Page 8 of Is This for Real?
“That’s okay.” Willow gives Jamie an adoring look.
“You’re welcome to come to The Met with us.” Rory hands the check back to our waitress with the two credit cards sticking out of the fake-leather check presenter.
Willow declines, saying she made backup plans with girlfriends in the city.
Picking up our coats, we follow them out of the restaurant. I don’t move to hug Jamie goodbye. He has his arm around Willow. I have a sudden flashback to my parents’ memorial service and Jamie putting his arm around me as we stood in the line greeting people and accepting their comfort. Jamie carried an extra box of tissues in case I needed more.
They hail a taxi as Jamie says, “My mom would love for you to work in her store.”
“I know,” I say.
“It was good to see you. I probably won’t be back again until Christmas.”
So, that’s it. We used to spend days together when he came back. I thought our friendship was stronger than one romantic declaration.
They get in the taxi, and it pulls away.
“Let’s take Citi Bikes to The Met,” Rory says. Citi Bikes are my usual mode of transportation, given my budget. We walk over to his apartment a few blocks away to pick up helmets. “Jamie believed us.”
“He did.” I smile. “But I told you he wouldn’t get jealous.”
“I don’t know. I think he was definitely thrown.”
I smile wryly.It was worth it not to be taken for granted.
I give Rory my hat to leave at his apartment.The hat didn’t really work.I sit on his stoop while he runs upstairs. I shouldn’t have thought the hat would work. It reminds me ofThe Unbearable Lightness of Beingwhen the hat works with one lover but has no meaning to a different lover. Not that I was Jamie’s lover. But we had grown up together and been friends forever. The first time he visited from Singapore, we spent the whole week hanging out—to the extent that I lost the guy I’d been dating. And the last time he visited, I declared my love.
Rory lives in a brownstone in Tribeca across from a playground and park with basketball courts. One basketball court is right across the street, which he considered a plus when he picked the apartment. He plays basketball most weekend mornings, if he’s not out surfing with his best friend, Jake. My phone beeps. It’s my sister, Olivia.
Olivia:Can you babysit Sunday night?
Me:Sure.
Olivia:Crafting emergency. Some Frida Kahlo-inspired diorama. Just opened his school folder.
I call her. “Just have him draw some self-portraits, glue them to the walls of the shoebox, and then put plants around it. Use tea for dirt. I left some stuff in your craft drawer the last time I was babysitting. Remind Thomas how we made the plants. Cut the wire for him, he dips it into glue and flock, and voila, you’ve got a plant.” I explain how to create a few other plants.
“Thanks. This is like homework for me, not Thomas,” Olivia says.
“It’s fun, Olivia.”
She scoffs. Her attitude is that crafting and serious, professional Wall Street lawyer don’t mix. She says “hobbies” like it’s a bad word.
The front door slams shut behind me, and Rory bounds down the stairs. I say goodbye to Olivia. He pulls me up off the stoop and hands me a helmet as there’s a shout from the basketball court. A young woman is high-fiving one of her teammates.
He snaps his helmet on. “Do you really cry over agent rejections?”
“No. I mean, they hurt, but not enough to induce tears. It’s just part of the process.”
“Success will come. I’m sure of it. Anyway, let’s go see how many artists we can find in The Met who were unappreciated at first—mocked, even.”
I laugh. I do love Rory, even if it’s just in the close friend sense, so I’m not really lying. At least not about my feelings. That zap of electricity was just a loose wire connection that needs to be sheathed.
Chapter three
Weclickourbicyclesinto the bike rack and, passing by the hot dog carts, amble up the stone steps to The Metropolitan Museum of Art. A line of tourists follows a bright-red umbrella hoisted high by a tour leader explaining how The Met was founded in 1870 to be a museum and a library of art. I like that phrase.
Rory suggests we make a wish in the fountain and hands me a penny. I squeeze my eyes tightly and toss my penny into the pool.Please let me get an agent.But it’s not luck that will get me an agent. Only hard work. Improving my writing craft through classes. Coming up with that pitch that sells. Same for Rory and developing ad campaigns. He understands the ups and downs of creative life. I’m happy that his ad campaign was chosen this time.
