Dash & Lily's Book of Dares (19 page)

“I’m sorry,” she said. And it was like a faucet had been turned, and only one sentiment could come gushing out. “I’m
so
sorry. Oh my God, I can’t believe how sorry I am. I didn’t mean to drop it, Dash. And I didn’t mean—I mean, I’m just so sorry. I didn’t think you were going to be there. I was just there. And, God, I am
so
sorry. I am really, really sorry. If you want to get out of the cab right this minute, I will completely understand. I will definitely pay for all of it.
All
of it. I’m sorry. You believe me, right? I mean it. I am so, so, SO sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I told her. “Really, it’s okay.”

And, strangely, it was. The only things I blamed were my own foolish expectations.

“No, it’s not okay. Really, I’m sorry.” She leaned forward. “Driver, can you tell him that I’m sorry? I wasn’t supposed to be like this. I swear.”

“The girl’s sorry,” the driver told me, with no shortage of sympathy shot my way in the rearview mirror.

Lily sat back in the seat. “You see? I’m just so—”

I had to tune out then. I had to stare at the people on the street, the cars going by. I had to tell the cabbie when to turn, even though I was sure he knew perfectly well when to turn. I was still tuning out when we pulled over, when I paid for the cab (even though this got me more apologies), when I carefully maneuvered Lily out of the cab and up the stairs. It became a
physics problem—how to prevent her from hitting her head on the cab as she got out, how to get her up the stairs without dropping her sneaker, which I still held in my hand.

I only tuned back in when the lock on the front door turned before I had a chance to ring the bell. Lily’s aunt took one look and said a simple, “Oh my.” Suddenly the torrent of apologies was directed at her; had I not been holding Lily up, I might have chosen this as my opportunity to leave.

“Follow me,” the old woman said. She led us to a bedroom at the back of her house and helped me sit Lily down on the bed. For her part, Lily was near tears now.

“This wasn’t what was supposed to happen,” she told me. “It wasn’t.”

“It’s okay,” I told her again. “It’s all okay.”

“Lily,” her aunt said, “you should still have pajamas in the second drawer. I’m going to walk Dash out while you change. I’ll also call your grandfather and let him know you’re safe with me, no harm done. We’ll concoct your alibi in the morning, when you’re much more likely to remember it.”

I made the mistake of turning back to look at her one last time before I left the room. It was heartbreaking, really—she just sat there, stunned. She looked like she was waking up in a strange place—only she knew she hadn’t gone to sleep yet, and that this was actually life.

“Really,” I said. “It’s okay.”

I took the red notebook out of my pocket and left it on the dresser.

“I don’t deserve it!” she protested.

“Of course you do,” I told her gently. “None of the words would have existed without you.”

Lily’s aunt, watching from the hall, motioned me out of the room. When we were a safe distance away, she said, “Well, this is quite uncharacteristic.”

“The whole thing was silly,” I said. “Please tell her there’s no need to apologize. We set ourselves up for this. I was never going to be the guy in her head. And she was never going to be the girl in mine. And that’s okay. Seriously.”

“Why don’t you tell her that yourself?”

“Because I don’t want to,” I said. “Not because of the way she is now—I know that’s not what she’s like. There was no way it was going to be as easy as the notebook. I get that now.”

I got to the door.

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” I said. “Thank you for the tea you never served me.”

“The pleasure was mine,” the old woman replied. “Come back again soon.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I think we both knew I wouldn’t.

Back on the street, I wanted to talk to someone. But who? It’s moments like this, when you need someone the most, that your world seems smallest. Boomer would never in a million years understand what I was going through. Yohnny and Dov might, but they were in such couple mode that I doubted they could see the forest because they’d be too busy pairing up the trees. Priya would just stare at me strangely, even over the phone. And Sofia didn’t have a phone. Not anymore. Not in America.

Either of my parents?

That was a laughable idea.

I started to walk home. The phone rang.

I looked at the screen: Thibaud.

Despite my deeper reservations, I picked up.

“Dash!” he cried. “Where are you guys?”

“I took Lily home, Thibaud.”

“Is she okay?”

“I’m sure she would appreciate your concern.”

“I just looked up and you guys were gone.”

“I don’t even know how to begin to address that point.”

“What do you mean?”

I sighed. “I mean—that is to say, what I really don’t understand is how you get away with being such a lout.”

“That’s not fair, Dash.” Thibaud actually sounded hurt. “I totally care. That’s why I called. Because I care.”

“But, you see, that’s the luxury of being a lout—you get to be selective about when you care and when you don’t. The rest of us get stuck when your care goes shallow.”

“Dude, you think too much.”

“Dude, you know what? You’re right. And you don’t think enough. Which makes you the perennial screwer and me the perennial screwee.”

“So she’s upset?”

“Really, does it matter to you?”

“Yes! She’s grown up a lot, Dash. I thought she was cool. At least until she passed out. You can’t really try to get with a girl once she passes out. Or even when she’s coming close.”

“That’s mighty chivalrous of you.”

“God, you’re pissed! Were the two of you dating or something? She didn’t mention you once. If I’d known, I promise I wouldn’t have been flirting with her.”

“Again, chivalry. You’re almost up to a knighthood.”

Another sigh. “Look, I just wanted to make sure she was okay. That’s it. Just tell her I’ll catch her later, right? And that I hope she doesn’t feel too bad in the morning. Tell her to drink lots of water.”

“You’re going to have to tell her yourself, Thibaud,” I said.

“She didn’t answer.”

“Well, I’m not there now. I’m gone, Thibaud. I’ve left.”

“You sound sad, Dash.”

“One of the failures of cellular communication is that tiredness often comes across as sadness. But I appreciate your concern.”

“We’re still here, if you want to come back.”

“I’m told there’s no going back. So I’m choosing forward.”

I hung up then. The exhaustion of living was just too much for me to talk any longer. At least to Thibaud. And, yes, there was sadness in that. And anger. And confusion. And disappointment. All exhausting.

I kept walking. It wasn’t too cold for December 27, and all the holiday-week visitors were out in force. I remembered where Sofia had said her family was staying—the Belvedere, on Forty-eighth Street—and walked in that direction. Times Square sent its glow into the air, blocks before it actually began, and I walked heavily into the light. The tourists still crowded into a thronging pulse, but now that Christmas was over, I wasn’t as repelled. Especially in Times Square, everyone was enraptured by the simple act of
being here
. For every exhausted soul like myself, there were at least three whose faces were lifted in absurd wonder at the neon brightness. As much as I wanted to have the hardest of hearts, such
plaintive joy made me feel what a leaky, human vessel it really was.

When I got to the Belvedere, I found the house phone and asked to be connected to Sofia’s room. It rang six times before an anonymous voice mail picked up. I returned the receiver to its cradle and went to sit on one of the couches in the lobby. I wasn’t waiting, per se—I simply didn’t know where else to go. The lobby was full of hustling and bustling—guests negotiating each other after negotiating the city, some about to plunge back in. Parents dragged vacation-tired children. Couples sniped about what they’d done or hadn’t done. Other couples held hands like teenagers, even when they hadn’t been teenagers for over half a century. Christmas music no longer wafted in the air, which allowed a more genuine tenderness to bloom. Or maybe that was just in me. Maybe everything I saw was all in me.

I wanted to write it down. I wanted to share it with Lily, even if Lily was really just the idea I’d created of Lily, the
concept
of Lily. I went to the small gift shop off the lobby and bought six postcards and a pen. Then I sat back down and let my thoughts flow out. Not directed to her this time. Not directed at all. It would be just like water, or blood. It would go wherever it was meant to go.

Postcard 1: Greetings from New York!
Having grown up here, I always wonder what it would be like to see this city as a tourist. Is it ever a disappointment? I have to believe that New York always lives up to its reputation. The buildings really are that tall. The lights really are that bright. There’s truly a story on every corner. But it still might be a shock. To realize you are just one story walking among millions. To not feel the bright lights even as
they fill the air. To see the tall buildings and only feel a deep longing for the stars
.

Postcard 2: I’m a Broadway Baby!
Why is it so much easier to talk to a stranger? Why do we feel we need that disconnect in order to connect? If I wrote “Dear Sofia” or “Dear Boomer” or “Dear Lily’s Great-Aunt” at the top of this postcard, wouldn’t that change the words that followed? Of course it would. But the question is: When I wrote “Dear Lily,” was that just a version of “Dear Myself”? I know it was more than that. But it was also less than that, too
.

Postcard 3: The Statue of Liberty
For thee I sing. What a remarkable phrase
.

“Dash?”

I looked up and found Sofia there, holding a
Playbill
from
Hedda Gabler
.

“Hi, Sofia. What a small world!”

“Dash—”

“I mean, small in the sense that right at this moment, I’d be happy if it only had the two of us in it. And I mean that in a strictly conversational sense.”

“I always appreciate your strictness.”

I looked around the lobby for a sign of her parents. “Mom and Dad leave you alone?” I asked.

“They went for a drink. I decided to come back.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

I didn’t stand up. She didn’t sit down next to me. We just
looked at each other and saw each other for a moment, and then held it for another moment, and another moment. There didn’t seem to be any question about what was going to happen. There didn’t seem to be any doubt about where this was going. We didn’t even need to say it.

fourteen
(Lily)

December 28th

Fan•ci•ful\fan(t)si-fәl\
adj
(ca. 1627) 1. marked by fancy or unrestrained imagination rather than by reason and experience.

According to Mrs. Basil E.,
fanciful
is the adjective for which Snarl—I mean Dash—feels the most longing. Certainly it explained why he’d answered the call of the red notebook at the Strand to begin with and played along, for a while, until he discovered that the real Lily, as opposed to his imagined one, would turn him less
fanciful
and more
dour
(3. gloomy, sullen)
.

What a waste.

Although,
fanciful
’s origin circa 1627 made me still love the word, even if I’d ruined its applicability to my connection with Snarl. (I mean
DASH!)
Like, I could totally see Mrs. Mary Poppencock returning home to her cobblestone hut with the thatched roof in Thamesburyshire, Jolly Olde England, and
saying to her husband, “Good sir Bruce, would it not be wonderful to have a roof that doesn’t leak when it rains on our green shires, and stuff?” And Sir Bruce Poppencock would have been like, “I say, missus, you’re very
fanciful
with your ideas today.” To which Mrs. P. responded, “Why, Master P., you’ve made up a word! What year is it? I do believe it’s circa 1627! Let’s carve the year—we
think
—on a stone so no one forgets.
Fanciful!
Dear man, you are a genius. I’m so glad my father forced me to marry you and allow you to impregnate me every year.”

I placed the dictionary back on the shelf, next to a hardcover edition of
Contemporary Poets
, as Mrs. Basil E., who is keen on reference books, returned to the parlor with a silver tray bearing a pot of what smelled like very strong coffee.

“What have we learned, Lily?” Mrs. Basil E. asked me as she poured me a cup.

“Taking too many sips of other people’s drinks can lead to disastrous consequences.”

“Obviously,” she said imperiously. “But more importantly?”

“Don’t mix drinks. If you’re going to sip peppermint schnapps, only sip peppermint schnapps.”

“Thank you.”

Her calm observation was what I appreciated best about that small degree of separation between a parent or grandparent and a great-aunt. The latter could react sensibly, pragmatically, to the situation, without the complete and wholly unnecessary hysteria that would have befallen the former.

“What did you tell Grandpa?” I asked.

“That you came over last night to have dinner with me, but I asked you to stay over to shovel the snow from my sidewalk in the morning. Which is entirely true, even if you slept through dinner.”

“Snow?” I pulled back the heavy brocade drapery and looked out the front window to the street.

SNOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I had forgotten about the previous evening’s promise of snow. And darned if I hadn’t slept through it, conked out on too many sips and too many hopes—dashed (so to speak). All my own fault.

The morning’s view onto the street of Gramercy town houses was blanketed with snow, at least two inches deep—not a lot, but enough for a good snowman. The accumulation still appeared gloriously new, the street a blanket of white, with cottony tufts heaped on cars and sidewalk railings. The snow had yet to lose its luster to multiple foot tramplings, yellow dog markings, and the scars of engine fumes.