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TWENTY-ONE

It’s the solstice and the summer heat has settled in, covering the city with a sticky film, turning people’s tempers up, obliterating their patience. As Alex walks to work she can see the hot air wiggle up from the pavement, distorting everything around her. Her throat is parched by the time she drags herself onto Sixth Avenue. All she can think about is a glass of water, full of ice, something cold to take away the grime and discomfort that have already enveloped her.

As Alex approaches the Herald Building a large black town car with tinted windows passes her, swerving to a stop in front of the revolving doors. Howard Demetri emerges from the back seat, extending one long leg at a time onto the sidewalk. Something about seeing him there makes her step back, her heart thumping. She pulls her sunglasses down over her face, wiping a line of sweat from the top of her lip.

In the bright daylight Howard is less intimidating than he was in the hallway. He looks hungover, his face pale and gaunt. The sour smell of whiskey on his breath last night has cured her of the desire to have him stop by her office. She doesn’t love the idea of being trapped in the elevator with him and she suspects he isn’t looking to make awkward conversation with her right now either. She ducks toward the side of the building, waiting for him to go inside before her.

“Alex,” a voice calls from behind her, startling her out of her thoughts. She turns to see Tom standing there obliviously. His headphones hang around his neck. She is surprised by how happy she is to see him.

“Hiding from someone?” He nods at Howard’s back as he hurries toward the entrance.

“Kind of,” she admits. “My boss.”

“Oh, well, that makes sense. Who wants to be stuck making small talk with their boss first thing?” Tom says as they watch him go. Alex breathes a sigh of relief as Howard disappears through the revolving glass doors. “He looks familiar, actually.”

“You’ve probably heard of him. Howard Demetri. He’s kind of a big deal, if you’re into newspapers.” She feels her hair sticking to her forehead. This heat isn’t making her feel exactly attractive. She can feel her skin growing slick beneath her shirtdress. Her hair clings uncomfortably to her neck. Tom, on the other hand, is wearing some sort of lightweight blue suit and doesn’t appear to have broken a sweat despite the sidewalk feeling a lot like the surface of the sun.

Tom shakes his head. “Afraid I can’t handle the heavy stuff. I’m far too sensitive for the real world. I prefer fictional problems.”

“What’s today’s, then?” Alex asks, nodding to the headset around his neck.

“Well, I’m so glad you asked. Currently I am escaping into the troubled lives of Jo, Beth, Meg, and, of course, Amy.”

“You’re listening to Little Women ?” Alex says incredulously. He has to be kidding. A banker in his midthirties wearing a suit could not possibly be interested in Louisa May Alcott.

“You don’t believe me? Well, fine, have a listen!” He pulls the headphones off his neck and holds them out. She leans in tentatively, until she can hear the dim voice of a woman reading.

I don’t pretend to be wise, but I am observing, and I see a great deal more than you’d imagine. I’m interested in other people’s experiences and inconsistencies, and, though I can’t explain, I remember and use them for my own benefit.

Their heads bend together listening, and Alex feels a sharp fizzle of electricity move between them. The whole scene is so implausible, the two of them out on the street listening to Little Women and sharing headphones like teenagers, that she straightens up and pulls herself away.

“I should go in,” she says. “I have so much to do.”

“Right. Well, I’ll let you know how it ends. See you around, then,” he says. She’s only walked a few paces when she hears him call back to her.

“Hey, Alex!” She turns back. He stands in the middle of the sidewalk squinting into the morning sun. His jacket flaps slightly in the hot breeze. “Do you want to get dinner sometime?”

He looks so earnest, his head tilted to one side, waiting for her response. She thinks of one of Francis’s letters. You have to allow yourself to be vulnerable if you want to receive anything good this world has to offer.

“Sure,” she says, even as she feels her chest clamp up at the idea of going on a date.

He holds out his phone. “Can I have your number?”

She hesitates. “Why don’t you give me yours?”

“Fair enough,” he says. He digs around in his bag and finds a pen and a napkin. Before she knows it, he is leaning against the window scribbling down his number. Her palms are clammy as he hands it to her. She notices the expectation in his eyes. She tucks it into the pocket of her shirtdress and gives him a smile. “Great, thanks. I’ll send you a text,” Alex says, not sure if she means it.

“Great.” He grins. “In the meantime, I’ll look for your name in the paper.”

He smiles, that one-sided dimple flashing at her before he turns away, pulling his headphones over his ears. As she glances back, she sees him duck into the Excelsior Bank Building, and an unfamiliar flutter rises up into her chest. She fights hard to extinguish it, but as she rides up to the forty-ninth floor, she imagines meeting Tom for dinner at one of the cafés nearby, talking into the night at one of the tables that spill out onto the street. The ones she always walks past alone.