“Will there be T-shirts and pins for this new movement?”
“Probably. We’re looking into luggage insignia as well, maybe even some corporate product endorsements from Nike or IBM.”
I don’t realize I am laughing, or even moving, until Nick takes a strand of hair that’s fallen in front of my face and tucks it behind my ear and for a second I feel my breath on his arm. Because now we are looking at each other eye to eye and there’s possibly forgiveness in there, and it’s possibly mutual, and for that second my stomach feels this momentary lurch of hope, it’s the same feeling as dread, and because I am a f**king loser who never learns, I blurt out, “I sort of know you already, actually.”
“Huh?” he says.
The food rush has infiltrated my brain, made it hazy, unable to distinguish between flirting and saying too much. “I feel like I have kind of known you, through Tris. She and I aren’t friends exactly, only we’re not not-friends exactly, either. You made some amazing mixes for that bitch, wrote some great lyrics. I would see that stuff you gave her and always think, Hey, I wouldn’t mind knowing this guy. Not like I wanted to go after Tris’s boyfriend or anything, and I’m not a stalker, at least I don’t think I am, but I guess…” Oh, f**k it, why not just be honest? He’s not the one absolved—I am. “…I guess I just thought you might be a cool person even before I’d met you, based on purely circumstantial evidence. So you don’t think I randomly throw myself at just any guy.”
There is a silence, and in that silence I hate all boys, for never knowing the right thing to say. “Why did you leave?” he asks. Why did YOU stop?
“National security emergency. Salvatore and I got beeped. Turned out to be a false alarm.” Why do you think I left, beautiful moron?
And we’re at a stalemate. We eat.
“Where are your friends?” I finally say after a couple pierogies. Just to say something. Again. I’m sure his boys will be rolling through any moment to retrieve him, probably steal my blintzes. Nick must have found me only so he could get his f**king phone back.
Nick says, “Dev left with Ted.”
“Ted?”
“You know, Ted from Are You Randy?”
“There’s no Ted from Are You Randy? There’s Randy and a bunch of other guys, none named Ted.”
“Then who’s Randy?” Nick asks.
“The guy who was trying to get with Caroline!”
“Who’s Caroline?”
“For f**k’s sake, who’s TED?”
“The guy Dev hooked up with!”
“That’s HUNTER. From Hunter Does Hunter.”
“Oh,” Nick says. “I get it now.” He draws a map on the paper placemat on the table. “Dev’s with Ted, who’s also Hunter, but he’s not Randy, who wanted Caroline, who I guess is the girl in the back of the van with Thom and Scot?”
I place my hand over his fist. “YES!”
It’s almost like I’ve shared another dance with Johnny Castle, and I must be sleeping because this is not real, Nick is not real, this is not happening. I hope I don’t wake up too soon. I pinch his thigh to check, and he leans over to me, and we’re both smiling in anticipation and our eyes are meeting and something I think very natural and sweet is about to happen here, except…
A Beast stands over our table. It points at me. “I need to talk to you. Come into my office.” Tris whips around and heads toward the bathroom. I’m amazed that even with her thick black roots peeking through her platinum-blond hair, the eyeliner and lipstick on her face smudged from the night’s adventures, her eyes bloodshot from fatigue, she still manages to look hot. It’s so wrong.
I stand up from the table and wiggle my index finger at Nick. He’ll never get it, but I borrow from Heathers as I leave him to follow Tris. “‘A true friend’s work is never done,’” I singsong.
“‘Bulimia is so ’87, Heather,’” he answers.
HOLY SHIT squared. I think I just had my first orgasm.
Tris is peeing when I walk in. She is not a person who cares about privacy. But I close the door behind me anyway and say, “What the f**k are you doing here?” She gives me this great castoff, like a gift fallen from the sky, and yet she seems determined that I should not open it or enjoy it.
“I lost my date and I knew I would find you here, borscht bitch. I need cab money home. I figure you owe me. Fifty bucks ought to cover a gypsy cab back to Jersey and a Starbucks run.” She wipes, stands up, flushes. “So can I have it?” She shoves me aside to wash her hands at the sink.
“How do you figure I owe you?”
“You know, I’m giving you Nick.”
“Are you really?” I ask. Because we should get this clear once and for all.
“I really am,” she says, applying a fresh coat of lipstick. I believe her.
“I think I really like him,” I say.
“He likes you, too. Just don’t name your children after months or fruits. Promise me.”
“What?” I say.
She faces me. “Are you going to give me the fifty bucks or not?”
“Don’t you think Nick is worth more than that?”
“Bitch, I’m not trying to quantify the value of a human being. I just need to get home. And don’t cry poor because I know you have a secret stash of emergency money tucked in some pocket.” She leans over me and, honest to Allah, frisks me. “Jesus, you’re stacked! Why do you hide it under these huge shirts all the time?”