Page 33 of 72 Hours of You

He looks a little startled but then he shakes it off. “Okay,” he says. “I know the perfect place.”

“It better not be Sbarro’s.”

“THIS IS A BAR,” I SAY, pointing to the bar we’re standing in front of.

“No it’s not,” Peter says, a smile sliding onto his face.

I point again to the giant sign hanging over the wooden door that says BAR.

“Just watch,” Peter says. He pulls open the door and a blast of cold air hits us. A bachelorette group that’s obviously been up all night is laughing and taking shots at what is very clearly a bar, and a couple of old guys in German soccer jerseys are drinking beers at a corner table. God, it’s like ten in the morning. New York is so insane.

We go to step inside, but a middle-aged white guy on a black barstool with a beer gut and muttonchops puts out his hand.

“That’s a bouncer,” I whisper to Peter. “They have them at bars.”

“IDs,” the bouncer says.

“We don’t have IDs,” Peter says.

“Exit’s that way.” He points a meaty finger behind us.

Peter drops his voice and leans down toward the bouncer. “Don’t worry. We’re here for … other stuff.”

Oh my god he’s lost his mind.

I grab his elbow. “There, there, sweetie, let’s get you back to the hospital before pill time.”

But the bouncer nods and says, “Through the second gender-neutral bathroom on the right.”

Peter turns around and winks.

“Care to tell me what the hell is happening here?” I hiss. “Because I’m starting to feel like my concussion is relapsing.”

“I thought you didn’t have a concussion.”

I roll my eyes.

Peter walks toward the back bathrooms, and I have no choice but to follow him. The bachelorette group at the bar starts screaming about penises as a George Ezra song plays in the background. “It’s a food speakeasy,” Peter says, pushing open the door to the bathroom, which is actually a bricked hallway to another room. I follow him through the tunnel into a dimly lit pizza parlor straight out of the 1960s, with a jukebox and everything. We take a seat at a worn wooden booth, and Peter smiles a giant megawatt smile. He looks so handsome, his eyes crinkling in the corners and his hair dangling over his eyebrow. It makes me want to break the little vase of fake flowers on the table and stab something.

“A bar with a hidden restaurant in the back, instead of the other way around. This is so New York.”

“I know,” Peter says. “There’s nowhere like the city.”

“Except maybe Fairbanks, Alaska,” I mumble.

“What?”

“Hey, Petey!” An annoyingly hot girl in a crop top and low-rise baggy jeans interrupts our sparkling conversation.

“Petey?” I mouth at him.

He shrugs but I can see the tiniest hint of pink hit the tips of his ears. “Hey, Zia. Can we get a …” He turns back to me. “What kind of pizza do you like?”

“Cheese.” An inspired answer. I feel Zia and her diamond nose stud judging me for not ordering a vegan cauliflower crust. Although, actually, that might be the new version of basic if you think about it. Which I’m sure no one does.

Peter nods. “Half cheese, half mushroom.”

“Sure thing,” Zia says, her eyes lingering on Peter. She’s got to be in college, and Peter’s only a high school senior, so the whole thing is gross. I mean, okay, yeah, plenty of high school girls date college boys, but that’s different because … Fuck, I don’t know. Because she’s got a nose ring and I don’t.