I was surprised by how quickly the rest of the city disappeared. We hadn’t been walking that long before the noise of the traffic and the lights of the buildings were swallowed up and things were darker, and quieter.
It was very peaceful—or it would have been, if my feet hadn’t been about to go on strike.
“It’s only going to take about ten minutes to get across,” Matty said, looking over at me, then frowning. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Super!” I said, trying not to sound like I was going to cry. If a pedicab, or a horse-drawn carriage, or just someone with a bike, had come by at that particular moment, I would have lunged at it and offered all I had (nineteen dollars. And a Pomeranian.) if they would take me across the park. “Let’s go,” I said, making myself smile. It was just ten minutes. I could handle that.
Five minutes later, I wasn’t sure if I could handle it. I limped to the side of the path and rested my hand on a fence post, seriously considering just sitting down on the ground. THE GREAT LAWN, read a nearby sign, and I looked over at a dark expanse of meadow. “I just wanted to… look at this.”
I knew that I should probably keep going—that every time I stopped it would only get harder to start up again—but I just had to take a break. Brad trotted over and started sniffing around my feet, and I wondered if dogs could smell blood. They had to be able to, right? Bloodhounds had to be named that for a reason.
He flopped down on the ground, then rolled on his back and shot me a look, clearly indicating that a belly rub was in order. Glad for any excuse that would mean I didn’t have to keep on walking, I bent down and gave his belly a scratch.
I heard a hiss on the pavement but didn’t turn to look until Matty said, his voice casual and unconcerned, “Oh, look. Rollerblades. Haven’t seen those in a while.”
“What?” I looked around, and saw, my stomach dropping, that a man in sweats and a short puffy coat was rollerblading right past us, eyes fixed ahead and arms doing a weird slalom-y motion. “Matty—” I started as Brad rolled over and then jumped to his feet, eyes tracking the rollerblader. A moment later, though, the guy passed out of sight, and I breathed a sigh of relief and turned back to Brad.
Which was why I didn’t see them coming.
The sound was like a wave, the same rasping sound on the pavement—but so much louder. I turned in horror to see what had to be fifty rollerbladers, all—rolling? blading?—toward us in a huge group. Brad’s black eyes went wide and he started shaking from head to tail, practically vibrating.
“Wow,” Matty said, shaking his head as he pulled out his phone. “It’s like it’s 1997 or something. I have to take a picture. Archie’s gonna love this—”
As he adjusted his phone, his hand holding Brad’s leash slackened, and even though I staggered to my feet to reach for it, it was too late.
“No—” I started. But it was no use. Brad darted out toward the rollerbladers, his leash slipped out of Matty’s hands—and he was gone.
CHAPTER 16
Kat
I’d never been through the park at night.
I held on tightly to Cary, my arms now wrapped around and clasped in front of him. Which honestly seemed like better scooter safety and allowed me to get closer to him as an ancillary benefit. As we drove, I turned my head to look at everything as it zoomed past around us—cars and night runners and a band playing somewhere, faintly, the music carried on the breeze and then fading out again.
The traffic slowed as we passed through a tunnel, and Cary braked the bike and brought one foot down to the ground to steady it. A cab pulled up next to us, and I could see a couple in the back, both of them scrolling through their phones.
“Brad!” I heard someone yell. “Come back here!” The voice sounded nearby, panicked—and familiar? I sat up straight, looking around.
“Bradford Higginbottom!” another voice yelled—a guy’s voice. I slumped back down again, realizing it was stupid to have hoped. But I had thought maybe—for just a second—
“Hang on!” Cary called as the traffic started moving again and the scooter jolted forward. I used the excuse to tighten my arms around him as we drove, and I just tried to take it all in while I could, but all too soon, Cary was exiting the park on West Seventy-Second Street, and hung a right. He turned down Seventy-Third Street and parked the bike between two cars. I pulled off my helmet—praying my hair still looked somewhat decent—and looked around.
Sure enough, across the street, there was an awning and logo that matched the one I’d seen on the East Side—but this one read MAVERICK CLEANERS WEST. Cary locked up both our helmets and adjusted his messenger bag. “We’re okay on time, right?”
“We are,” he said, pulling out his phone. “An hour and a half.”
“Great,” I said, even as I felt a stab of disappointment. Suddenly, our time together—which had felt so expansive—was counting down. It was like I could practically feel the clock ticking.
“I had a thought,” Cary said, twirling his keys again, despite what had happened the last time. He raised an eyebrow at me. “Are you hungry?”
“I am,” I admitted. “Is there a place around here we could grab a slice?”
“Yes,” he said. But he tilted his head to the side, like he was thinking about something. “Or… have you spent a lot of time on the Upper West Side?”
“Just, like, going to the Natural History Museum,” I said. “Or Lincoln Center.” Now that I was in the city, walking around in it, seeing little side streets and residential buildings and pockets, I was realizing how limited my previous trips into the city had been. We’d come in to do one thing, maybe have a meal, then go back home again. I’d never just let New York unfold.
“In that case,” Cary said, smiling at me, “there’s somewhere we have to go.”
* * *
“No hundreds,” said the guy behind the counter at Gray’s Papaya, looking at me like I was crazy.
“I did try and tell you,” Cary said as he pulled out his own wallet.
“Yeah,” I said with a shrug as I looked around the tiny hot dog restaurant, which was one block over from Maverick Cleaners West. I was pretty sure I’d seen it in a Nora Ephron movie but had never actually been inside myself. When we’d walked in, the letters on the side of the building had been lit up in red neon, and this, coupled with the fact that I was about to get something to eat—to say nothing of the fact that Cary was promising me it was the best hot dog in Manhattan—had given me a jolt of happiness.
There were people standing and eating by the windows, where there was a counter, and brightly colored signs everywhere, advertising the different kinds of fruit drinks you could order. There were paper fruits hanging from the ceiling—apples and pineapples and bananas and oranges dangling over our heads. I’d gone with the same as Cary, a hot dog and a drink. I’d chosen papaya—it seemed like the thing to do—and Cary had gotten pineapple. I was secretly adding up all the money he’d spent on food for me tonight, so that I could Venmo him as soon as I got my hands back on my phone.