“Okay,” she says. “What is it? Is it him? Are you thinking about him? Is it thirty? Because thirty is not old, okay?”
She’s twenty-seven.
“It’s all of it,” I say. “I’m sorry. It was nice of you to come out with me.”
She raises an expertly shaped eyebrow. “I told you all year we should go out. You were, like, not about it. Look, I don’t know you that well. But I know you’re not a super-social person. And it’s easy not to be social when you, like, have a person at home who’s there all the time. What I’m saying is, basically, maybe this is a good thing for you. You can get out there. Meet new people. Live your life.”
“I guess,” I say. Unfortunately for me, “getting out there” and “meeting new people” are among my least favorite things. I’ve forgotten how. The years since college have eroded my social skills, and I’m shy to begin with. I prefer the couch. I prefer familiarity.
I prefer Sam.
“Here,” she says. She reaches out for a small tea light candle and lifts it up, the yellow flame spasming, the wick decaying. “Make a wish.”
“You’re serious?” I ask her. In this moment, I do regret not going out with Nadia sooner. I bet she’s a good friend. She seems like one of those people who are born knowing exactly who they are. Her entire personality written in the stars, set in concrete.
“Yes,” she says. “Quick! Before it burns out!”
I close my eyes and think.
* * *
—
We leave a collection of glasses sweating on the bar, along with a wad of crumpled bills and enough rinds to generously zest a pie. We stagger out into the June night, the air thick, sticky and sweet as syrup. It’s going to be a hot summer. For the first time, I’m sincerely relieved to be leaving the city. I won’t miss the humidity, thighs sticking to the seats on the subway, everyone grumpy and perspiring, any amount of deodorant rendered inadequate.
Nadia is on a quest for her favorite pizza slice. It’s at some hole-in-the-wall place in the West Village she used to frequent during her “partying days.” If her partying days are behind her, I’m a little curious what they were like, because right now she’s saying hello to strangers in a truly horrendous British accent while somehow balancing on the tallest heels I’ve ever seen. On a cracked asymmetrical sidewalk. While drunk!
This must be a practiced skill.
I scamper behind her, the bumbling sidekick in a pair of practical flats.
“It used to be right here, I swear,” she says as we stand on a side street at the foot of a domestic brownstone. She sighs, and it’s interrupted by a single faint hiccup. We’re far too drunk for this.
“We should call it,” I say.
“It’s ten o’clock,” she says.
I’m assuming by her horrified expression that she thinks ten o’clock is early. I’m of a different opinion. Ten o’clock is bedtime.
“Okay?”
“We’re not giving up on pizza,” she says, and hurries down the block, faster than expected, considering her shoes.
I follow her, breaking into a light jog as she disappears around the corner.
“Nadia?”
She’s hopping up and down, one set of fingers stuffed in her mouth, while another finger points down the street.
“What is it?” I ask her.
“Look!” she squeals. “We’re going.”
I turn my murky drunken gaze in the direction she’s pointing. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to focus on what’s there. A neon sign floating in a glass window. A crystal ball.
“No,” I say.
She seizes my wrist. “We’re getting our palms read.”
“Nope.”
She’s laughing. I’m not quite sure why, but she’s got a fun laugh. It’s loud and melodic.
“Please, please, please! It’s probably extra accurate to get read on your birthday.”
“Accurate,” I repeat. Now I’m laughing. I’m laughing so hard I can barely stand; I’m hunched like a wilting flower, arms limp.
“It’ll be fun,” she says.
“Famous last words.”
“Annie. Puh-leeeeasssse.” In the orangey glow from the streetlamp, her eyes look crazed and inhuman.
“Okay,” I say. “But if this goes poorly, I’ll do nothing about it and suffer in silence.”
“Yay!” she says, clapping and twirling around. The light from the lamp streaks through her black hair, and it looks like lightning threading a dark night sky.