And I didn’t even have time to worry if this was okay or get embarrassed, because it was clear after just a few minutes how much better it was. I was able to lean forward slightly and move with Cary when he leaned to the side when taking a turn, finding the rhythm of moving with him.
It let me relax a little bit—and then I was able to actually enjoy it, and take it all in. The cold air rushed around us, and the lights blurred as Cary sped down the city streets. I turned my head and looked at it all—New York—flying past me. People hurrying down the street bundled up, yellow taxis in front and behind and all around us, doormen in long coats huddled under awnings, stomping their feet and rubbing their gloved hands together. I was breathing in exhaust, yes, but also wafts of scents from the shawarma and pretzel carts on the corners, and the bite in the November air that had always meant snow.
I closed my eyes for a moment and felt the wind on my face as we flew down the street. I wasn’t entirely sure how I’d gotten here—how this was what my Friday night had turned into, riding on a scooter driven by a cute boy, in New York City, wearing my favorite dress. But for the moment, with the honk of the horns and the rush of the wind, the pretzel scent in the air and with Cary to hold on to, I wasn’t thinking about anything except right now.
All too soon, though, Cary was starting to slow the scooter down, and a moment later was steering it into a makeshift spot between two cars. When the bike had stopped, I got off carefully, making sure to avoid the tailpipe.
I looked around. We were on East Fifty-Seventh Street, halfway down the block.
“Take that from you?” Cary asked, and I handed him my helmet, trying my best to fluff up my hair, but do it subtly. “How’d you do? Not too bad, right?”
I laughed. “It was fun! I mean, a tiny bit scary. I only confronted my mortality like three times. But mostly fun.”
“Good.” The jazzy guitar sounded again, and he pulled out the phone. “Maybe that’s my uncle,” he said, then looked at the screen and groaned. “Nope. Paradise Cruises.”
“Where are they calling from this time?”
“Kauai.” He declined the call and put his phone back into his pocket, then twirled his keys around his finger—but they went rogue, and spun away, landing near my feet.
I reached down to grab them for him, but instead of bending my knees, I did what I always did when I had to pick something up—I bent forward from the waist, so that my nose almost hit my shin, then straightened up again. All dancers did this—it was like a little bonus stretch.
Cary just stared at me as I dropped the keys into his palm. “Impressive.”
I shrugged. “Former dancer.”
“Former?” I nodded, not wanting to go into it. “And now you act.”
“I do.” Suddenly, anxiety about making it to the play on time flooded back in. “We’re still good on time, right?”
Cary pulled out his phone and turned it so I could see the time. “More than. Want me to set a second alarm?” I could tell he was kidding, but it actually didn’t sound like a bad idea to me. I was about to suggest it when his phone rang again. “Same number as before,” he said, shaking his head. “They’re being persistent tonight.”
“Maybe block that number?”
“Good call.” He pressed a button on his phone and the ringing stopped. He dropped his phone back into his pocket and tipped his head toward the nearest storefront. “So that’s where I work.”
I looked at it, and my eyes widened. MAVERICK CLEANERS was written on the awning in a font that looked familiar. There were little wings on the side of it, like the Top Gun logo.…
I turned back to Cary, suddenly putting it together—why his outfit had been ringing a bell all night. “No. Way.”
Cary grinned and unzipped his jacket—and I could see that he was wearing a white T-shirt with his jeans, with a pair of aviators tucked over the top, to complete the look with the brown bomber jacket. “Yeah. The owner came over to the States in the eighties and got very into Tom Cruise movies. But this one was his favorite.”
“So he makes everyone dress like off-duty fighter pilots?”
“What do you mean?” Cary asked, his eyes wide and innocent. “This is just what I like to wear. What’s wrong with it?”
For a moment, I believed him—but then he broke, and started laughing. “You almost got me.”
“He thinks that it helps to have a gimmick,” Cary said with a shrug.
“I mean,” I said, gesturing to his outfit, “I will certainly never forget this. So it’s working on me.”
Cary laughed and held the door for Maverick Cleaners open for me, and I stepped inside to a small, overheated space. “Welcome,” a woman behind the counter, who looked like she was in her thirties, said before she saw Cary.
“You made it,” she said, shaking her head and looking up at the clock on the wall. It was shaped like a man’s dress shirt, with two tails of a tie making up the clock’s arms. She raised an eyebrow at me. “You got laundry to drop off, doll?”
“No,” I said, then took a breath, trying to think how to explain what exactly I was doing there.
“That’s my friend Kat,” Cary said, and I smiled involuntarily, even though I had a feeling he’d just called me that because saying girl I just met tonight because she got locked out of my uncle’s apartment building and who I bought bodega snacks for was pretty inefficient. “She’s going to help me out.”
“Is it because you’re finding it too much to… carry?” the woman asked, then cracked herself up.
“Never heard that before,” Cary said cheerfully, clearly lying.
“I’ll get the deliveries,” she said, getting up and walking toward the back.
As the woman walked away, I let myself really take in the place. The Maverick theme was not, I was thrilled to note, just confined to the name and the outfits the employees were required to wear. There was a large sign on the wall that read WHEN YOU FEEL THE NEED… THE NEED FOR SPEED-Y DRY CLEANING! There was a box by the door with wire hangers piled high in it that read HIGHWAY TO THE HANGER ZONE (RECYCLING). A sign behind the register advertised ICEMAN COLD STORAGE for furs, and on the register was a handwritten note that read Don’t write checks that your bank can’t cash. But best of all was the small TV up in the corner that was playing—and this shouldn’t have surprised me—Top Gun.
“This place is amazing,” I said, looking around. I was pretty sure the beach volleyball scene was coming up, and I was hoping we’d be here long enough to see it.
“It’s not so bad,” Cary said, looking around himself. “And it works out with my schedule, since most people want their stuff delivered in the evenings. Especially if they don’t have a doorman—they want to make sure it’s a time when they’ll be home.”
“Okay,” the woman said, returning from the back, now sounding out of breath as she hauled two huge bags with her. They were square, almost like oversized duffels, with tags stapled to the outside. “Here you go.” She then pushed a button and the dry cleaning, on motorized racks behind her, started to spin. It stopped, and she pulled off three separate plastic-wrapped bags, each with a number of hangers in them twist-tied together, also with tags stapled to the front of the plastic.