The next night, Daphne ‘n’ company brought me to what they promised would be “the most amazing party ever” at their friend’s parents’ apartment. It was a stunning duplex on the Upper East Side, and although the décor was not exactly my style (I’m not into all that American folk art stuff, but I do appreciate it as an art form), the scale and views were breathtaking. I had been promised that there would be “a ton of hot guys there,” but there were only about four totally wasted frat-boy types—who were more interested in taking bong hits than talking—and about ten nervous, completely decked-out girls who were vying for their attention. I bailed pretty quickly.
It was weird that Daphne never seemed to hang out with James. But Daphne said he wasn’t crazy about her friends, and I could see why. So far they’d proven to be superficial and kind of vacant. I still had my doubts about Daphne, but of late she had been nothing except nice to me. Gabe and Teagan were totally giving me crap about hanging with “the Enemy.” They accused me of trying to suck up to the boss’s daughter—even though I explained that I just wanted to see how the other half lived, they’d give me an eye roll. It was hard, because it felt so high school to have to choose sides.
On Wednesday, I hit the town with Gabe and Teagan. We went to Williamsburg, the hipster capital, to a club called Lux, where the Scissor Sisters were playing. We Cotton interns all established early on that we worshipped them, so when they announced an impromptu tiny show, we jumped at the chance to snag tix. After work, I mentioned it to Daphne, who had invited me to go out clubbing with them at Marquee, but when I told them I was Brooklyn-bound she was in shock.
“Huh? Like seven-one-eight-land?” Daphne marveled of the non-Manhattan area code. “I sooo don’t do outer boroughs,” she said, laughing. “Be careful! Aren’t there, like, bullets flying there?”
Anything outside the confines of Fifth Avenue was like Deliverance to her.
We got decked out in our glammest duds (including a newly scored MAC glittery gray shadow for me pilfered from the beauty closet, my one job perk so far) and hit the L train. When we got to the club, the crowd was as sexy and cool as the people at Skirt but even edgier because instead of expensive designers, everyone wore an amalgam of vintage threads and duds from up-and-coming designers—like maybe their roommates. A lot of local bands had original costumes made by the other artists in their community, and the onstage look was finally getting exciting again. Like rock stars should be.
As the lights dimmed, the crowd roared, and the band took the stage, Gabe started screeching with glee. It truly was an amazing show. I loved how the music transported me, and I danced along. This is what it’s all about. Here I was in New York, going to a concert, working at Skirt. Could life get any better? As the band played on, Teagan and I screamed and danced until I thought I would pass out. And just as I felt I couldn’t be more into the night, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Kira? What are you doing here?”
It was James! He looked gorgeous. His black boots, dark blue painter’s pants, and cool gray long-sleeve T-shirt with a Japanese rock band on the front made him look so kissable.
“I’m here with Gabe and Teagan,” I said, grabbing them mid-dance and pulling them over to join me. “How ’bout you?”
“I knew Ana—the guitarist—back in San Francisco when I worked there.”
All three of us screamed in unison: “No way!”
James laughed. “Way. Want to meet her after?”
Is the Pope Catholic? Yes!
Cut to us all backstage in the greenroom, jaws on the floor. We met the band and had the best time. They couldn’t have been more gracious with the effusive compliment-fest that we bestowed upon them. But the best part was just hanging with James and watching him with his friends. He was way more relaxed than he was at work, which I suppose is understandable. It’s not like he’s uptight, but he is kind of businessy, which is how you should be.
Finally it was Cinderella pumpkin time for me. Naturally, Gabe (who literally had a Niagara Falls of drool talking to Jake, the lead singer) refused to depart at such a tender hour (one o’clock A.M.) and Teagan wanted to stay, too.
I told James that while this was the best night ever, I needed to go back and get some z’s for another big day toiling away at Skirt.
“That’s okay,” he said. “I’m actually exhausted. Come on, I’ll drive you back.” Wheels? Score.
Gabe gave me a very unsubtle smirk as I left, and James held the door for me as we walked out. The mild summer air amplified by the East River’s current blew over us.
“This breeze is such a nice relief from that sweaty club!” I gushed, pushing the hair out of my face.
“Yeah, it’s pretty cool you guys could deal with that mosh pit,” James said with a grin. “Daph would probably have freaked. I don’t blame her, though. It gets tight for sure. You just have to surrender to the crowd, I guess.”
“I think she said she’s at Marquee. Doesn’t that place get crowded?” I asked.
“Not the way she does it. Table service, a bottle of Dom—it’s pretty spacious at that level.” He smiled. I noticed he wasn’t reverent of the VIP booth but rather semiscoffing.
We got to his car—a Ford hybrid (he was green; so hot!)—and as we drove, I drank in the blinking lights of the majestic skyline in front of us.
“This is so beautiful,” I said. “What a New York moment.”
“Yeah, it’s a bummer how many New Yorkers never get to see it, though,” he said wistfully. “You know, they get kind of stuck in their patterns—never leave their little pod and just get out and breathe. Or get to see a view like this…”
We rode in silence for a second, and I couldn’t help but wonder if that was a remark about Daphne.
“It’s cool you’re willing to explore, that you don’t feel bound to one small zip code,” he said, looking over at me.
“Well, I think some people from here take it for granted. I just want to gobble it all up. It sounds so cheese but I have dreamed about living here,” I admitted.
“It’s not cheese!” he said, looking at me, smiling. “It’s great. People like you are the ones who keep New York fresh and edgy and exciting.”
I didn’t know how to respond, though I feared my pink cheeks were doing the talking.
“It’s funny to me that you work at Skirt,” I said, breaking the quiet.
“Really? Why?” he asked, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye as we crossed the bridge.
“Well, I know you’re into photography, and it’s, like, in your step-blood, but it seems like you have a lot of other interests.”
“You’re right. I do love photography, and obviously Skirt is a great magazine for that, despite the critics who disparage fashion magazines, but I don’t know. It was just something that I had done; it came easily to me, I know a lot about it, and it was a job out of college. I don’t really see working there as a career, though.”
“So you want to branch out, do something totally different?” I asked, amazed at how comfortable I felt with him to be giving him the third degree.
“Maybe,” he said, pausing for a second before blurting out, “I’d secretly love to be a musician.” I swear, his face reddened. “Don’t tell anyone,” he added hastily.
“A musician? That’s cool.”
“I know, pipe dream, but that’s how I got to be such good friends with Ana. We took guitar lessons from the same teacher in San Fran. But I don’t think it will happen,” he said, shrugging.
“Why not?” I asked, the image of him strumming a guitar burning in my mind.
“How many people are actually successful at that?” he said. “At least with photography I know I can make a living.”
“You gotta follow your passion. I mean, hello, you’re not like fifty with a mortgage and kids’ tuitions. No better time than the present to try something that you’ve always wanted to do.”
“I don’t know,” he said, clearly wanting to change the subject, so I dropped it.
I wonder if he had ever fessed up to Daphne about this. Probably. And most likely she shot him down. I would never if he was mine. How hot would it be to have your guy singing up on stage? Tingles.
We rode in silence for a little while until I directed him to my abode. I watched his arm guide the stick shift and almost melted. I couldn’t help it—something about him, his warmth, his smile, his cute dorky envirocar, made me swoon.
“This is it,” I said, pointing to the graffitied wall of my building. “Hovel sweet hovel.”
He smiled. “Kira,” he said, and I pictured the letters of my name melting as if made of chocolate, “you have a great way with words.”
Goosebumps.
“I appreciate the lift,” I said, getting out. “Sure beat the train. Thanks for keeping my evening rat free.”
James’s eyes widened suddenly as his face registered shock.
“Look out behind you! There’s one!”
I shrieked, instantly picturing a pack of canine-size rodents devouring me alive. James started laughing.
“I’m kidding, Kira,” he said, hopping out of the car. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist.”
I made a fake-angry face and crossed my arms. “Jerk.”
“Here, I’ll walk you to the door and make it up to you.”
We walked up to my crack house slash residence as I fumbled for my keys. “I promise to slay any rodents that cross your path, milady,” he vowed.
“Thanks, Sir Lancelot,” I said, looking at him bathed in the light of the street lantern. “Seriously. For everything. That was so much fun.”
“The pleasure was mine,” he said, turning back down the stairs. “Sweet dreams, Guinevere.”