Page 92 of Maybe You

Fine. I can find other ways to distract myself.

I head to Central Park and settle in on one of the benches. I don’t think what I’m doing technically qualifies as bird watching. I don’t take any notes or even care what kind of birds I see. Maybe bird drawing would be a better term. Well, whatever you want to call it, drawing birds is relaxing for me.

I’m just in the middle of sketching a scarlet tanager when my phone vibrates somewhere in my backpack. I’m so in the zone by now, I almost dismiss it, but then I fish it out anyway.

And the idiot that I am, I smile when I see the name on the screen.

Sutton: How are the birds?

Me: The scarlet tanagers are back.

Sutton: I’d say good for them, but I wasn’t even aware they’d been away. Don’t tell them.

Me: They head to the Amazon for the winter.

Sutton: Lucky bastards.

Sutton: Send me a photo.

Me: Of the bird?

Sutton: The bird. Some nice park shots. Go crazy.

I send him a few photos.

And then he doesn’t say anything after that.

After a few moments of staring at the silent screen, I put the phone away and get back to my drawing.

I’m concentrating so hard on getting the beak just right that I jerk in surprise and send my sketchpad flying when somebody puts their hand on my shoulder.

“Shit,” I say when my head snaps up.

And my eyes land on Sutton.

I blink to try and work out whether I’ve now lapsed into hallucinating him.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on your orgy yacht for a few more days?” I finally ask once I’ve determined that he is, in fact, real.

I pick up my sketch pad, while he sits down on the bench next to me and stretches his legs out, crossing one ankle over the other, all casual, like it’s not anything out of the ordinary that he’d randomly stroll by the exact spot where I am, in a city of millions.

“You know, I woke up this morning, and while I was looking around my yacht of debauchery—made of gold—at all the naked bodies around me, I caught the eye of my loyal manservant, Grimsby, and thought, ‘I might be orgied out for now.’ So I came back early.”

“Poor Grimsby has probably seen some things.” I can’t keep my smile at bay when I look at him. I try. But I can’t.

“He does everything for me. Dresses me. Vets the orgy guests. Helps hide dead bodies.”

“Seems like an indispensable employee.”

“I wouldn’t know how to function without him. He’s hiding behind that tree right there.” He nods to his left.

I give up the fight and grin at him.

“Does he also stalk people for you, or did you just accidentally stumble upon me?”

“I do all my own stalking,” he says. “You sent me those photos, so I figured out where you were, and since I was close by anyway…” He shrugs.

I’m way too happy to see him. I know I am. I shouldn’t be, but I also can’t seem to stop the bubbles of joy from popping in my chest like I’m filled with a fizzy drink.

---