Together at Midnight Read online

“Three down!” he calls.

  “What?”

  “Three down! Four to go!”

  I flash him a thumbs-up, and then he’s gone.

  I wish he weren’t, and then I feel weird about that wish, and then decide it’s just because I want someone there. I switch my wish to being at the zoo with Jamie. He would have taken some great photos of the animals and maybe we would have kissed in front of a red panda.

  I head back into the park and spend a long time wandering aimlessly around, following one path into another, finding more characters for my book. I can tell there’s snow coming, because the sky looks pale and guilty, like it’s apologizing for what it’s about to do. Eventually I start heading back to the apartment. My feet hurt and it’s getting colder, and the Groset’s looking extra cozy right now.

  When are you coming home? texts Emerson.

  On my way, I reply.

  When I get to his block, he’s waiting for me outside the building, a cigarette in one hand. He doesn’t smoke.

  “Hi?” I say, and it really does come out that way, with the question mark.

  Emerson grabs my wrist and steers me around the corner, then drops the cigarette, stubs it out with his snow boot. “For the record,” he says, pointing to the butt, “this is something I do very occasionally in times of stress or awkward social situations.”

  “Okay.”

  “I am so embarrassed, I don’t know what to say. Even to you.”

  I try to block out the image of that seductive selfie but nope, it’s something I can’t ever un-see. We’re silent for a few moments until I realize he wants me to be the one to ask.

  Fine. “Who’s Brian?”

  Emerson winces, closes his eyes.

  “A guy I met a few weeks ago. He doesn’t know I’m in a relationship.” He opens one eye to peer at me. “What are you thinking about me right now?”

  “I don’t understand. Are you and Andrew having trouble?”

  “No, not at all.” He sounds a little disappointed about this.

  “Everything does seem perfect with you guys.”

  “That’s the problem!” Em sighs, shakes his head. Paces a little circle in front of me. “Andrew’s got it all figured out. He wants us to get married, have kids, buy a house, the whole package. He says he’s sure, but really, how can he be sure? We met when we were nineteen! I adore him. I’m so happy that I found him. But he also scares the crap out of me.”

  Okay, I know what’s going on here. It’s a pattern with my brother: he never knows how lucky he is, and he never sees what he has. In high school, he was the honor roll student, soccer team captain, guy with a million friends. And he spent most of that time complaining that he was never smart enough, fast enough, popular enough. I have fantasized about slapping him on many occasions and this should be one of them, but he’s looking so confused right now.

  “You should talk to him,” I say.

  “I can’t. He gets really hurt when I bring up questions like this.”

  “You’re right. Cheating on him is so much better.”

  “I haven’t cheated on anyone yet. I’ve just been . . . flirting.”

  “But you’re planning to hook up,” I say. Emerson bites his lip. “Admit it.”

  “I can’t talk to him,” he says, like this is some great excuse. Then he looks me over. “Wait. Maybe you can.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You talk to him. You tell him you’re concerned about me, that I told you these things. He won’t get defensive if it’s you. He’ll try to save face. But the seed will be planted and maybe we can have a real conversation about it.”

  I move away from him, down the sidewalk. “No, no, no. I am not getting involved with this.”

  “Come on, Kendall!” he says. “You owe me! We’re putting you up in our guest room while you avoid your life.”

  “It’s a closet.”

  “It’s not Mom and Dad’s.”

  He’s got a point.

  “Forget about owing or not owing,” adds Emerson, his features softening, his shoulders sagging. “It would just . . . help me a lot.”

  Help. The one word driving my day with Max, the point of our mission through a sea of strangers. Here is someone I love a lot, asking for it. Begging for it. And I actually said, I am not getting involved. There are many ways that’s messed up, but I can’t think about them right now. It’s getting cold.

  “And you won’t meet up with this guy tonight?” I ask Em.

  “I’ll postpone.”

  “Postpone!”

  He simply shrugs, as if that’s supposed to explain everything. The one relationship in my life that I thought was healthy is in trouble for being too healthy, and now I have to fix that somehow.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll talk to him.”

  “Thank you, Ken. You know I love you.” He grabs my hand and starts kissing it.

  “Whatever,” I say, trying not to crack up. He’s so charming and damn him for that.

  Emerson hands me a twenty-dollar bill. “I’m going to the gym. Take Andrew out for coffee. He can’t get all freaked out in public.”

  “Wait. I’m doing this right now?”

  Emerson shrugs again, then turns and runs off down the street, his gym duffel flapping behind him.

  Crap.

  The barista calls Andrew’s name and he gets up to grab our drinks. We’re at a café called Dirt, which is really pushing the envelope of coffee-related names, don’t you think?

  He returns with two enormous cappuccinos, placing one in front of me. There’s a white heart in the foam. I’m sure they do this for everyone but I take it as a message, and my eyes lock with Andrew’s steel blue ones.

  We’re silent as we blow on our drinks.

  There’s a couple sitting next to us. They’re in their fifties, I’m guessing, dressed for an adventure like hiking, perhaps, or climbing something tall, and look painfully out of place. They each have a cupcake and a mug, sitting across from each other while not talking. It’s one of the saddest things I’ve seen all day, and I’m suddenly much more sympathetic to Emerson’s situation.

  “So,” says Andrew. “Why did you want to take me out for coffee?”

  Andrew’s no dummy.

  “I’m concerned about my brother,” I say, pretending I’m a person who has not been talking to said brother about his state of unhappiness, but rather spends her days reflecting on the well-being of her loved ones.

  Andrew nods. He doesn’t seem surprised, and this surprises me.

  “Me, too,” he says. “He’s been really on edge lately.”

  “Did he say why?” I prod.

  “Some vague stuff about his job.”

  Ugh, this is going to be really tricky.

  “Why?” continues Andrew. “Did he say something to you?”

  I know my line here, and I need to simply say it. “Yes.”

  Before my very eyes, Andrew goes pale.

  “Tell me,” he says.

  I take a deep breath. This should be easy, because I’m not lying. He did say something and all I have to do is repeat it.

  “He’s scared,” I begin. “About the future. Your future, together. He loves you but . . . maybe everything feels a little too settled, too soon.”

  Andrew stares at me with those male model eyes again. Why am I doing this? Why am I helping my brother potentially throw away this guy? I want to chastely run my fingers through his blond hair and he might let me, if I don’t piss him off.

  “Too soon,” he echoes, then swallows hard and drops his head. Oh God, this is crushing him.

  “But he loves you so much!” I add.

  Andrew raises his head again. He doesn’t look upset, but . . . relieved. “I know exactly how he feels,” he says, then takes a deep breath and leans back.

  “You do?”

  “I’m scared to death.”

  “Emerson thinks you have it all planned out. That you know what you want.”

  “There are times where
I believe that. But then, there are times when I don’t. We met when we were nineteen!”

  “Okay, you two have to talk about this. My brother thinks you don’t want to hear it.”

  “I don’t.”

  “But you sort of have to.”

  Andrew nods and reaches across the table, takes my wrists. What is it with these guys and my wrists?

  “Thank you, Kendall.”

  He’s giving me more credit than I deserve, but I’ll take it. I’m here, aren’t I? I picture Max in the corner over there, his arms folded across his body, shaking his head. Don’t think for a moment that this counts. No, it doesn’t count in Erica’s dare. But it counts somewhere more important.

  “You’re like the sister I always wished I had,” adds Andrew, taking a sip of his drink.

  “But you do have a sister.”

  “Exactly.”

  We both laugh. Whew. Mood’s much better now. “I’ve already got three brothers, what’s one more. You’ve got the gig,” I tell him. “Just don’t send me any sexy selfies by accident.”

  Andrew frowns and puts down his huge mug.

  Oh. Yeah. That was a weird thing for me to say.

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Stupid joke.”

  He looks at me and damn it, those eyes again. “No, it wasn’t. Who sent you sexy selfies by accident? Walker?”

  It would definitely be easy to stick this on my brother Walker. He’d never find out he’d been accused and even if he did, he’d probably assume it was something that happened while he was stoned. But I came here to help not only Emerson, but Andrew, too. I don’t want to lie to him.

  “No,” I say slowly. “It was Em.”

  Andrew leans in. Turns the eyes up to full volume. “Was he trying to send the pictures to me?” he asks, even though it’s clear he knows the answer.

  I shake my head no.

  I’m sitting on the stairs outside the apartment door, and I can still hear Andrew and Emerson. They’re not yelling, but there’s so much in their voices. Not volume, just intensity, and let me tell you intensity burns your ears in a totally different way.

  At least out here, I can’t make out the actual words of what they’re saying.

  I hug my knees to my chest and lean my head against the stairway railing, whose black metal spokes look (and feel) way too much like prison bars. Mental note: next time you’re coerced into relationship intervention, make sure you have somewhere to be right afterward.

  Also, don’t be an idiot and say something you’re not supposed to. That’ll be a bonus.

  I have to get out of here.

  Out on the street, it’s colder than it was. Mom texted me earlier to make sure I knew that tons of snow was coming. There’s definitely limbo in the air, that feeling of transition from one state of something to another. It feels exciting. Is it okay that it feels exciting? It looks like every person I pass is carrying a grocery bag full of bread, milk, and batteries. That deli over there has bare shelves, I can see them through the window.

  What will I do if I can’t blow off high school to Groset-squat in the city because Emerson and Andrew have split up?

  So in the moment and in general with my life, I have no idea where to go or what to do. I walk more quickly, faking it until I’m making it, as if I knew both of these things with absolute certainty. Giant flakes of snow have started falling. They’re taking the long, slow way to the pavement, each one whirling in the wind like it knows this is the last hurrah. I see fewer people on the street now, and maybe there’s not a single loaf of bread, container of milk, or AA battery remaining on the Upper East Side.

  After eighteen blocks, I turn back toward Emerson’s place and text as I go. Is it safe to come back?

  I stare at my phone, but there’s no answer right away.

  I end up at a Yum Yum Yogurt. One lone employee, a young woman, is slowly packing away the fresh fruit toppings into airtight containers. I fill a cup with a little bit of every flavor and use the rest of Emerson’s coffee cash to pay for it, then shiver with every single bite.

  Finally, my phone rings, except it’s not Emerson’s name on the screen.

  Max.

  “Hey,” he says when I answer. “Calling to say that maybe we shouldn’t meet up tomorrow, given the weather report.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “You’re probably right.”

  The employee drops a container and it crashes on the floor.

  “What was that?” asks Max.

  “Something fell. I’m at a fro-yo place on Lexington.”

  “What are you doing out? Isn’t it snowing?”

  “Eh, right now it’s just fluffy and cinematic. There are some . . . domestic negotiations going on at my brother’s and I don’t want to go back there yet.”

  There’s a pause.

  “Do you want to stop by here to kill some time?”

  “To your grandpa’s?”

  “You can meet him, then I’ll walk you back.”

  The yogurt girl locks the door from the inside, so I can leave, but nobody else can come in. She turns to me and gives me a dagger-look.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I say.

  When the elevator doors open, Max is waiting for me in the hallway and I get the feeling I’m a sight for his sore eyes. Or maybe that’s because he’s a sight for mine.

  “Come on in,” he says brightly, leading me into the apartment. “I told my grandfather all about you.”

  I step inside and the first thing I notice is the smell. It’s a rich smell, a combination of tobacco and wood and maybe some kind of spice. Eau de Old Guy.

  “Let me take this,” says Max as he lifts my coat from my shoulders and hangs it up on an iron rack with clawed feet. “The news is saying over a foot now, but not until the early morning.”

  There’s something strange about him, and I realize it’s because I haven’t seen him out of his parka in these last few days. He’s wearing a half-zip pullover with a T-shirt underneath. The sleeves don’t make it all the way to his wrists and his throat looks exposed, scarf-less. The fact that we’re now spending time together sans outerwear seems like a big step.

  “So, are you ready for the Ezra Levine experience?” asks Max.

  “You make it sound like a Broadway show.”

  He smiles wickedly. “Winner of Ten Curmudgeon Awards, including Best Silent-But-Deadly Fart.”

  “You’re so weird,” I say, but I’m laughing.

  I follow Max to what’s next.

  Max

  THAT’S RIGHT. I ASKED THIS GIRL TO WALK HERE IN A growing snowstorm so I don’t have to spend any more time alone with my grandfather. I’ll make it up to the universe later, I swear.

  “Big E?” I ask as I knock on the wall of the living room, where there’s a black-and-white movie on TV. What I see of my grandfather is motionless. Possibly asleep again.

  I knock again, louder. Big E turns, sees me, and actually grins. “Hey, champ.”

  “I brought a friend to meet you.” I motion for Kendall to step all the way into the room.

  I watch Big E size her up. Twenty bucks, he says something about her hair.

  “Hi,” says Kendall. “I’m Kendall.”

  “A redhead!” says Big E. “Natural or out of a bottle?”

  For the love of God. At least he didn’t ask Does the carpet match the drapes?

  Kendall’s unfazed, though. “A hundred percent natural,” she says proudly, with a smile.

  Big E turns to me. “I always loved redheads. Jane Fonda. She was a juicy one.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say. Gross.

  He meets my eyes. “I don’t blame girls for dyeing their hair that color.”

  “Me neither,” I say softly, then glance at Kendall. She frowns. I didn’t have time to explain the rule of Yes to her.

  “What are you watching?” she asks Big E. On the screen, two guys drive an old car with a fake background going by.

  “Som
e movie about brothers. I lost track of the plot.”

  A few painful minutes of us all watching the movie in silence. Okay, enough. I motion for Kendall to follow me back to the kitchen.

  “Wow,” is all she says.

  “I know. He’s pretty intense.”

  “No, I mean, wow, you just agree with everything he says.”

  “Well, yeah. He’s sort of losing it.”

  “So?”

  “So, you can’t take him seriously.”

  “Why not?”

  “Uh, because if I did, it would drive me crazy. Also, the guy’s in a lot of pain, and he’s angry and lonely. He deserves some slack, don’t you think?”

  Kendall considers this. Runs her pointer finger back and forth along the smooth granite of the countertops.

  “Sure, of course he does. But you know who your grandfather reminds me of? That homeless guy on the street today.”

  “Josh,” I say, super-glad that I remember his name.

  “Josh,” nods Kendall. “He’s clearly losing it, too. He’s sick. He was spouting nonsense. But you took the time to have a conversation with him.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Is it? You made his day simply by taking him seriously. You made him feel heard.”

  “You don’t think I’m making my grandfather feel heard?”

  “Nope.”

  I’m a little pissed off now. She doesn’t know anything about Big E. Or Nanny. Or our whole family.

  “You haven’t been here,” I say, trying not to sound defensive. “Everything we do is to make him feel heard.”

  Kendall thinks for a moment, then shakes her head. “I don’t buy that. When I’m talking to someone and they’re just saying yeah and uh-huh and right, it’s pretty clear they’re not listening at all.”

  “Well, same here.”

  “So this is that.”

  “It’s not.”

  Or is it?

  I look at her. Her eyes are bright and mischievous. I take a breath to think about what she’s saying. What I’ve been doing. What we’ve all been doing.

  Oh my God. She’s right.

  “Oh my God,” I say. “You’re right.”

  Kendall lifts one corner of her mouth in a smile. It’s a new kind of smile, one I haven’t seen on her yet. Innocent but arrogant. Wendy crossed with Peter Pan.