Page 17 of If Not for My Baby
“It was a good summer gig. He wasn’t such a big star back then…” Indy shrugs. “It was Molly’s first tour, too.”
I study the group before me. “You’re all back for the second time?”
“Yep,” Indy says. “And this time around I’m not hung up on anyone. I just miss Manhattan.”
“Yeah,” Grayson agrees. “IfManhattanis code for Jacob’s dick.”
Indy turns to me, ignoring him. “Clementine, you strike me as an NYC girl. You get it, right?”
“Actually, I’ve never been.”
But my heart skips a beat at the belated realization that I’ll be going there on this tour. New York City,thehomeof Broadway. The lights, the history—
Indy jolts upright, nearly knocking over Molly’s beer. “Oh my God!” she squeals. “I’m going to show you every single thing. Washington Square Park, and MoMA, and the best bagels you’ve ever had in your life.”
“Count me in,” Grayson says, tipping his chin up. “I want to witness baby’s first time in the big city.”
“Oh! And Baby Grand and Marie’s Crisis—the best bars. Serendipity for a frozen hot chocolate…”
Wren sips her beer. “I’m in, too. Long as Jen doesn’t pull Halloran from Dreamland.”
Pull Halloran from the biggest East Coast music festival? “Why would she do that?”
Grayson’s eye roll tells me he’s sick of the subject.
“He’s not headlining, and she’s pissed about it,” Molly says. Pete seems to have dozed off beside her, his Boston baseball cap over his face, but that hasn’t stopped Molly from curling up into him like he’s a human body pillow.
“It’s a midday concert,” Indy adds. “And he is playing directly before the headliner. I don’t think it’s insulting at all.”
Wren picks at the label on her bottle. “Tommy sure doesn’t give a shit.”
“Well, if we go, your New York itinerary sounds perfect,” I say. “But more importantly…Who’s this NYU guy?”
Grayson and Wren snicker and I’m grateful to have rerouted the conversation.
“Stop,” Indy moans at all of us. “Jacob is— He’s nobody. We dated for ten minutes.”
Molly’s grin is like the Cheshire cat’s. “He texts her daily.”
“He’s not important,” Indy reiterates. “Clementine, we didn’t even ask you, what did you think of your first night?”
“It was unbelievable,” I admit. “Such a rush. You guys put on a fantastic show.”
“Thanks, kid,” Wren says, at the same time Molly says, “I know.”
Wren’s in men’s boxers and an oversized, moth-eaten Mötley Crüe T-shirt while Molly’s silk black nightgown mightas well be a Leg Avenue Elvira costume. Suddenly, my mom’s striped pajama bottoms and my Happy Tortilla T-shirt with the beaming round quesadilla decal on the front need to be burned immediately.
“If every night’s a slumber party like this one,” I say, “I’ll need to invest in some cooler pj’s.”
“Just wait until I take you shopping in SoHo,” Indy says.
“Don’t trash these, though.” Grayson’s voice is a little husky as he leans forward to grab my pants with his thumb and forefinger. “They’re hot on you. You have a good figure for dorky stuff.”
I look away to hide my discomfort and my eyes land on Halloran, making himself tea right behind us. I didn’t even hear him come out.
He’s in low-slung gray sweats and a Trinity College hoodie, with glasses on and his unruly hair tied back at the nape of his neck. Some of his fingers are smudged with ink. It’s comforting, how human he appears. But the grim expression on his face seizes the breath from my lungs. He’s practically glaring at us.
“Hi,” I squeak.
