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It’s pathetic, but as long as Arsène keeps seeking me out, I don’t feel so alone in this place.
“I have plans tonight.” This, surprisingly, is not a lie.
“Great. I’ll join you.”
“What? No!” I stop at the curb, craning my neck to try to flag a yellow taxi down. “You’re not invited.”
“Why not?” he inquires casually, not one bit offended.
I look around myself, wondering if he is for real. “Has it ever occurred to you I might have plans with people?”
“What people?”
“Friends.”
“You don’t have any friends.” He chuckles easily. “You’re an outcast, like me. Well, not like me,” he amends, waving down a taxi. He is much taller than me and is probably visible to drivers all the way from Long Island. “I do have some friends, though I try my best to avoid them. But you, all your real friends are miles away. You miss company, and you don’t have it. Really, I’m doing you a favor.”
A taxi signals in our direction. The familiar pitter-patter of my heart beating out of whack makes my chest cave. This is exactly why I haven’t reached out to Arsène these past few weeks. Even though I’ve been dying to know more about Paul, I couldn’t risk it. This feeling. Of falling again. And with yet another rich New York jerk. No doubt, this is another Winnie Ashcroft error. Winnie Towles would’ve found herself another nice, dignified Rhys Hartnett.
“I don’t want you to tag along.” I spit out the words.
The taxi pulls over and stops in front of us, and Arsène casually places a hand on its roof to stop it from driving while we finish this conversation.
“You’ll just be talking about Paul and Grace nonstop, and I’m tired of the heartache,” I add.
“Cross my heart and hope to die, you will not be hearing their names from my lips tonight.” He raises his fingers in a Boy Scout motion. “Now, where’re we headed? Do they serve alcohol there?” He opens the door for me, and I slide into the back seat, with him following behind.
Twenty-five minutes later, we’re sitting on a redbrick wall, our feet dangling in the air. In front of us, there is a sea of parked cars. And in front ofthemisBreakfast at Tiffany’s, playing on the back of a stark-white building in Brooklyn.
“Let me get this straight.” Arsène rips open a bag of Skittles. “You were going to go to a drive-in without a car?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Also yes.” I bury my hand inside a bag of popcorn. The salt and butter cling to my fingers. “I like sitting outdoors while the weather’s still warm. Reminds me of home.”
Only it’s not warm at all tonight. Autumn is bleeding into the remainder of summer, and the air is cold and biting. I have a cardigan, but it barely helps keeping the shivers at bay.
“It’s not safe,” he points out.
“I’ve survived thus far. Have a little confidence in people.”
“Never.” He peers around us, then scowls at me. “You’re freezing. Wait here.”
He hops off the wall, disposing of the opened Skittles bag into my hands. I try to turn my attention to the movie, but it’s no use. My eyes follow Arsène religiously. I’m curious as to what he’ll do next. He saunters nonchalantly across a row of cars, passing pickup trucks and Teslas. He stops in front of a BMW, leans forward, and knocks on the driver’s window. What the heck is he doing? I prop myself closer to the edge, desperate to hear the words he exchanges with the person behind the wheel.
“How much to rent your car for the rest of the night?”
“Fuck you, man.” The guy inside laughs incredulously.
“Sex is not a currency I trade in, but I appreciate the offer. You bought this car for ... what? thirty-five K? After adding all the perks?It’s five years old. I know the model. A car loses seventy percent of its value within the first four years. I’ll give you ten grand if you lend it to me for the night. You can pick it up from here tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah, buddy. Right.” The guy scoffs. “And you expect me to believe it?”
“I expect you to use your brain cells, take the once-in-a-lifetime offer, and call yourself a cab, sooner rather than later.”
I can’t decide if what he’s doing is romantic, crazy, stupid, or all three. I wonder if Arsène used grand gestures on Grace. I decide that, yes, he did. He’s a nonconforming, eclectic person. Then I wonder what kind of fiancé he’d been to her. Somehow, I don’t see him stressing out about babies in the same way Paul had. He seems eerily self-assured and calm. He’d be in no hurry to reproduce just to prove something.
