I grin. “I said ‘fuck’ a bunch of times last night.”
“Oh, I’ll bet you did. Which Outsiders character is he? Dallas, right? He’s straight-up Dallas Winston.”
This is a game we play. Whenever we have a troubled boy in our classes, we try to figure out which character from The Outsiders he is. I get a lot of Ponyboys and Johnnys in the first grade. By the time they get to her fourth-grade class, they’re Steve Randles.
I had such a crush on Matt Dillon and Dallas Winston when I was thirteen, but I told people that Ponyboy was my favorite.
“He was probably a Dally when he was younger, but he’s got those Johnny Cade eyes.”
“Right,” she says, nodding emphatically. “The eyes.” She pulls out her phone and brings up the picture I sent her last night.
“Sodapop,” we both say at the same time.
The dreamy one.
“Yeah.” She finally puts her phone back in her hidden pocket, sighing. “Sodapop.”
“Yeah.” I stretch my arms up and yawn, reach for the coffee.
“You gonna come for a run with me?”
“Um. I mean, I don’t know if or when he’s going to show up, so…I should probably hang around here.”
“Can’t you text him?”
My face falls.
“He didn’t give you his number?”
“I don’t even know his last name.”
“Wow. So you really might not see him again.”
I pout.
“Sorry. I’m sure he’ll come back. Of course he will.”
“But if he doesn’t, I’m totally fine with that.”
“Of course you are.”
“I am.”
“Just, you know. If he does come back, and if you do get involved, be careful.”
“What does that mean?”
“You know. A guy like that. Just be careful.”
“I don’t. Marnie. How am I supposed to be careful? Wear a chastity belt?”
“Yeah. Wear a chastity belt around your heart. I think that’s a Sting song from the nineties.”
She hops up off the sofa and stretches her hamstrings, checks her Fitbit. “Okay. I’m gonna go. Call me if you need to talk more. Find an excuse to take more pictures of him if he does come back.”
I laugh. “Um. No.” I get up to hug her. “Thanks for coming by.”
“One of these days you’re coming jogging with me.”
“Oh for sure.”
“Stay gold, Ponygirl.”
While I finish my coffee, I stare at the hole that Vince punched in the drywall. I suddenly remember that he said, “I can’t believe she fucking left us.”
Who is us? Does he have a kid? Or was he talking about the little brother he mentioned? There is so much I don’t know about him, but I still feel like he knows me so well. How is that possible?
I wonder if he’s actually going to come back. Part of me doesn’t even want that hole in the wall to be patched up. I want to take a picture of it and post it on Instagram and say: Last night I had a hot one-night stand with a bad boy stranger, and all I got was this hole in the wall and about ninety orgasms.
To prepare for Vince’s possible return, I’m going to listen to Joni Mitchell, drink tea, and try to put together an outfit for today that says: “I have no regrets about last night; however, I’m not really that kind of girl. But thank you for honoring your commitment to filling up my hole.”
7
Vince
I shouldn’t go back. But I told her I’d go back. I want to see her again. But it’s a bad idea. We don’t have anything in common. But last night was hot. I can’t be the guy who punched a hole in her wall, fucked her, and then left without an explanation. I’m not that guy. I’m just the guy who can’t stop thinking about her, apparently.
It’s probably just because she’s new.
It probably just means I need to get back out there, start seeing new people.
Or it means I need to see Nina again, because last night was hot.
“Hey. You hear what I said?” my dad asks.
“What? No.” I go back to buttering Charlie’s waffles and ask my dad, “Hey do you have any blueberries or something?”
“That’s enough butter!” Charlie cries out.
“There’s never enough butter!” What kid doesn’t like tons of butter on everything? I wipe the butter off the knife, onto his waffle, and put the plate in front of him. “Don’t eat it until I find a berry or two. That was the deal, remember?”
“I think there’s a bag of frozen berries from like two years ago.”
That reminds me of Nina and her bag of frozen peas, and I don’t hear a word he says again for another ten seconds. “What?”
“What is wrong with you this morning?”
“Nothing.” I pull a bag of blueberries out from the freezer. It’s hard as a brick. “You don’t have any other fruits?”
“There’s bananas.”
“I don’t want a banana on my waffles,” Charlie complains.
“Fine. You can eat it separately.” I toss out the rock-hard bag of blueberries and put a banana on the kitchen table in front of my kid brother. There. I am the best older half brother he has. No question.
“Did you get the break-even ratio to that guy for the Henry Street listing?” my dad asks.
“I cc’d you yesterday. As always. I cc’d you and Karla and Eve and Gabe.”
“I didn’t see it.”
“Not my fault, is it?” My dad’s the founding partner and CEO of the Devlin Commercial Realty Group, where I’m a vice president. So he’s my boss. But it’s difficult to treat him with the respect he’s accorded when he’s standing in front of me in his boxers and bright yellow smiley-face slippers, with a chocolate protein shake mustache and a confused look on his face.
“You hear back from the guy yet? Who’s it—Briggs?”
“Connor Briggs,” I tell him.
“Asshole name.”
“Total asshole client. But he’s very encouraged. I feel good about it. I’ll talk to him and his business manager later today about his timeline. The Bushwick deal should close tomorrow.”
“Good. Great!” He turns to his youngest son. “Charlie, you need to get dressed.”
“But you’re not dressed.”
“I’m not taking you to camp today. Vince is.”
“I am? I’ve got a client meeting in Williamsburg, and I have to get home to change first.”
“Shit,” my dad grumbles. “I’ve got a conference call in fifteen. We gotta get a new nanny.”
“Ya think?”
“I’ll have Karla get into it.” He glances at Charlie and then gives me a stern look, lowering his voice. “You need to tell him. About you-know-who.”
“Yeah.” Might as well do it now. I take a seat next to Charlie, who’s shoving half a waffle into his mouth. “Hey, buddy. There’s something I need to tell you.”
“About Sadie?” He doesn’t look at me.