“I used to go to the beach when I was young,” I say. “My dad’s parents lived in Southern California. San Diego. I don’t remember much of it. I can’t tell you the specifics or anything. It was more like a feeling. I close my eyes and the warm breeze skims over my arms. I hear the waves rolling in at night. I smell the saltiness of the ocean. And I have this sort of fuzzy, hazy memory of being happy. I mean, I was six, right? You’re supposed to be happy. What could possibly make you unhappy at age six?”
“An ice cream cone spilling on the ground is about all I can think of,” he answers immediately, and I smile and point at him.
“Exactly! You have no worries. No cares, and I guess the beach always seemed that way to me. Not so much that it’s an escape, but I think it’s impossible to be stressed if you’re there.”
“I think it’s a logical fallacy to be stressed at the beach. Worry disappears when your toes touch the sand.”
“I believe that. But then I don’t know if we’re ever really as happy as we were when we were six.”
“When we were six,” he says, musing on the words. “Isn’t that the name of a book?”
I elbow him. “Yes. A Winnie the Pooh book of poems. When We Were Six. I like that book. So, what about you? If you could go anywhere, where would it be?”
“I would leave New York in a heartbeat. It’s too dirty, too smoky, too fucking claustrophobic. I’d get on a train to Florida. To Virginia. To California. I don’t care. I’d ride it across the country and not look back.”
“Why?”
“Too much shit happened here,” he mutters as he rubs his hand against the ink on his forearm. Swirling lines, tribal art, all in threes. It must mean something to him.
“Like what, Trey?” I ask, wishing I could touch his arm gently to reassure him, let him know I want to listen. “What happened here?”
He shrugs, swallows, looks away. “I don’t know,” he says in an offhand voice that makes me wonder if he’s trying to play it cool. “Crazy stuff. Things you don’t want to know.”
There are things I don’t want him to know either. Parents, family, that kind of thing. So I don’t press. I respect secrets. “It’s always that way, isn’t it? Too much happens here.”
He nods several times, and even though neither one of us is admitting anything, we at least have some kind of common ground. “Right? It’s like, is anyone ever really happy with the way they grew up?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. I don’t think it’s possible. I don’t understand what it’s like to be one of those kids who had a white-picket-fence life, you know?”
“So, are we just jaded hipsters?”
“Hey! Do I look like a hipster?”
“Prepster maybe,” he teases.
“I don’t feel jaded right now.”
He smiles. “Me neither. It’s weird. But I don’t feel cynical right this second. And trust me, I usually do. I usually feel like I’ve seen too much or whatever. But something about this night just feels…I don’t know…right?”
Right. Nothing I’ve ever done with a member of the opposite sex has ever been right. Yet, as butterflies swoop through me, I might be learning what the word means.
“Yes. It does. It does feel right.”
Then he tilts his head to the side, watching, waiting, and the moment feels suspended, like it’s a line in the sand and we’re going somewhere, over, under, around, and I’m not sure what’s next, but we’re inching closer, our legs almost touching, our shoulders near to each other.
He taps my leg once with his fingertips, and electricity sparks across my skin. “This is better, much better, right?”
My mouth feels dry. I’m not even sure what he’s asking. Or why he’s asking. But I don’t entirely care what the question is—with him, the answer seems to be yes.
“Yes,” I say, my voice like a dry husk on a hot summer day. I wish I had water.
He inches closer, lifts his hand, and brushes a strand of hair from my face. My belly flips wildly, and holy fuck, that feels good. Just the slightest touch and I am buzzed. I want more, so I move closer. He picks up on my cues and fingers a strand of my hair, and I’m soaring with one touch. I might float off on a cloud of lust right this second.
“You have nice hair, Harley,” he says, and his voice is low and smoky now. Everything in me stills. Is he going to kiss me? Is that a prelude to a kiss? I have no clue how boys kiss girls when money doesn’t change hands.
But he pulls back, and clearly his lips aren’t about to lock with mine. Instead, he quirks up his eyebrows. “This is going to sound crazy, but do you want to get on the train? Just ride around and talk?”
Maybe it’s crazy to get on a train with a stranger, but Trey doesn’t feel like a stranger, and tonight he’s the closest person in my life. He knows more about me already than most people do. And that’s because I know I’ll never see him again. We can never be together. We would never work.
But I can get on a train with this guy who wants an unscripted night.
My first unplanned evening.
“It doesn’t sound crazy. Let’s go.”
We leave the coffee shop and turn onto Eighth Avenue. “So now that we’re not six and happiness isn’t about whether ice cream cones stay upright or not, do you believe in happiness now?” I ask him. It’s a bold question for me. I don’t usually dive into serious stuff. But I feel like that’s the point of us. To strip away the veneers.
He gives me a look like I’m crazy as I zip up my jacket.
“What do you mean, do I believe in happiness?”
“Is it possible? Is happiness possible?”
“I don’t know. I mean, how do you define ‘happiness’? Is it some kind of euphoria? Like a high?”
A high. I know something about that. I know too much about that. I need to stop feeling high.
I shake my head. “No, the opposite. Well, not the opposite. Not sadness or depression, because that sucks. But more of an even keel. A general sort of shiny, happy, serene feeling. Like all is right in the world. Like you can roll with the punches.”
We stop at the crosswalk. The light is red. Trey looks at me, his gaze honing in on mine in a way that sends my blood racing. “You know what I believe in? This moment. I’m happy right now. I’m having a good time right now.”
“Me too,” I say, and my body is tingling and lit up from his words. Words that feel true and honest. Words that don’t come with a price tag or an order. I don’t entirely know what to make of us, but it’s as if I’m spending the night in an alternate reality, one where my mom is normal, where my past is clean, where my future is bright, and where moments like this are possible. Then the light changes, and he reaches for my hand, linking his fingers through mine.
“Is this okay?” he asks in a nervous tone.
Moments that aren’t just possible. That border on perfect. Heat shoots through my body. I never knew holding hands could be so good.
“Yes. It’s more than okay.”
We walk several blocks to Penn Station, talking all the way about happiness and music and life, and then we head down the escalator into the train station. He buys two tickets to the eleven-thirty train to Long Island.