“Sorry, not on my watch.” He splays his palms as if to say,It’s out of my hands.
“So what would you do if I, say... entered a crosswalk before the light’s changed?”
“Pull you back by the scruff of your neck,” he replies without missing a beat, and I crack up.
I haven’t been paying attention to where we’ve been walking, but all that changes when the quiet street we’ve been meandering down spits us out into the belly of the beast: the blinking neon screens and blinding strobe lights of Times Square.
I immediately throw my forearm up to shield my eyes and search for an escape. “Get thee to a subway.”
He stops me before I can flee, catching me by the hip. Heat spreads through me, his hand like a brand.
“Let’s keep walking,” he says casually, and my blood pressure spikes. “It’ll be fun.”
I peer at him like he’s just suggested we stroll through a deserted cornfield in a slasher movie. “Are you serious? What self-respecting New Yorker actually chooses to hang out in Times Square?”
“Oh come on, it’s not that bad.”
“Not thatbad? It’s one giant epileptic trigger!”
He smirks like a mischievous teenager out past curfew. “You have to admit, the people-watching can’t be beat. Whoneeds Broadway when Times Square isrightthere? I’m telling you, this is the real show.”
Somewhere, a piece of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s soul dies. “I know you did not just compare Times Square to Broadway. That is beyond sacrilege.”
He chuckles, the low, velvety sound dancing across my skin.
“You seem to be experiencing some confusion. You must’ve had too many drinks at dinner. Are you unwell?” I reach up to feel his forehead with the back of my hand. “I think we may need to get you home.”And I can regroup and figure out where to go from here.
He snags my wrist. “Or maybe,” he says, his voice distinctly rougher, “I’m just not ready for the night to be over.”
I flush, a mixture of fear and flattery spiking my blood. It’s a confusing combination. “Oh.”
“Unless you’re trying to get rid of me.” His eyes search mine with interest.
What I’m trying to do is pretend not to notice how your hand feels pressed against my skin.
“No!”Yes. “Not at all.”Gah.How am I going to tap-dance my way out of this one?
You’re not, Betty pipes up.Accept every invitation with gratitude. Let him be the decision-maker!
So I paste on my own second-date perma-grin, link my arm through his, and let him lead me out into the intersection of Bright & Brighter, accepting my soon-to-be-damaged retinas as the price I pay for a story.
To prove I’m a good sport, I start playing tour guide. “You were so right about the unique charm and distinctiveness of Times Square. To our right, you’ll see such esteemedNew York landmarks as the Hard Rock Cafe and M&M’s World.” I motion toward the creepily costumed characters milling about aimlessly. “If you want, we could get your picture taken with a few off-brand superheroes or beloved characters like ‘Winnie the Pooch’ or ‘Mikey Mouse.’ They may look a little shifty, but I’m pretty sure they’ve never killed anyone.” I gesture to the restaurant on the opposite side of the street. “Oh! And if you’re still hungry, nothing says ‘only in New York’ like the Olive Garden.”
Before I can react, his arm’s shot out and grabbed me by the waist, and he’s tickling me within an inch of my life. I shriek and writhe as I try to escape, but it’s a long, torturous few seconds before I’m able to twist out of his grasp.
I point at him with my arm extended, like I’m holding him at sword’s length. “Don’t eventhinkabout doing that again,” I wheeze, still catching my breath.
His eyes are alight with humor. “I don’t think I’m the only one who had too many drinks at dinner.”
He’s not wrong; I am feeling a little fuzzy at the edges. Against my better judgment—and spurred on by the giddy adolescent energy that always seems to accompany a night out with my sister—I indulged in more wine than was probably wise given the circumstances. The easy, natural camaraderie of our foursome only served to blur the line even further. There were times tonight when I nearly forgot that Jack is my sworn enemy.Forgot this isn’t a real date.
I think I’ll also blame the booze for the fact that when he grabs my hand and starts swinging it between us as we walk, I don’t let go.
There’s loud music blaring up ahead, a group of people gathered around observing something, and when we make it to the edge of the crowd I spot the main attraction: anelderly couple is dancing in the center of the circle, and it’s the most wholesome spectacle I’ve ever seen in Times Square. We stand and watch as the thin, slightly stooped man twirls his gray-haired partner in a spin, and the smile she aims back at him is so adoring, my heart melts like soft serve in humidity. “Wow. How cute are they?”
He nudges my shoulder. “And to think, you would’ve missed this.”
I pull a face, but I can’t even pretend to be mad. “I love this song,” I tell him, humming a few bars of “Cry to Me.”
