We drink our drinks in silence for a few moments and he takes my hand in his. I like the way he runs his thumb over the back of it and I can't help but let my fingers intertwine with his, but our solitude doesn't last.
A guy with a cool haircut approaches and Henry quickly gets up to give him a hug. He quickly calls over three of his friends and they all embrace, exchanging complicated handshakes. Henry introduces me as Aurora Tate, but the name doesn't register. Instead, they ask him about the yacht club. I’ve never heard anyone talk like this about us before. They think of the rich as others might think of animals at the zoo; something exotic, something worthy of admiration but something completely different from them. The yacht club is the epicenter and they talk about it with a mix of envy, jealousy, and contempt wavering between hating the summer people and wanting to be them.
4
Henry
I didn't particularly want to see my friends tonight, but there is no getting around it. At first, I think that they are going to recognize Aurora from the gossip magazines that she is often featured in, but they don’t.
Instead, they just talk about themselves. Half an hour is all that I'm going to give them, I decide. That will be enough to not be rude, spend some time with them, and then cut things short since we are on our first date.
Taylor Portman, of course, dominates the conversation. He is tall and attractive and he knows it. He's finishing his last semester at city college and his dream is to make millions on Wall Street.
I met him in the neighborhood, but he is about four years younger than I am. Once, after more than a few drinks, I made a mistake and told him that I wanted to be a writer and ever since then he has been mercilessly making fun of me. The mocking got worse when I got my short story published in the New Yorker, the epitome of success, and got paid $320 for my efforts. At eight cents a word, the pay is significant for a literary magazine and yet paltry at the same time.
Tonight is no exception. As soon as Taylor has two beers in him, he goes off on me.
“You know what this guy does for a living, right?” he asks. When she doesn’t respond, he covers his mouth and laughs. “Oh, shit, did I just blow your secret?”
“I know that he is a writer.”
“Wait, is that what you are? Or are you just an aspiring writer?” he continues. “‘Cause I think you have to at least pay the rent with your job if you’re doing it for real.”
I hate him for being this way; callous and cruel. I try to remember why we’re friends at all.
“You talk about it like you think that there’s something wrong with it,” Aurora says to Taylor.
“Well, you have to admit it's a little bit silly. It's like wanting to be an astronaut.”
“But you would agree,” she challenges him, “that there are people who are astronauts.”
"Yes, of course.”
"So, what would be so wrong with wanting to be one?”
“It's just so…unrealistic. Actually, being an astronaut is probably a lot more realistic than being a writer. In this day and age. I mean, who the hell has time to read anymore? Am I right?”
“No,” she says sternly. “You're wrong. There are a lot of people who like to read and there are a lot of people who make their living writing. What you don't know about it could fill the whole ocean out there."
Taylor narrows his eyes and stares daggers into her. But she doesn't waver. Instead she broadens her shoulders and sits up.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make everything so tense. Are you a writer, too?” he asks, taking a sip of his beer.
“No, I'm not,” she says without wavering in her gaze. “I'm Aurora Tate, of the Tate Media empire. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?”
Taylor's mouth physically drops open. She leans in closer and flicks the bottom of his chin to shut it.
“What's the matter?” she asks. “Cat got your tongue?”
My friends don’t stick around long after that. A group of attractive local girls come in and they drift away in search of a warm body to curl up to. Taylor hangs around the longest.
I'm not sure what he's waiting for but it certainly feels like he's waiting for something. Eventually, a pretty girl approaches him and he finally pulls away. Aurora finishes her margarita and asks for another one, with a glass of water.
“I need to stay hydrated,” she says, “otherwise, all of this alcohol is going to go straight to my head.”
“Of course,” I say. “There’s no need to explain.”
I have already finished two Old-Fashioneds, and I'm working on my third one. I'm not big on alcohol but being here with her makes me nervous.
When our next round arrives, I turn to her and raise my glass.
“I want to thank you for something.”
“For what?”
“I want to thank you for standing up to Taylor. He has an annoying habit of making fun of me for that. Perhaps I should have never told him the truth, but at one point I thought that we were actually friends. That's the only reason why he knows that I write.”
“Do you usually not tell anyone?” she asks, surprised.
I shrug and look down at the table. "It's a difficult thing to talk about,” I admit.
“Not everyone understands,” I add. “I'm not sure exactly why it's so difficult but somehow, telling people, it's like revealing this secret part of me.”
“You had no problem telling me earlier today,” Aurora points out. I shrug.
“You're a stranger and frankly, I wasn't sure if we were going to hit it off at all. I guess I didn't think I had anything to lose.”
"How very valiant of you,” she says with a smile, keenly aware of the fact that what I have just said is a lie.
I pick at a little speck of dirt on the table with my index finger. It doesn't come off. It's just a deformity, so I put my palm flatly against it to feel the indentation.
“So, you don't think I'm stupid for doing what I do?” I ask.
“No, not at all,” she says, shaking her head. “In fact, I think you are very brave.”
“Brave?”
“You're pursuing your dreams, what can be braver than that?”
I take her hand into mine, wondering if she is in fact real.
“Besides, it's actually very refreshing to meet someone who isn't just after money,” Aurora says.
“Yeah,” I say, “I guess it's hard to find a man in New York City who isn't that singularly focused.”
“You don't know how true that is.” She laughs.
“What about your friends?" I ask.
“What about them?”
“What would they think if they had heard this about me?”
“They would think that I am dumber than they even knew,” she says, rolling her eyes and taking another sip. It’s meant to be a joke but the delivery falters.
“Is that okay with you?” I ask.
She shrugs and looks away.
“I don't really want to talk about my friends,” she says. “Let's talk about something else.”