Where can I find Dash?
R U a stalker?
Possibly.
Awesome. His mom’s place is at E Ninth & University.
Which building?
A good stalker doesn’t need to ask.
I did want to ask Edgar: Did we kiss last night?
I licked my morning lips. My mouth felt very full and untouched by luscious mat er other than pancakes and syrup.
Wanna get wasted again tonight?
From Edgar Thibaud.
Suddenly I recalled Edgar hit ing on Aryn as Dash had helped my unfortunately wasted self out of the pub.
1. No. Retiring from that game. 2. And especially not with you. Regards, Lily The snow crunched beneath my boots as I made my way home that afternoon. East Ninth Street at University Place was a not totally inconvenient stop between Mrs. Basil E.’s in Gramercy Park and my apartment in the East village, and I reveled in the winter’s walk along the way. I love snow for the same reason I love Christmas: It brings people together while time stands still. Cozy couples lazily meandered the streets and children trudged sleds and dogs chased snowballs. No one seemed to be in a rush to experience anything other than the glory of the day, with each other, whenever and however it happened.
There were four di erent apartment buildings at each corner of East Ninth and University. I approached the rst one and asked the doorman, “Does Dash live here?”
“Why? Who wants to know?”
“I’d like to know, please.”
“No Dash lives here that I know of.”
“No Dash lives here that I know of.”
“Then why did you ask who wanted to know?”
“Why are you asking for Dash if you don’t know where he lives?”
I took a spare Baggie of lebkuchen spice cookies out of my bag and handed it to the doorman. “I think you could use some of these,” I said. “Merry December 28.”
I walked across the block to the next building. There was no uniformed doorman, but a man sat behind a desk in the lobby as some elderly people using walkers strolled the hallway behind him. “hello!” I greeted him. “I’m wondering if Dash lives here?”
“Is Dash an eighty-year-old retired cabaret singer?”
“I’m pret y sure not.”
“Then no Dash here, kiddo. This is a nursing home.”
“Do any blind people live here?” I asked.
“Why?”
I handed him my card. “Because I would like to read to them. For my college applications. Also, I like old people.”
“How generous of you. I’ll hold on to this just in case I hear of anything.” He glanced down at my card. “Nice to meet you, Lily Dogwalker.”
“You too!”
I crossed the street to the third building. A doorman was outside shoveling snow. “Hi! Would you like some help?” I asked him.
“No,” he said, eyeing me suspiciously. “Union rules. No help.”
I gave the doorman one of the Starbucks gift cards one of my dog-walking clients had gifted me with before Christmas. “Have a co ee on me on your break, sir.”
“Thanks! Now whaddya want?”
“Does Dash live here?”
“Dash. Dash who?”
“Not sure of his last name. Teenage boy, on the tall side, dreamy blue eyes. Peacoat. Shops at the Strand near here, so maybe he carries bags from there?”
“Doesn’t sound familiar.”
“Seems sort of … snarly?”
“Oh, that kid. Sure. Lives at that building.”
The doorman pointed to the building on the fourth corner.
I walked over to that building.
“Hi,” I said to the doorman, who was reading a copy of the New Yorker. “Dash lives here, right?” The doorman looked up from his magazine. “16E? Mom’s a shrink?”
“Right,” I said. Sure, why not?
The doorman tucked the magazine into a drawer. “He went out about an hour ago. Want to leave a message for him?” I took a package from my bag. “Could I leave this for him?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I handed the doorman my card also. He glanced at it. “No pets allowed in this building,” he said.
“That’s tragic,” I said.
No wonder Dash was so snarly.
The package I’d left for Dash contained a gift box of English breakfast tea and the red notebook.
Dear Dash:
Meeting you through this notebook meant a lot to me. Especially this Christmas.
But I know I botched its magic, big-time.
I’m so sorry.
What I’m sorry about is not being a tipsy idiot when you found me. I’m sorry about that, obviously, but more sorry that my stupidity caused us to lose a great opportunity. I don’t imagine you would have met me and fall en crazy in love with me, but I would like to think that if you’d had a chance to meet me under dif erent circumstances, something just as nice could have happened.
We could have become friends.
Game over. I get that.
But if you ever want a (sober) new Lily friend, I’m your girl.
I feel like you may be a special and kind person. And I would like to make it my business to know special and kind people. Especially if they are boys my age.
Thank you for being a real stapler of a hero guy.
There is a snowman in the garden at my great-aunt’s house who’d like to meet you. If you dare.
Regards,
Lily
PS I’m not going to hold it against you that you associate with Edgar Thibaud, and I hope you will extend me the same courtesy.