“My groceries,” he says.
“You have your groceries delivered?” I’m up and crossing the room. “I’ve gotta see this.”
I fling open the door to find three bags of groceries lying at my feet. A delivery guy has already made his way towards the elevator, but he looks over his shoulder when he hears the door open.
He looks at me and frowns. “Huh. I thought you were a guy.”
I roll my eyes and grab the bags.
“Kitchen?” I ask, heading in that direction. I assume it’s in the same spot as our kitchen. Since he gets up to follow me, I assume my assumption is right.
He watches as I unpack his groceries. He takes the items that need refrigerating and puts them away.
“You know, if you want to avoid future accusations of rudeness, opening the door is a good start.” I hand him a carton of eggs.
“I’ll try to remember that,” he says.
“So here’s the deal,” I say. “I’m new here, and since you abandoned me with my bags and I’ve now helped you with your bags, you owe me.”
He looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t say anything.
I sigh, wanting to be likable instead of demanding. “I’m sorry I’m not good at this.”
“Good at what?” he asks.
“Asking for favors.”
“Why not?”
My throat closes up. I don’t want to talk about why not. I don’t want to think about why not.
“My people skills are lacking.”
“I’ve noticed that.”
Laughing, I brush my fingers over his arm when I hand him a bag of carrots. The moment I touch him, we both stop. I’m not sure what’s happened, but it’s like the air has been sucked out of the room and we’re just looking at each other. I don’t think either of us is breathing.
I turn away, digging into the other grocery bag. What the hell was that?
“What’s the favor?” His voice is soft. I can’t look at him, so I look at the box of Frosted Mini-Wheats in my hands.
“I don’t get it.”
“I’m sorry?” He takes the box from me, but I’m still not looking at him. I’m staring at the kitchen counter.
“Manhattan,” I say, embarrassed by my flushed face and my beating heart and my sucky navigation skills. “I know it’s supposed to be a grid or something, but I keep getting lost and, to be honest, it’s a little intimidating. I don’t want to be lost in New York.”
I turn to face him. When I meet his gaze, nothing has changed. The room is back to normal. I can breathe. Maybe I just imagined that moment.
“I need a tour guide,” I say.
He stares at me. “You want me to help you?”
“Teach me about Manhattan. I live here now. I need to figure the city out.”
I think I catch the jump of his pulse in the vein at his throat. “I . . .”
“We can start small. Just a walk around the neighborhood.”
He looks away.
I try to lighten my voice. “I promise if I’m an intolerable person, I’ll never bother you again. Not even to tell you how rude you are.”
“Can I get that in writing?”
My smile is tingly as I realize he’s going to say yes.
“What if I am?” he asks.
I fold up the empty grocery bag. “Sorry?”
“What if I am a ghost?” He leans against the counter, watching me. “Would you still want to take a walk with me?”
I puzzle over his question. Is it a joke? The words sound like they should be a joke, but his tone isn’t teasing or even happy.
“If you decide you hate me, I’ve promised not to bother you,” I say. “So how about if I decide you’re a ghost, you promise not to haunt me. Okay?”
He closes his eyes and mine water, making him blur before me. I rub my eyelids; when I open them, he’s watching me and I shiver under his intense gaze.
“Okay.”
Chapter 5
I DON’T KNOW HOW I can do this. There has to be a way out of it. I could pretend to fall violently ill. I could pretend my mother is due home. I could start a small fire.
But I want to do this. I like the way we are talking. I like the way I am having a conversation.
I still want to know why the curse is playing with me.
But in the meantime, I’ll play.
“How about the park?” I ask.
* * *
Nothing in real life has prepared me for this. The face-to-face. Yes, I had my mother, and even though I was invisible to her, I could talk with her all the time. But a conversation with a girl? I’ve never had one.
Instead I’ve had books. And television shows. And movies. And overheard conversations. Because of this, the rhythms and the patterns that everyone else takes for granted aren’t foreign to me. This give-and-take of words, this verbal dance of share-and-withhold, confide-and-compel, is something I can try to fall into. I have practiced for so long in my head, without even knowing I was practicing. Now I’m reaching for the words and the way to say them.
She has no idea how astonishing this conversation is to me. She has no idea what it’s like to be an outsider to the outside world . . . and then to suddenly be let inside.
I want to keep saying hello. Because it all feels like a hello.
* * *
In the elevator, we chat about the elevator. She’s already had a run-in with Smelly Guy from the sixth floor, but miraculously, she has yet to meet Irma from 2E, who likes to walk her cats three times a day. On leashes.
In the lobby, I try to keep us silent, so the doorman won’t think anything is wrong. He opens the door for her, and I press through quickly.
Elizabeth notices the crunch. “I think you’ve gotten overly familiar with my heels,” she says when we’re outside. “Is there a feud going on between you and the doorman? Were you afraid he was going to lock you in?”
“They’re all out to get me,” I tell her. “Every single doorman in New York.”
“Why?”
Why? It’s a natural enough follow-up, the next logical step in the conversation. But I’m stuck without a next line.
“Um . . . because I once said something evil about a doorman’s mother?”
The words fall awkwardly into the air. It’s even more embarrassing to have my cheeks burn when I know they can be seen.