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“You joke, but I keep hearing Winter Storm Barry is supposed to be a real monster.”
I look up from my phone. “Who the hell is Barry?”
“That’s what they’re calling it. The storm.”
“Ah. By ‘they,’ you mean the meteorologists,” I say in the same tone I might refer to astrologists. One is a pseudoscience. So is the other.
“It’s been the top headline on just about every news source all day. Supposedly Barry’s looking to be the storm of the century.”
I can’t even dignify this with a response, but he doesn’t get the hint because he continues chattering on as he looks down at his own phone.
“Damn. Surge rates are nuts right now,” he mutters, showing me an app on his phone like it’s supposed to mean something to me. “You live uptown a bit, right? Want to share a car? Estimate’s only an eight-minute wait. Not bad for this time of day on Fifth.”
I make the tiniest scoffing noise, and he gives me a quizzical smile. “What am I missing?”
“I get you’re new here, but . . . real New Yorkers take cabs,” I tell him.
“How long do I have to be here to be a real New Yorker?” he asks, bemused.
It’s probably rhetorical, but I consider the question seriously anyway because it’s a legitimate query deserving some attention.
How long does it take to be a New Yorker?
It depends. I hate that sort of wishy-washy answer, but in this case, it’s true. Some people can live here twenty years and never quite make the mental shift. Others seem to absorb the city into their very blood within a matter of weeks.
“Relax, Katherine. I was joking,” Matt-Mike-Martin says. “I figure I’ll always be a Texan at heart. I’m good with that.”
We step out of the elevator, and it should be a reprieve, but there’s a rush of people so we’re forced to walk slowly. And together.
“So, you’re staying in town for the holidays?” he asks.
Ugh. The small talk persists.
“I am.”
“Same. In-laws are coming in,” he says with a pained expression. The grimace actually makes me like him a little more. Not because I can relate to awful in-laws but because it makes him the first person today who seems to understand that Christmas is something other than candy canes and snowflakes.
“They’re great,” he continues in a forced, cheerful tone as we step outside. “It’s just . . . you know. I’ve got four whole nights to figure out how to keep them occupied so conversation doesn’t descend into a diatribe about the state of the country’s health care or the rising cost of wheat.”
“Uh-huh.” I navigate immediately to the curb and lift a hand, scanning the packed avenue for yellow cars. Specifically, ones that have their lights on to signal they’re available.
“You can’t seriously think you’re going to get a cab during Fifth Ave. rush hour in December,” he says with a laugh. “I may not be a New Yorker, but even I know that’s nuts. Come on. Seriously. Share my Uber. Only a six-minute wait now.”
“Sorry, Texas. I only ride in the yellow ones. Safest, most reliable way to get around the city.”
I can’t resist a smug smile over my shoulder as a taxi pulls over, stopping right in front of me. See?
He shakes his head, still smiling that relentless smile of his. “Point proven then. Well, Merry Christmas, Katherine.”
“Okay.” I drop my laptop bag into the cab and start to climb in after it, then at the last minute, turn back reluctantly. “You want to hop in? If we’re going the same way?”
“Nah.” He lifts his phone and waggles it. “Five minutes to go. Thanks, though.”
“No problem,” I say, hoping my relief isn’t too obvious.
I start to climb into the cab a second time, but once again, I pause and turn back.
I have no idea what comes over me. I really don’t.
But suddenly I find myself pulling an envelope out of the inner pocket of my peacoat and walking toward M-whatever. I slip it into his suit pocket. “Two tickets to the Rockettes on Christmas Eve. Send your in-laws to give yourself a little break.”
He looks genuinely surprised, and I can’t really blame him. I’ve surprised myself a little bit too.
I’m not exactly the spontaneous giving type. And just yesterday, in the ladies’ room, I heard the paralegals joking that I’d probably give out coal as the holiday gifts, which, honestly, offended me.
I would never. Coal is awful for the environment.
I got every person in the office, save Irene, practical electric toothbrushes, thank you very much. To be delivered after Christmas when everyone has started thinking about bettering themselves for the new year.
“Thanks, Katherine! This is beyond generous. I appreciate it, truly. I really appreciate it.”
I shrug as though it’s nothing, even though it means I’ll have to find some other way to spend Christmas Eve.
