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“What, like feed you a calorie-dense meal?”
I slugged him in the shoulder.
He picked through his closet and pulled out a pair of dark gray pants, a thin white shirt, and a thick navy sweater that buttoned with round wooden buttons and looked like it should be worn by a shepherd in Wales or something.
“Ooh, soft.” I reached for the clothes.
“Are you wearing boxers?” Will asked, eyeing my ass in a distinctly nonappreciative way.
“Yeah, why?”
“Take them off.”
“Um.”
He just looked at me.
“Turn around,” I said. He rolled his eyes and pulled some underwear out of his drawer, throwing them at me.
“Put those on.”
“You want me to wear your underwear?”
“Don’t get too excited, kiddo.”
He turned back around while I changed. The pants probably weren’t supposed to be this baggy, but they didn’t look too bad. The shirt was soft and the sweater fit me perfectly in the shoulders, its heavy knit lending me enough bulk that I didn’t look so skinny.
“I look like I should be at a fancy ski lodge or something.”
Will came and stood behind me, looking at my reflection in the mirror. He nodded, as if satisfied.
“Does it look okay?” I was totally fishing, but I couldn’t help it. The sweater smelled like him, and I could smell him right there, and his hair gleamed golden in the mirror next to the dark of my own.
Will slid his arms around my waist from behind and rested his chin on my shoulder.
“Yeah,” he said. I grinned, and I could feel his lips move against my neck as I saw his smile bloom in the mirror.
MILTON’S PARENTS were nothing like I’d imagined. I’d only ever known people’s parents who were… well, parents. Milton’s parents were people. His mom was in some kind of nonprofit arts administration, and she dressed like the ladies who ran galleries I’d seen in movies about New York: a fitted black skirt that came to midcalf over heeled black boots, a cobalt blue sweater, and a necklace that looked like The Hulk had torn a piece off the side of an airplane and twisted it into a circle and put it over her head. She wore her hair in a riot of natural curls tipped blonde, and her bright pink lipstick would’ve looked ridiculous on my mom, but on her it was amazing. Even though she was really nice, I’d been ridiculously intimidated by her since the moment she’d first opened the door for Charles and me.
His father was less intimidating because he was less interested in me, clearly wanting to take advantage of his time with Milton and his sister, Clarice, who was in her last year at Parson’s studying fashion design. His father did something that I didn’t fully understand and taught a class on political economy once a year at The New School. He apparently had a huge Twitter following because he was outspoken about the intersections of race in popular culture and political economy.
The Beales lived in Park Slope and had an amazing view of Prospect Park. I snapped a quick pic and sent it to Will with the caption Giving thanks that I didn’t show up looking like a total scrub! Xoxo.
Milton’s grandparents on his mom’s side showed up about an hour after we got there, as did a few of Clarice’s friends, all of whom were ridiculously well dressed in this way that I could never pull off even if someone picked my clothes out for me.
I was learning that there was this whole approach to fashion that wasn’t about what was most flattering but more about expressing personality. It elevated people-watching all across the city because it gave me even more material to use to try and figure out who people might be. Or, at least, who they wanted the world to think they were.
Some of Milton’s parents’ friends showed up a little while after that, carrying covered dishes of food and bringing an argument they’d been having in with them. It was about a recent policy change in the mayoral office, and I was embarrassed that I didn’t know anything about the local politics of the city yet. I saw the front page of the New York Times all over town, strewn across tables in the library or the dorms, and the Post and the Daily News at the counter of Mug Shots. But I still hadn’t absorbed enough of it to be able to remember names and make connections.
“Tommy’s a defense attorney and Skya works for the Sylvia Rivera Law Project,” Milton told me, eyebrow raised as if I was supposed to know the significance of that. Before I could ask, though, Milton’s mom herded us into the dining room where a long table was set with creamy white dishes that were probably the nicest thing I’d ever eaten off. The food was set up on the sideboard against the wall, and we filled our plates, the conversation zinging off in multiple directions.
