Audre & Bash Are Just Friends(19)
“For the Frank Ocean album? A cat with taste.”
“Yeah, he was my little buddy. But then he got his head stuck in a Doritos bag and suffocated.”
Audre burst out laughing. “They do say orange male cats are the least intelligent.”
Bash’s eyes widened. His mouth went slack.
“Wait. Oh no.” She clasped her palms against her cheeks. “Did… did that really happen?”
“Yes, it really happened. The fuck?” His eyebrows furrowed in hurt surprise.
“Bash, I’m so sorry. I’m a monster. What a horrible thing to say.”
“Also, it’s objectively untrue! Orange cats aren’t dumb. Garfield’s legendary.”
One-on-one, Bash Henry was practically wholesome and she felt… horrible for hurting his feelings. His wild reputation wasn’t matching her experience with him. Was this really the same guy who was breaking hearts all over Brooklyn?
“You’re right. I was way out of line with that orange cat comment. It was unforgivable.”
“I just don’t get it.” His voice was slow and careful, like he was trying to work at the mystery of Audre as he was talking. “I feel like you’re targeting me. I mean, I’m just minding my business.” He paused. “I’m kinda disappointed.”
“Disappointed?”
“Cause I figured you came in here to apologize. For being weird to me in the park. But it kinda seems like you showed up just to be mean again, and I’m just like… why?”
Bash dropped his phone on the counter, crossed his arms over his broad chest, and looked at her, his gaze unwavering. His skin was a rich, burnished golden brown—like he’d just returned from some Caribbean island. He looked like he was from some Caribbean island. The tip of his nose and his forehead were sunburned, eraser pink, and his cupid’s bow mouth? Poetic. This was why he had people talking. Normal people weren’t this striking. He had a dreamy look to him, like an indie softboy visiting from a different planet.
Audre was stunned by his looks for a moment. And then she pulled it together.
“I was going through family stuff the other night. I wasn’t myself. I have no right to criticize what you do or don’t do with girls. I apologize.”
He flashed a small, tentative smile. “Nah, you good. I figured whatever that was, wasn’t about me. And I’m sorry for calling you a narc. That wasn’t cool.”
“Wow. Such an emotionally healthy response.”
“That’s me, the picture of emotional health.”
Just then, a girl breezed out of the stockroom, her forearm shiny with ointment. A periwinkle-blue tattoo of a dolphin was a bit bloodied underneath. Audre recognized her—Olivia, she graduated from Cheshire two years before. She breezed through the store and to the door, nodding hi to Audre. To Bash, she said, “Thanks again. I love it!”
“Fosho!” he called out with a friendly wave.
Fosho? Again, a very not-Brooklyn thing to say.
“Bye, Olivia.” Audre waved (to show how cool she was). Then she whispered, “The owner’s okay with a seventeen-year-old running an unlicensed tattoo parlor in the stockroom?”
“The owner’s my mom,” he whispered back. “If you find her, you can ask her.”
Just then, Audre’s eye was unconsciously drawn to a framed portrait on the far-right wall. It was of a blond woman in a white shift dress, posing with former NYC mayor Bill de Blasio. “Is that her? She looks like Lindsay Lohan’s mom in Parent Trap.”
“So I constantly hear,” he said.
“Does your dad own the store with her?”
Bash stared at the photo for a beat. “No, he lives in California. And they’ve been divorced since I was a baby.”
“I knew you were from California. Your accent! San Fran?”
His eyes widened a bit, clearly impressed. “Close. Bay Area. Oakland.”
“I spend summers in Malibu with my dad. We both have West Coast fathers, so funny.”
“Hilarious,” he said wryly. “Umm. Not to be rude, but I… don’t like talking about myself.”
“Force of habit.” Audre fidgeted with her braids, worried that the melting ice between them was freezing again.
“Nah, you good.” Bash scratched the back of his neck. “So. Why are you here?”
“Here, in Brooklyn? Well, my dad and his wife are pregnant, so I couldn’t visit…”
“No, why are you here. You want something, and I doubt it’s a fried egg wall clock.”
Trying to buy time, she turned around and walked over to a display of kitschy socks with celebs embroidered on them. When she turned back around to face him, they locked eyes.
“You seem like a guy who likes adventure. Right?”
“Depends on the adventure.”
“I mean, your reputation is… colorful. And you seem to just take life by the horns. I’m wondering if you can help me.” She dove in. “I’m writing a book.”
“Yeah? What’s it called.”
“One, Two, Three, Four… Thrive! A Teen’s Rules for Flourishing on This Dying Planet.”
Bash drew his mouth to one side. “Are you accepting feedback?”
“No,” she said. “Anyway, as you know, people pay me to give them advice. I’m good at it, and I think I can write an incredible self-help book. But the thing is, I’m… kind of… socially stiff. And you seem like a person who doesn’t have as many hang-ups as I do. You seem fun.”