As soon as we left the Vogue offices, hunger hit me hard. I’d snacked sparingly on nuts while shooting, too afraid I’d end up with food in my teeth. I needed to eat.
“Do you mind?” I pointed to the hot dog vendor on the corner. “I haven’t eaten all day except for a few handfuls of almonds.”
He stared at me for a moment and then started to laugh.
“How do you look like that and eat donut holes and hot dogs?” he asked.
“It’s the official model diet. Didn’t you know?”
“This explains so much. Okay. Let’s get a couple of dogs and walk,” he said.
And so we did, meandering north and talking in-between bites. When we finished, we popped into a corner bodega, each of us grabbing bottles of water before continuing on our way.
It was nice, just walking and talking with nowhere to be. No time limit. No one rushing the other. No agendas. And no paparazzi – my baseball hat, sunglasses, and baggy attire doing their usual camouflage act.
He told me about growing up in Oregon, his parent’s divorce, his relationship with his mom, and how her death had knocked him sideways.
“She was my best friend,” he said. “My dad is great. We’re very close and always have been. But my mom was a special soul. She saw me like others didn’t and always gave it to me straight rather than trying to hide things from me. All my friends loved her too. She was like our Yoda. If you had a problem, you came and talked to Carole.”
I smiled. “She sounds a lot like Addie’s mom, who was more a mom to me than my own was. Though, going to her for advice could be a crapshoot.” I laughed, remembering the feisty opinions Mel had given us over the years. Most of it not to be repeated.
“What was your relationship like with your dad?” Graham asked.
“Amazing. He was just good. Decent. Kind and witty and quiet. He had this magnetism to him that made people gravitate to him. Including me. If he was in the house, I wanted to be in the same room, even if we weren’t talking. His presence was large and soft and safe. After my parent’s split, I wanted to live solely with him, but of course my mother wouldn’t have it.” I rolled my eyes. “The optics. And my father knew I’d benefit from living with us both.” I made a face. “I’m still on the fence about that actually.”
Graham laughed, but a moment later he sobered. “And when he died?”
We had just made it to Central Park and I motioned to Graham to follow me, finding a spot in the shade of a tree to take a seat in the grass. I thought about his question, pulling a blade of grass from the ground and sliding it between my fingers over and over.
“I was devastated,” I finally said, my voice quiet. “He was the one I went to with questions, problems… all my crazy ideas. When I was at my mom’s house, I would call him late at night and he’d just sit on the phone with me for however long I needed – even though he had to be up early for work. His death took my legs out from under me.”
I grew quiet, remembering.
“When we found out he’d left the house to me, my mom wanted to sell it. I nearly launched myself at her. If Cal hadn’t been there, she might’ve lost her fake eyelashes.”
I grinned and Graham laughed quietly before reaching over and taking my hand, the warmth of his sending heat through my entire body.
“I’m sorry. I know it was a long time ago now, but I’m so sorry.”
I nodded, my eyes filling with tears, and tightened my fingers around his.
“I’m sorry too.”
We sat there quietly then, holding hands in the park, watching a myriad of people wandering, jogging, laughing, talking.
After a while we made our way out of the park and stood on the sidewalk contemplating dinner options and restaurants that wouldn’t blink an eye at my outfit. We settled on tacos and margaritas, making our way to Vida Verde where we were seated on the colorful rooftop at one of their aqua-colored tables, surrounded by beautiful murals and plants. We immediately ordered chips and their trio of guacamole, a peach margarita for me, and a blue coconut margarita for him.
“You’re going to have a blue tongue,” I said.
“Why do you think I got it?”
We ordered three different kinds of tacos and shared, tried one another’s drinks and swapped, and pondered for far too long if we should get dessert there or on our way back to Brooklyn.
“I made more cookies last night,” I said.
“What kind?”
“Snickerdoodle.”
