Page 15 of Guy's Girl
Adrian has never allowed himself the privilege of being weird. How could he, when he moved to America at the age of nine, speaking not one lick of English? He spent his pre-pubescence—one of the tenderest parts of life, when kids are unabashedly cruel and selective—trying to understand the new culture into whichhe had been unwillingly thrown. To Adrian, success hinged on assimilation. On learning the language, making friends, and fitting in.
Ginny quite literally rolls up to their table. “Hey!”
“Uh. Hi.”
“Sorry about this.” She plops down into the chair opposite his and starts unsnapping the blades. “This is my ride.”
“You skated here from SoHo?”
“From work, actually.” She yanks off the first Rollerblade, wiggling her socked foot around before tucking it into the shoe she pulls out of her backpack. “I stayed late tonight. First week sending out our newsletter.”
“From work? Wait—don’t you work up in Flatiron?”
“Yep.” She yanks off the second.
“But that’s—”
“Twenty-three blocks. I know.” She grins. “Fun, right?”
Adrian shakes his head, amused.
“Anyway. What are we drinking?”
He holds out the flimsy paper menu and says, “I ordered an Aperol spritz.”
Ginny crinkles her nose. “How very European of you.”
“Technically, IamEuropean.”
“Don’t I know it.”
There’s a long pause.
“I think I’ll have a beer,” she says.
When the waiter returns, Adrian orders a burger, Ginny a beer and kale salad.
“That’s all?” Adrian asks, handing the menu to the waiter.
“Yeah. I’m not that hungry.”
Adrian thinks she looks like she’s been hungry for years.
“So,” Ginny says, propping her chin onto one hand. “Tell me about Hungary.”
This pulls Adrian up short. He’d expected her to ask about work or what he did last weekend. The things people their age normally talk about. In all four years at Harvard, he could count on one hand the number of people who asked him about growing up in Hungary.
“Like... about the country?” he asks.
She shrugs. “Whatever you want to tell me.”
“Well.” Adrian leans back in his chair. The waiter arrives with their drinks, setting them down on the wooden table. “For one, it’s corrupt as hell. The prime minister, Victor Orbán, has been in power for, like, twenty years, even though he overtly funnels money to his supporters while letting the country’s infrastructure crumble away. Plenty of people call him a dictator.”
Though Ginny doesn’t respond, he can tell she’s listening.
“None of that was really part of my world growing up, though. I lived out in a small artist’s village with my grandparents. We were pretty disconnected from the politics of the city.”
Adrian doesn’t know why he feels the need to add this. He doesn’t talk much about his past, but something in Ginny’s eyes makes him feel as if she wants to know. As if she’s waited all her life to hear about this.
