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RUBY
Kennedy has an apartment in the Upper West side, because her parents are richer than God. I mean, it’s a studio apartment, but still. The rent on that place could pay for two mortgages anywhere but New York City.
After our triumphant run-in with Nick, we’ve come to hang out and watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s, just because. I mean, can you ever see Breakfast at Tiffany’s too many times? I love it like Paxton and Mason love their mob movies.
I also love coming to Kennedy’s apartment because she’s a fine arts major and her place has awesome funky vibes. It’s an apartment in a pre-war building, the walls are exposed brick, she has her paintings in one corner on easels, and her artfully arranged gallery walls could be in a magazine.
Kennedy and Clair turn the TV on and settle in on the slouchy red velvet couch while I go to her kitchen to make us some coffee. It’s an open-concept kitchen separated from the bedroom/living room/art studio by a counter with two tall chairs.
Kennedy’s got this giant coffee/espresso machine that requires lessons and a PhD to operate. I’m pretty sure I have the hang of it finally, after several disastrous attempts.
I stand next to her marble slab counter debating between various flavors of exotic varieties I’ve never seen before.
“How about if I make us some Kopi Luwok?” I call out.
“Sure, that one’s awesome. My parents sent that to me.”
I pick up the bag of beans and then do a double take when I see the price tag on it.
“Why is your coffee two hundred dollars a bag?” I demand. “I must be reading that wrong. Tell me I’m read it wrong.”
“Oh, it’s because it’s a pretty labor-intensive collection process for the beans. The beans are eaten by civets, which are small cat-like mammals from Indonesia. The beans pass through their system whole and are pooped out. Something about going through their digestive system alters the flavor and provides an exceptionally smooth taste.” Kennedy says this with a completely straight face, as if this is normal.
“What did you just say?” Clair demands, rearing back on the couch. “Did I just nearly drink poop coffee?”
“There’s no poop left on it by the time they bag it,” Kennedy says. Then her forehead wrinkles in thought. “I think,” she adds. “Anyway, it’s delicious.”
“That’s it. I am coming in there to inspect the coffee selection.” Clair leaps up from the couch and stomps into the kitchen. She and I carefully inspect every bag that Kennedy has in her cupboards, and look them up online before we select one that costs a mere eighty dollars a bag but has not been pooped out of anything.
I grind the beans in her electric grinder and get the coffee pot going. The air fills with the satisfyingly bitter tang of coffee and I head over to the fridge to fetch some milk.
Then the yelling starts.
“Hey! What the actual heck,” Clair cries out.
“How could you not tell us, Ruby?” Kennedy shouts.
Tell them what?
Baffled, I shove the milk back in the fridge and hurry over to the sofa, where I plop down next to Clair.
Paxton is on the screen, larger than life, since it’s a sixty-inch screen. Why does he have to look so handsome all the time? He’s reclining in a chair, holding a... teacup? It looks ridiculous in his big, strong hand. He’s wearing slacks and loafers and a button-down shirt. He’s doing an interview with some TV show host. A sign on the wall behind him reveals that the show is called Spilling the Tea with Tiana.
The interview ends just as I’m sitting down. I have an uneasy feeling about this. What could Paxton have said that would make Clair and Kennedy scream, and what could it have to do with me?
Clair and Kennedy are both staring at me like I’ve grown a third eye.
“Kennedy, why are you staring at me like that, when you’re the one who tried to feed me civet droppings?” I demand. “Don’t think I’m letting that one go, either.”
“Because Paxton just spilled the—ha ha—beans on you guys. Oh, I’m so funny.”
“What did he say?” I demand, my heart thumping in my chest. “I can rewind it,” Kennedy says. She leans forward, grabs her remote from the tree-stump-slice coffee table, and rewinds the show.
“So,” host Tiana twitters, “is that the sound of hearts breaking all across Manhattan? All across the country, I’d even venture.” She’s in her twenties, perfectly made up, dark brown eyebrows drawn on and powdered, red glossy lips pursed together. I don’t like the way she’s looking at Paxton, but that’s not fair at all. I can’t be jealous of the jerk. I have no interest in him whatsoever.
I just don’t think she’d be a good match for him, that’s all.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Paxton grins at her. There’s a little microphone clipped to his T-shirt, and he’s reclining in the chair like a king surveying his court.
