The Breakaway(39)

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Lincoln gestured at the grass and trees in varied shades of green and gold, the slow-moving brown water, the blue sky, dotted with cotton-puff clouds.

Sebastian nodded, even though he’d barely noticed the scenery, or the weather, or even how long they’d been riding. “Very peaceful.”

Lincoln drank from his water bottle, wiped his mouth, recapped it, and put it back in its cage. He patted Sebastian’s shoulder. “Just don’t think about it,” he said.

Sebastian glared at him. “How am I not supposed to be thinking about it? I’m the Internet’s main character! The thing you’re never, ever supposed to be!”

“Okay,” Lincoln said. “I’m not saying this is ideal. But you know tomorrow it’ll be somebody else’s turn.”

Sebastian shook his head and stared glumly off toward the water, where a bird—a duck? a goose?—was paddling, with a trio of smaller birds swimming behind it. He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture, to show Lincoln that he was still paying some attention to his job.

“Do you remember the girl?” Lincoln asked. “The one who made the video?”

Sebastian nodded reluctantly as a breeze stirred the leaves in the trees overhead. Her name had been Alyssa, and she’d come courtesy of Hinge. She’d been about his height, fine-boned and willowy, with big, blue-green eyes and long dark hair. They’d met on a Saturday night at Dos Hombres, a bar two blocks from Sebastian’s place, one of the three or four spots he kept in rotation. When he’d arrived, Alyssa had been waiting at the bar, looking just like her pictures, smiling when she saw him, her long legs crossed and body angled just so.

They’d ordered drinks—beer for him, and the inevitable Aperol spritz for her. He remembered that she’d touched him a lot, putting her hand on his forearm for emphasis every third or fourth sentence when they were on their second drink, touching his cheek when they’d move on to their third, holding his hand when they’d progressed from drinks to shots. At some point, she’d ended up more or less in his lap. She’d also said his name a lot, so much that he’d wondered if it was a technique she’d picked up from a book or a dating podcast. Tell me about yourself, Sebastian. How long have you lived in Brooklyn, Sebastian?

Maybe it was just hindsight, but Sebastian could remember thinking that there was something off about her, an impression of subtle wrongness that had only intensified after they’d gone back to his place. At first, he’d ascribed his unease to her high-pitched voice, which he couldn’t be mad about. It was not the kind of thing you could convey in photographs, and she hadn’t lied, except, he supposed, by omission And what was she supposed to do? Write “By the way, I sound like Kristin Chenoweth after a hit of helium?”

He’d done his best to ignore it as Alyssa shrilled her way to ecstasy, calling out his name, eventually moving from a squeak to a teakettle whistle and, eventually, into pitches that he hoped not even the neighborhood dogs could hear. When it was over, he’d given his usual speech about having early-morning plans, but Alyssa had said, “My apartment’s not in a great neighborhood. I’d rather go home when it’s light out.” She’d smiled, shyly apologetic, promising to be out of his hair, first thing… and what kind of cad would he have had to be to force her out into the night?

“Of course,” he’d said, and made himself give her a smile. “No problem.” She’d fallen asleep, and he’d lain awake beside her, barely daring to move or to breathe, worried that he’d wake her up and she’d want Round Two. He must have drifted off at some point, because in the morning he’d woken to the sound of female humming, and the smell of frying bacon and toasting bread.

Oh, no, he’d thought. Not good. He’d faked sleep until he’d heard Alyssa cooing his name from her perch on the side of his bed. She had put on one of his tee shirts, which hung loosely over her torso, almost down to her knees, and she’d put on makeup and done something to her hair. There was a tray with plates of eggs and toast and steaming mugs of coffee, along with a glass carafe of orange juice and a pair of paper napkins, waiting at the foot of the bed. Sebastian had squinted at the tray and the carafe, puzzled. Since when did he own such items? Was it possible this girl had shown up at the bar with them in her purse?

“Hey,” Sebastian had said. His voice had been gravelly. He’d cleared his throat and started again. “Hey. Wow. This looks great. I wish I could hang out, but, like I said, I’ve really got to get going. I’ve got somewhere to be this morning. A reporting assignment.”

“But it’s Sunday,” Alyssa had said, pouting prettily.

“I’m sorry,” he had said. “I had a great time hanging out with you. But I’ve got a lot of work to get to.”

Alyssa looked down at the tray. “You could at least eat your eggs,” she’d said in a very small voice. Fuck. Sebastian hated feeling like the bad guy. He’d grabbed a fork, pushed a mouthful of eggs between his lips, chewed and swallowed and chased the eggs with a gulp of coffee hot enough to scald his tongue.

Great, he had thought. “Delicious,” he had said. “I’m sorry. Look. I’ve got to get going, but you can stay if you want to. I really feel bad about this…”

Alyssa’s smile had wavered a bit. “No. I’ll go. I understand. Just give me a minute.” She’d vanished into the bathroom. He had carried his plate back into the kitchen, scraped the food into the trash can, and gulped down the rest of his coffee. Then he’d waited, fidgeting, making himself sip ice water until, finally, Alyssa had reappeared, wearing the dress she’d worn the night before, which was navy blue and had skinny straps that left most of her shoulders and lots of her chest bare. “I guess it’s walk-of-shame time.” Her voice was light, but her smile had looked strained. “Well,” she had said, with a brittle smile. “See you around.”