“Can we talk more in the morning?” I ask him. “I’m exhausted.”
It’s 11:35. I don’t have much time.
“Sure thing. But if I only have you for less than twenty-four hours, you better not plan on sleeping late. We have at least two museums to visit, and frozen hot chocolate to consume.”
“Agreed!” I say, then yawn again.
I hope Tyana will remember this agreement in the morning. I hope she won’t mind being here. I am guessing she’ll be happy—but I recognize that my guess may be tinted by what I want to be true.
Before I go to sleep, I text Rhiannon good night. I wait a couple of minutes, but midnight is coming too soon, so before I can get a reply, I text her again to tell her not to text back. Then I delete the whole chain and any record of Rhiannon from Tyana’s phone.
I close my eyes at 11:52 and fall right asleep.
RHIANNON
I don’t want to get in a cab, because if I do, I’ll have to talk to the driver—or at least that’s the way I think it goes. Plus, cabs are expensive, and even though the girl A was tonight clearly has money, I still feel weird taking money from someone who has no idea they’re giving it to me.
I want to be alone in my thoughts, and strangely, the only way to do that is to get on a crowded subway. It’s amazing to me how many people are up at this hour—I think all the people in my town who are out at midnight on a Saturday night could probably fit in this subway car. But I think it’s safe to say that none of these people are thinking the same things I’m thinking, wondering what kind of person is going to show up for my “date” tomorrow.
This is weird. I knew it would be weird, and it is weird, and I’m telling myself that of course it’s weird, but soon it will go back to being something less weird. I know I spent tonight with a girl I’d never met before. But despite that, I still felt like I knew her instantly. Because A was A. It may have been a different body, a different voice, a different size and height. But when she looked at me, it was A. When she talked to me, it was A. How I felt—it was A.
I don’t remember the subway trip taking nearly as long earlier. Maybe because I wasn’t alone. Or maybe it’s making more stops at this hour. It’s just taking a long time, and I don’t have anything to read or do. And I’m afraid to stare at anyone for too long, because then they might pull a knife on me or try to talk to me. I’m not sure which would be worse.
My phone’s running low on battery, and I don’t want to risk running out completely, so even though there’s service every now and then, I shut it off. I’m cut off from my friends, who are probably asleep by now, or out partying and not on their phones. Excuses, excuses. Truth? I wouldn’t know what to say to them even if I did get in touch. Rebecca thinks I’m up here visiting colleges. So I’m sure that’s what my other friends think, too. That’s what I’ll tell them on Monday. Rebecca will give me a little shit because she wanted to come, too.
It’s almost one in the morning by the time we get to the JFK stop. Then I realize the stop isn’t all that near the hotel, and while I could go to the airport itself and see if there’s still a hotel shuttle, I’m not sure there will be one at this time of night. So I end up getting in a cab anyway.
The driver’s a woman, so I don’t mind when she starts talking to me. The questions she’s asking aren’t difficult ones. Is this my first time in the city? What am I doing out at this hour? Is the hotel any good? I could be talking to my parents’ friends.
The hotel lobby is dead. I guess an airport hotel isn’t really where New York City gets its kicks at this hour on a Saturday night. My room smells like cigarettes even though it’s a nonsmoking room. The bed feels damp. Not in one spot, but all over. I wonder if I’d be better off sleeping in my car.
The bathroom isn’t that bad. The light’s harsh, though, and before I brush my teeth, I look at myself in the mirror and it’s like I’m being bleached out. I ask myself the question then, out loud: “What am I doing here?” Once it’s in my head, I can’t get it out. WhatamIdoinghere?WhatamIdoinghere?WhatamIdoinghere? Not just in this crappy hotel, where the only things you can see outside the window are a highway and other hotels. But here in New York, chasing after someone I will never be able to be with. It’s not the same at all, but I can’t help but think about the way it was with Justin, how there were so many times I thought it was over, and then I would convince myself that, no, we should be together. So we’d stay together. And then it would happen again. But we’d stay together. And it would happen again. Until finally there was too much evidence to be ignored. I know A is not Justin, and the reasons it won’t work with A are completely different from the reasons it didn’t work with Justin. But even if the person is different, maybe the pattern is the same. That childish belief that if you want something badly enough, you’ll get it. So what if A is good for me and Justin was bad for me. What doesn’t work doesn’t work.
Stop. I have to tell myself to stop. Brush my teeth, then grit them in order to get into the damp bed. The sheets aren’t as bad as the comforter. But the heater’s making noise. I remember my phone and turn it on to find goodnight texts from A, then one before midnight telling me not to text back—as if I’d forget that part. Or maybe I would forget that part. Maybe I need to stop underestimating my own power of delusion.
I get back in bed. The heater doesn’t get any quieter. The bed doesn’t get any more comfortable. There’s light coming in around the window shades. I can hear the cars on the highway. Why are there so many cars on the highway? I am alone. I am here to be with A, and I am alone.
But you knew you would be, I tell myself.
I just didn’t know it would feel like this, I answer.
WhatamIdoinghere?WhatamIdoinghere?
I know it’s too late and I’m too tired to drive home, but for a few minutes, I actually think about getting in my car and doing it. Telling A, It’s your turn to follow.
Which is not something you should be thinking about telling someone who wished you a sincere good night.
I try to quiet myself down, even though everything around me feels loud. The only way to sleep in this place is through pure exhaustion, and eventually I get there. But once I get up, way too early, there’s no going back to sleep. I email A to say I’m awake, but don’t get a response.
I can’t wait here. I pack up the few things I unpacked, check out of my room, and head to my car. I don’t know where I’m going, but I know this hotel isn’t the answer. I map out Manhattan and figure I’ll go to Central Park, which is the thing in Manhattan that’s easiest to find. It’s dead early on a Sunday morning, so there isn’t really traffic. I’m grateful for that. It’s strange enough to be driving toward that skyline, to enter into it. I have no place here. I have no sense of anything.