The man mirrors me and sits up, too. From this new vantage point, I notice he has a full-on six-pack. I don’t stare long enough to count the individual abs—that would be rude—so it’s possible it’s an eight-pack.
The man reaches his right hand across his body toward me. Is something going to happen right now? It’s not like Hannah believes I’ll be there in an hour. Maybe morning sex will distract me from my headache, which has fully set in. As long as he isn’t expecting a blowjob. My gag reflex can’t handle it.
“I’m Theo, by the way. In case you didn’t remember.”
Oh, the only contact the man—who is apparently named Theo—is offering is a handshake. I awkwardly offer my right hand from in between us to shake.
* * *
? ? ?
?After showering, I feel slightly more human. I’d put my risk of vomiting around fifty percent, which is not great, but nothing a breakfast sandwich can’t solve.
“？Que lo que, jefe?” Ramón looks up from his Sudoku puzzle to greet us when we walk into the bodega on my corner. “Feliz Navidad” blasts through the speakers. I wince at the volume and almost turn around and walk out, but my need for carbs and grease wins out.
“Can I get a bacon, egg, and cheese?”
“And for your friend?”
“What do you want?” I ask Theo.
He looks confused. “Is there a menu?”
“No, it’s a bodega. They have, like, bacon, egg, and cheese; egg and cheese; and I don’t know . . . bodega stuff.” What New Yorker doesn’t have their bodega order locked and loaded? Maybe he’s only visiting from England.
“I’ll have the same,” Theo announces.
Ramón sings along to the music while he scrambles eggs in a little metal bowl. Theo watches him and I take the opportunity to watch Theo, who is now, disappointingly, fully dressed. I home in on his shoes. They’re brown and a little scuffed, but from the horsebit buckle I’m pretty sure they’re Gucci, and not the knockoff kind from Canal Street I wear. My eyes scan up his body and take in his jeans. Dark wash with no distressing. And his belt, also brown. I try to discern the belt’s brand, but the buckle is plain with no details to give away the designer.
“Are you . . . staring at my dick?” Theo whispers coquettishly, interrupting my mental inventory of his outfit.
“No! I’m just . . . uh . . . ,” I babble to the display of cigarettes behind the counter, which I suddenly find very interesting. I’m saved by Ramón returning with our sandwiches. He puts them in a plastic bag with a wad of napkins.
Outside, a black SUV idles on the corner. I suggested the subway, but Theo insisted he’d get us a car. After clocking his shoes, I’m not surprised he sprang for a black car.
“Give me your phone and I can put in Hannah’s address.”
“We need to stop at my apartment first so I can change,” he says. “I can’t meet new people in yesterday’s clothes.”
I don’t have the energy to argue. “Fine.”
I don’t pay attention to where we’re going. Instead, I focus on my sandwich, which is improving my hangover with every bite. By the time I crumple the foil wrapper and wipe the crumbs from my sweater, we’re pulling up to a mid-rise brick building on Central Park West.
“Want to come up?” he offers.
It’s better than sitting here with the driver. Before we reach the building’s door, my phone starts vibrating in my pocket. I fish it out and see my sister’s name on the caller ID.
“I’ll catch up in a minute,” I tell Theo.
I lean against the building’s facade, ignoring the dirty look the doorman shoots me. “Mandy!” I exclaim with all the enthusiasm I can muster mid-hangover.
“Ew. I’m not Mandy anymore. I go by Amanda now.”
The last time I was home, Mandy was eleven. She had braces with purple elastics （always purple, it was her thing） and a raging obsession with the Jonas Brothers. Nick Jonas, to be exact. Now she’s sixteen and goes by Amanda. I have no idea who she has a crush on these days, but she can always be counted on to call on Christmas and my birthday.
“Well, merry Christmas, Amanda!”
“You too. Tell me what you’re doing today!”
She loves hearing about the Christmas adventures Hannah and I have. “No big plans this year. We’re watching movies and going out to dinner later.”
I don’t need to ask what she’s doing. I’m certain that, as always, she’ll be sitting down to a formal dinner at exactly three o’clock in the afternoon. Turkey （never ham）， collard greens, my mom’s famous cornbread, and macaroni and cheese.
“That sounds way better than here. Uncle Owen is bringing his new girlfriend, and Mom says she’s trashy. It’s a whole thing.”
“Wait, Uncle Owen and Aunt Carolyn got divorced?”
“Yeah, a while ago. Mom’s on Aunt Carolyn’s side, so she invited her, too. It’s going to be super weird.” A lump forms in my throat at the idea that my mother, who wouldn’t stand up for me, stood up to my father and invited his brother’s ex-wife, not even a blood relative, to Christmas. What’s more, I can’t believe he let her.
“Is Mom around? Can I talk to her?” My mother never initiates the call, but sometimes Amanda passes her the phone and we trade pleasantries for a few minutes. She asks about auditions and my apartment, but never my love life, and in return she fills me in on neighborhood gossip or, more recently, the engagements and weddings of my high school classmates.
“Mom’s downstairs. She’s making three different pans of cornbread this year. She’s on high alert because Grandma Everett made a comment last year about the cornbread being dry.”
“Oh,” I say, careful to mask my disappointment. “Tell her I say merry Christmas.”
“I will. But I gotta go, she’s calling me to set the table. Love you, Finny! Bye!”
She hangs up without waiting for my goodbye.
Before I head inside, I take a deep breath and try to shake off the call. I appreciate Amanda’s calls, I really do, but sometimes it’s easier to pretend I don’t have a family at all. Especially on days like today. Talking to her feels like picking at a scab that never quite heals.
A doorman in a crisp gray uniform opens the door for me and I step into the building’s wood-paneled lobby. The lobby’s only concession to Christmas are two imposing columns opposite the entrance wrapped in pine garlands and dotted with white twinkle lights. There’s not a red glittery ball in sight to junk up the decor. I wince at the squeaking noise my boots make on the marble floors, interrupting the otherwise pristine silence.
Off to the side, behind a desk, is another uniformed doorman, this one in a Santa hat. You’d think he’d be the fun one, but he’s the scariest-looking dude I’ve ever seen and he’s scowling at me like he can smell the vodka emanating from my pores, even after a shower.
“I’m with, um, Theo?” I desperately hope he saw us arrive together because I don’t know Theo’s last name, and I don’t want him thinking I’m some vodka-scented riffraff trying to gatecrash.