Elizabeth’s never been here before. That much is clear in her expression. I have seen this look in people, this gasp of wonder. I want to tell her that this is only the first time, that there is going to be a second time and a third time and a fourth. That she will come here day after day, year after year. Because that is what I have done. And the feeling of being here, of being at the vortex of the city, doesn’t diminish.
“This is amazing,” she says.
“Yeah, isn’t it?” a guy about two feet away from her says. He assumes she’s talking to him. And from the way he’s looking at her, I can tell he wants the conversation to continue.
“There’s more,” I tell her. I reach for her hand and then remember, no, I shouldn’t try that. I shouldn’t do that. Her hand will just be floating ridiculously in the air, for everyone to see.
I lead her away from the tourists and the musicians and the presiding angel. I take her over a wooden bridge, into the woods, into the silence. We reach the Rambles, where the park resists landscape and becomes a rough-and-tumble twist of secret paths. In fifty steps, you can retreat from the city, the world.
Elizabeth notices the change.
“Is this where all the serial killers hang out?” she asks.
“Only on Wednesdays,” I tell her. “We’re safe.”
The trees close in, but because they do, I feel we can be more open. I don’t have to worry as much about the way it appears to anyone but us.
“So while I easily picked out your connection to the Minnesota mob,” I say, “I have to imagine my speculations missed a thing or two. Care to fill me in?”
“Oh, I’m just a simple girl,” she says with a sarcastic smile, “who just happens to complicate everything she touches. I’m like Midas, only whatever I touch turns to drama. Or at least that’s what my quote-friends-unquote back quote-home-unquote would say. I’ve never had Thai food, and only realized embarrassingly late in life that ‘Thai’ is pronounced ‘Tie.’ When I was in fifth grade, I was temporarily obsessed with tattoos, to the point that they had to hide all my Magic Markers. I was in choir for three years in order to be with my quote-friends-unquote, but I never sang a single note. I got really good at lip synching, though. This makes Laurie jealous, because if anyone should be the drag queen of the family, it’s him. Only I don’t think he actually likes drag. I don’t think I’ve ever asked him.”
We’ve arrived at a hidden bench. It has a brass plaque on it. DEDICATED TO GRACE AND ARNOLD GOLBER IN HONOR OF THEIR GENEROSITY.
I think Elizabeth’s going to sit down, but instead she simply stops to read the plaque, then hikes a little farther before stopping to look at me.
“I think that fills you in,” she says. “Now, do I get to speculate about you too?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
She takes a long, hard look at me. It’s unnerving. I am not used to this kind of scrutiny. I don’t know what expression to make, what posture to take.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I was momentarily distracted by all your past lives. Let me focus.”
She looks at me longer. Smiles.
“You’re a reader, no doubt about that. You might have read Little Women, but didn’t like it enough to go on to Little Men. That’s okay—I forgive you. Maybe you’re Twain’s bitch. Or Vonnegut’s. Deep in your heart, there’s still a part of you that believes in Narnia and the Chocolate Factory and the Knights of the Round Table. Maybe not the Secret Garden, but I forgive you for that too. Am I warm?”
“Fiery,” I tell her.
“Excellent. I have a feeling you might like math as well, especially as metaphor. You used to play an instrument—maybe a violin? You have a violinist’s air about you. But you gave it up. Too much practice. Too much time indoors. You love this park—but that’s not really speculation. That’s already been demonstrated. Of course, this is where you take all the girls. This very spot. They fall for it every time.”
“Do they?”
She nods. “It’s that serial-killer atmosphere. It’s an aphrodisiac.”
“Like oysters.”
“Wow. I think you’re the first guy I’ve ever gone on a stroll with who knew what an aphrodisiac was. That in itself is an aphrodisiac.”
I should have an answer to this, but instead I backtrack.
“Is that what we’re doing?” I ask. “Going on a stroll?”
She comes a little closer. “It’s undeniable, wouldn’t you say?”
She’s looking at me again. Studying me. I can’t help but be drawn to this. Such a new experience. Such an unexpected turn. A question rises within my thoughts, and before I can stop it, I find myself asking it aloud.
“When you look at me, what do you see?”
I have never had a chance to ask this question before. And even the act of asking makes me shake, makes me feel as if I have opened up my chest and shown her what’s inside. I am not ready for any of this, and I do it anyway.
“I see a boy,” she says. “I see someone who’s always on the verge of vanishing back into a thought. I see messy hair and full lips. I see the way you can’t stand still. I see the way your T-shirt fits, the way your jeans fit. I see you unsure of what to do. And I can relate to that. Really.”
“What color are my eyes?” I ask. It’s almost a whisper.
She leans in to me. “They’re blue. Robin’s-egg blue with a few flecks of brown.”
There is no way to describe what I feel. This is something I’ve never known. She has told me something I’ve never known.
We are so close right now. Neither of us knows what to do.
“What color are my eyes?” she asks.
Now it is my turn to lean in. Even though I already know the answer.
“Brown,” I say. “Deep brown. Like coffee without any milk.”
She smiles, and I don’t know which words are supposed to follow these words, what moment is supposed to follow this moment.
“I like strolling with you,” she says. Then she steps back, looks around at the trees. “I can’t believe we’re in the middle of New York City. This park is insane.”
“I know,” I tell her, and start walking again. I’ve lost any sense of where we are. She notices it immediately.