Page 29 of Crossing Into Brooklyn

“Tell me that Tim is driving home,” I say.

“I’m not drunk,” Janet says.

“You will be if you have another whiskey.” Janet seldom drinks whiskey.

“Tim can drive,” she concedes. “Anyway, I needed an excuse.”

“For?” I inquire.

“Carter,” Janet begins.

“That’s me.”

“Uh-huh. Are you planning to tell her?”

“Tell who what?”

Janet stares at me. I sigh as I plop ice cubes into our glasses.

“Carter?” she urges me.

“You should know by now that no one can tell Ali anything.” I pour whiskey into our glasses and hand Janet hers.

“Very funny.”

I sip from my glass and enjoy the slight burn as it travels down my throat. “There’s nothing to tell, Jan.”

“And I’m the Queen of England.”

“You look great for your age.”

Janet laughs. “All right, I get it. Let it go.”

I raise my glass.

“Don’t let it go too long,” Janet tells me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply. I don’t intend to continue this conversation. Not now. Not here. Possibly not ever. I make my way for the living room.

It seems there’s no escape for me today. My mother loves to tease me. “Brooklyn tells us you’re not as hopeless as we thought,” she says.

“Me or my office?” I ask for clarification.

“Both,” Brooklyn replies.

“Now, thatisthe alcohol talking,” I quip.

Brooklyn rolls her eyes. “The only department you might be hopeless in is your propensity for self-deprecating humor.”

Ouch. Brooklyn’s observation is playful, but it strikes a nerve. I’m often accused of deflecting compliments with humor—usually at my expense. I concentrate on the whiskey in my glass.

“That’s Carter,” Ali agrees.

My eyes meet Ali’s with a warning. She’s too buzzed to care.

Brooklyn picks up on my discomfort. “To be honest, I wish you were a bit more disorganized,” she says.

“Why?” I ask.

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