Page 9 of Love Is an Art
“Manhattan.”
“Same. But I spent summers in Holland,” I say. We’re in a wide-open space, tall apartment buildings on the periphery.
“That’s so cool. Where did you go to high school?” she asks.
I was about to ask her that same question. High school is so defining in New York that anytime one born-and-bred New Yorker meets another, that question invariably is asked.
“Bronx Science,” I say. “Where did you go?”
“Stuyvesant.”
“Ah, so we’re rivals.” And she’s also the product of gifted public high school.
“Not exactly. Stuy is so clearly superior that …” She shrugs and then pats me on the back. “But Bronx Science is good too.”
I snort. “I always found that Stuy students were good at trash-talking but couldn’t measure up to their words.”
“Those are fighting words, my friend.” She side-eyes me. “We’ll see.”
“Hold on for a sec. I need to figure out where we are.” I’ve lost my bearings talking to her. Signs in Chinese dot the stores. We’re near Chinatown, so we’re going in the right direction.
We pass the East Broadway subway station and stroll down Rutgers Street. A metal fence cordons off a community garden. Small buildings with fire escapes line this street, but as we reach the end, the view opens up to reveal the brick public housing towers. A breeze carries the smell of salt air; we’re close to the East River. As we walk down this open boulevard, a bunch of senior citizens sit on metal, folding chairs outside their red-bricked building, a CD player playing a Chinese ballad.
We wait at the red light to cross the street and then go under the metal overpass of FDR Drive. And then we’re right next to the river, the waves lapping softly against the pier.
The Manhattan Bridge towers over the scenery.
A train passes over the Manhattan Bridge, and the rumbling roars through the air. It’s much louder than I remember.
“It always shocks me how close you can get to the river,” she says after it passes. “And you’re right. This is a great view of the Manhattan Bridge and the Brooklyn Bridge.”
We walk out on the pier, down the pathway, past the greenery and trees and flowers, toward the giant swings. One is empty, while couples occupy the three other ones.
“Should we swing?”
She nods. We sit next to each other on the metal slats. It’s oddly intimate, even though four people could probably fit on each. In the swing next to us, a couple cuddles. I don’t feel like I can do that yet. Not after the good guy remark and her trusting me enough to come with me to this pier at night. She pushes off with her feet, and we rock up and down.
“It gives a great view of the bridge and Brooklyn,” she says.
“Does it make you want to paint it?” I ask.
She glances at me sharply, and then she frowns. “It should, shouldn’t it?” She turns to face me. “Look, I’m not—”
My phone rings. I glance down at my screen. “Sorry, it’s the company's lawyer. I have to take this. Unfortunately.” I pick it up and say hello to Brooke.
“I’m sorry to bother you this late,” Brooke says.
“I hate lawyers,” I say. I stand up from the swing, trot down the few steps, and move off to the side where my conversation can’t be heard. I lean against the railing next to the river. If Brooke is calling at this hour, it has to be confidential.
“We’re not all bad,” she says.
“You’re the best of the bunch,” I say. “I’m only kidding that you need to work all the time on my case and not date Ben. He just left the bar. I thought he was heading home to you.” I turn around to look at Tessa. She’s pushing off with one foot, frowning.
“Ben says hello. But seriously, Arthur is holding a meeting tomorrow at eight a.m. for pitching potential investments to the various portfolio managers. I just received an email invite and you were not included, even though you should be. Winthrop is.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll be there.”
Arthur strikes again. Time to call it a night. I walk back over. The light illuminates her face and blonde hair. Her forehead is creased as if she’s deep in thought.
