. “You can keep the umbrella,” he says in my ear. “But I want my fucking sweats.”

I hug him tighter, my New Yorker tote stuffed with clothes mashing between us. I want to tell him I love him, but instead I say, “We’ll see,” and clatter down the stairs. I wave before disappearing around the corner.

I imagine Patrick talking to his friends. The dude group chat. Wondering if he’ll say we hooked up anyway. That I took him in my mouth. Or that I led him on. Calling me a prick tease. Immature. I close my eyes. Things seemed fine, but you can never know what anyone else is ever thinking. Or what they’ll say about you.

I dig for my MetroCard, hitching my bag onto my hip so I can feel through the different shapes for the right one. My fingers catch loose change and various hard crumbs native to the bottoms of purses before curling around the metal carabiner of June’s keys. I fish them out along with my wallet.

Instead of going to Brooklyn, I take the F uptown. On the train, seated across from me, is an older white guy with wire-frame glasses and an orange beanie pulled up high on his forehead. He has his notebook out. He’s doing line drawings of different passengers. Sketching quickly as if trying to capture everyone in New York. I want to take the seat next to him and flip through his book to look for Cruella.

The New Yorkiest New Yorkers aren’t exactly like Pokémon Go, but they also sort of are.

I wonder if Patrick has any favorite New Yorkers. I’ll bet he does. He loves details. I replay the last twelve hours in my head, plucking out different aspects of his apartment. The movie poster. His heavy art books. That goddamned avocado egg timer. The way his kitchen towel felt in my hands as he washed and I dried. I don’t know what this feeling is, this crawling, spreading sensation that feels at once joyful and like shame. Why didn’t I know before this that Patrick was perfect for me? I can’t believe he has that flower hair catcher thing in his tub. I picture us in London. In Paris. At Léon in front of Jeremy, who I can pretend not to recognize as I walk by. I hug myself, smiling.

“Jayne!”

I look up, stunned. Suddenly I’m at June’s building and I’m still smirking stupidly with my arms wrapped around my middle. June gets off the elevator with her eyes wide. I let the smile drop. I thought I’d have a few seconds to get my bitch-face situated.

“What are you doing here?” She’s wearing denim overalls and a raincoat with a hood. Meanwhile, I don’t remember the last time I saw her in jeans, let alone dungarees. She’s holding a neon-yellow plastic folder. Something about the color reminds me of a crossing guard.

She glances at my oversize sweatsuit. And then down to my clothes from last night, which are swinging in my bag. “Where were you?”

“I’m just gonna grab my stuff,” I tell her, sticking my foot in the elevator door before it shuts. “I’ll leave the key with the doorman.”

“Okay,” she says. Her expression’s unreadable. “I’ll get out of your way.”

“Wait, where are you going?”

A beat. “Uptown,” she says.

“Doctor’s appointment?” I nod at the folder in her hand. She’s always bitching about crosstown traffic when she’s headed over there.

She looks down at it and frowns.

“Nah, I’m just meeting with an old client,” she says with a penetrating gaze. “Are you still coming to Texas? At least tell me if I should cancel your ticket.”

I let the elevator doors close without answering her.

She didn’t blink once.



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