Someone handed me a tissue, and I blew my nose into it until it was too damp to use. “I just got laid off,” I blubbered. “And now this.” I gestured with my head, as if I could somehow point to my dress with my forehead. “It’s really been a bad morning.”
He offered me a small smile and a nod but said nothing.
I tucked the tissue into the pocket of his coat and noticed a small grimace ripple across his face.
“I’ll get it dry-cleaned and back to you as soon as I can.”
He shook his head. “I swear, I’m good. Besides, I think you need it more than me.”
I nodded. He wasn’t wrong. I did not want to ride the subway all the way to Brooklyn and then make the twelve-minute walk back to my apartment with my dress ripped open down the back.
“I really appreciate it,” I said, and I could feel the sobs hovering at the back of my throat, ready at any moment to make another appearance. I gritted my teeth and took a breath, calming myself, reining the tears back in. “This is worse than the time I peed myself from laughing too hard outside Cherry Tavern and had to buy a sweatshirt on Saint Marks to wrap around my waist and wear home.”
“I’m sorry, what?” He looked genuinely confused. “You peed yourself?”
It was a bad habit, a tic, the thing I did when other people just bit their nails or twirled their hair. I tried to change direction with humor. “It’s nothing. Anyway, I’m really grateful. You quite literally saved my ass.”
But he didn’t laugh; he barely cracked a smile. Instead, his brow tightened in response, his cheeks pinkish and bright. His mouth was a straight line, and as he glanced away, I noticed the hint of his tongue running across his bottom lip.
God, I wished Cleo and Lola were here to witness this. Laid off. Humiliated in front of an entire subway car. Butt cheeks bared to the world. Topped off with a hot guy coming to my rescue—a hot guy who was clearly not impressed by my ability to rip an entire article of clothing in half without even using my hands.
One day, this would make an amazing story, retold through swells of laughter over pitchers of beer. The kind of tale that earned a declaration of “This is going in my wedding toast for you,” which was the highest praise we awarded the mortifying moments we shared together. I’d literally lost both my job and the clothes off my back, and my dignity was not far behind.
Thinking of my friends calmed me, and my breathing steadied a bit. Inhale, exhale. The train lurched forward again and roared into the Canal Street station, in the heart of downtown Manhattan. I stayed focused on Cleo and Lola and imagined what we would all nickname this guy when I told them the story. Hot Suit. He was definitely a Hot Suit. Maybe not my best work. Certainly, not very original. But it was to the point and easy to remember. He was hot, and he wore a suit. Done and done.
I glanced back toward him, the man formerly known as Stranger on the Subway, as he bent to pick up a leather briefcase that he’d planted between his feet. It was smooth, polished brown leather but still looked vintage. Well loved, even. I’d never met anyone under the age of sixty who carried a freakin’ briefcase, but then again, I didn’t mix much with men who wore suits to work either.
When the train rolled to a stop and the doors opened, Hot Suit offered me a polite nod. “Well, good luck,” he said. “With everything.” I was so dazed by the whole experience that it took me a beat to realize he was getting off.
“Hey!” I shouted out the door as he stepped onto the platform. He angled his head back toward me, and our eyes met again. “Thank you! Seriously. I owe you one!” He shook his head and gave me a slight wave of his hand, a curt goodbye from a stranger who had just swooped in and saved me—my butt included—without even blinking an eye.
“I’m sorry about crying all over your shirt!” I yelled again, but he didn’t turn around. And then, Hot Suit was gone, swallowed by the crowd pushing off the train.
*
Back in the safety of my tiny apartment in Brooklyn, I dumped the box onto my sliver of kitchen counter and dropped my bags to the ground before shrugging Hot Suit’s jacket off my shoulders. I held it in front of me, examining it skeptically. I hadn’t found anything in the pockets besides my crumpled tissue （yes, I’d checked on my walk home）， and it looked and felt either brand-new or impeccably cared for. My finger brushed against the edge of a tag stitched along the collar. Gucci. Wow. This was now officially the nicest piece of clothing I owned.
Hanging it on a hook inside my closet, I let my ruined dress slide off my body and then collapsed onto my bed in a heap. I was achingly exhausted. Having the worst day of my life, I texted my friends. pls send bagels.