In the Wake of Wanting (12 page)

“I do. Right here.” She lingers outside awkwardly. I do the same. “Do you live close by?”

“Yeah. I rent an apartment at Morningside and 110
^th
.”

“That’s not
that
close.”

“I wouldn’t recommend you come stalk me late at night, if that’s what you’re thinking.” I nudge her playfully. “Too many drunk frat guys out that late. Which, by the way, I spend plenty of time on the next street over from you at our frat house.”

“Speaking of that. Are you friends with Asher? Our president? I think he’s in your fraternity,” she says. I was hoping bringing up the house was a good segue into this conversation.

“He’s one of my best friends, yeah. Why?”

“He asked me out,” she says with an incredulous laugh.

I nod, then look over at her. “So? When are you going out with him?”

“Oh, I’m not.” Smug satisfaction. It’s the only thing I feel right now. “I told him I felt it was unethical to date the president of the paper. Between me and you, I’m saving myself.”

I look at her skeptically, remembering the pills that had fallen out of her purse but not wanting to state the obvious. I have to ask, though. She made the statement that begs the question to be asked. “For marriage?”

“That ship’s already sailed,” she says, laughing. “For the right guy. Plus, Asher gives off a weird vibe.”

“Did he take the rejection okay?”

“Well, he promised to keep it between us. He said no one had to know–that it was just one date. And he gave me his number and told me to call him when I changed my mind.
When
. Not
if
, but
when
.”

“He can be a little overly self-assured,” I comment.

“Cocky, Trey. He’s cocky.”

“All right, yes. He is. So did you keep his number?”

“I figured I might need it for the paper, so yeah.”

“I’m your editor. That should be enough. I mean, I would think…”
Let it go, Trey.

“Probably so. I should maybe, I don’t know. Delete it?”

“If you think you need it…” I say, shrugging as I look up at her building. As much as I don’t want her to keep Asher’s number, I have no right to tell her to get rid of it. “Let me guess. You’re on the third floor.”

She shakes her head, grinning. “No. I’m on a co-ed floor. The ninth, to be exact.”

“As long as it’s not the sixth.”

“It’s not the party floor.”

“Good, because I need you to be focused on your writing.”

“Yes, boss,” she tells me.

“If you have any questions about this weekend’s assignment, just call or text. I’ll be around.”

“Sounds good. Thanks, Trey.”

“Anytime, laureate. Aslon wants your poetry, so… just stick to the assignment; but be you, Coley.”

She nods her head. “You asked for it.”

chapter seven

After finally getting into my studying routine, coach told me in practice today that my backstroke is sloppy. I have to add ten hours of practice this week, which seems next-to-impossible for me, but that’s not something I could tell him. I’ll just have to take it out of my gym time and sleep time.

I finish a light dinner of chicken and squash, then check my email to see if Coley’s assignment is finished. The notification is in my inbox. At least I have something to look forward to when I get back. Editing her work invigorates me. Playing with her poetry is a challenge, and I like it. Hopefully she’ll want to work with me, even though it’ll be a little later than normal.

- - Hi, boss.

Her instant message pops up in the corner of my screen.

- Hey to you. I see your article’s in the folder.

- - Do you have time to work on it?

- I will later. I have to go up to Baker to log some water time.

- - You’re going swimming?

- I am.

- - I need to do that.

I tap my red pen on my desk a few times, probably not long enough to properly think through this idea.

- Come with me.

- - Can I? Even if I’m not on the team?

- Sure. I’ll be there.

- - You don’t mind?

- What? Having someone who actually can critique my supposed-sloppy backstroke? Not one bit.

- - Are you leaving now?

- I can wait.

- - I can be ready by the time you get here.

- Then I’ll be there in ten minutes.

I call down to the concierge and ask them to have my car ready, then gather up a few towels, my goggles and my stopwatch. Before I leave, I drop my things by the door and go back to the bathroom to brush my teeth and gargle with some mouthwash.

Fresh breath shouldn’t matter to me right now, but it does.

I’m going to pick up Coley, my stomach is in a knot all of a sudden, and yes, fresh breath matters to me. I don’t care what that implies; I’m just going to shove that to the back of my mind while I go work out with my friend who happens to need the practice just as much as I do.

As soon as I get in my car, I go through my music and try to figure out what I want to listen to–what I want
her
to know that I listen to. I settle on my playlist of The Aurange Peace, skipping the first song that comes on because it tends to take me to a darker place than I want to go. Their music
is
pretty melancholy, but their sound has depth that few artists can capture these days. I also like that I discover something new with their lyrics just about every time I listen to their songs.

I’ve seen them live four times and was lucky enough to meet them the last time, thanks to Jon’s brother, Will. In addition to him being a science god, he’s also just as talented musically, and he plays with Damon Littlefield, one of the most talented, acclaimed and popular artists to come out of Queens in this century. When I talked to the band after their show, I was surprised to learn that Bryce, the lead vocalist for The Aurange Peace, only writes the lyrics after the rest of the song has been completed. I expected him to be a poet with an active mind like Coley’s, but he works differently. For some reason, to me, it gave the songs more dimension, knowing the words were borne from the sounds they would eventually overlay.

Coley’s waiting for me on the curb in front of her dorm when I pull up. She puts her tote bag in the backseat before joining me up front. Her hair is pulled back in a messy braid, and her face is fresh, naked of all makeup. Her bright, blue eyes make me feel buoyant. I forget to breathe for a second; forget my words.

“Hi!” She shuts the door and buckles her seatbelt before producing her phone from her pocket. “I’ve never been to Baker before. I didn’t know if they’d have a place for me to change, so I just wore my suit under this.” She pulls her down coat back to expose the strap of her bathing suit.

“You must be so cold!” I say, navigating my way back toward Morningside Drive and turning on her seat warmer.

“You underestimate my coat.”

“Did you bring something to change into? Because you will be freezing after we’re finished.”

“I did. I guess you’re telling me they have locker rooms,” she says as she pulls her braid over her shoulder and starts to play with the end of it.

“Of course they do.”

“I just wasn’t sure if you’d have access to the women’s room. That’s all.”

“I’ll make sure you have a room to change, regardless. I doubt this place will be busy at this time of night. The only people that’ll be here are the ones in trouble with their coaches,” I tell her with a chuckle.

“So your backstroke is giving you problems?”

“So
he
says,” I tell her with a little dissent in my tone.

“I don’t mind being the judge.”

“I appreciate the company. I mean, someone who actually knows how it should look, who knows good times.”

“Oh, I know
good times
,” she says, teasing me.

I smirk at her briefly as I merge onto the Hudson Parkway. “You know what I mean.”

“Is this The Aurange Peace?” she asks me.

“You know them?”

“I know a few songs. I don’t have any of their music, though.”

“A poet with none of their music? That’s surprising. Their lyrics are very expressive and symbolic. I actually dissected one of their songs for an English class my senior year in high school.”

“It puts me in a desolate place,” she says. “I have to limit my time with albums like this. I don’t think it’s good for me.”

“Oh,” I say, immediately turning off the stereo in my car.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“The last thing I want to do is make that stunning smile of yours go away.” As we slowly make our way north, my nervous swallow is audible in the silent car.

“Hey!” Ninety-percent sure she’s going to point out the color of my face, I turn to look out the driver’s side window. “We’re driving past Washington Heights, aren’t we?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“How do I make my music play through your speakers?”

Dividing my time between the road and the controls on my dash, I set it up for her to pair her phone with my car. “Just turn on your Bluetooth and find my Range Rover.”

“You don’t hate musicals, do you?”

“If you turn on
Cats
, I’m jumping out of the car and you’re on your own,” I tell her as a joke, already knowing the musical she’s about to play. It’s one of my favorites.

“You don’t like Cats, huh?” she says, laughing.

“Not in most senses of the word. I like lions and tigers. That’s about it.”

“Well, it’s not
Cats
.”

“Then we both get to live to see another day. Let Usnavi do his thing,” I tell her, referring to the main character of the musical.

“You know
In the Heights
?”
God, that smile is like the sun after a week of cloudy skies. The most welcome sight. The warmest aura.

“I’m a writer in New York. Any writer in New York who doesn’t know Lin-Manuel Miranda’s work by heart can’t call himself a bona fide writer. He created
Hamilton
, for Christ’s sake. It’s the greatest piece of work to come out of our country, like… ever.”

“That might be a bit of an exaggeration.”

“Okay, maybe, but not by much. It’s touched millions of lives. Not many pieces of art can actually be accessible to so many facets and factions of our country. Rich, poor, black, white, north, south, young, old… it made history fascinating to people who were never before even remotely interested in our founding fathers. The world turned upside down,” I say, quoting a line from one of the songs of the
Hamilton
musical. “That’s what he did. The man’s a genius.”

“I like him, too.” She concentrates on her phone until I hear the woodblock intro to the first song of
In the Heights
. “I was Carla last year in our high school production.”

“Really? That’s cool.”

“The role called for a pretty, ditzy girl.”

“And now the ditzy girl goes to Columbia. You should have played Nina,” I tell her, referring to the main character who was a student at Stanford. “And wasn’t Vanessa, like, the hottest girl in the barrio? You could have been her, too. Not flirting. Just saying.”

“I don’t dance well enough to play Vanessa. And I wasn’t ethnic enough for the part of Nina.”

“Newsflash, Goldilocks, you’re not ethnic at all.” She laughs, twirling her braid between her fingers. “Have you ever done a family tree, Miss Fitzsimmons?”

“Yes.”

“And how many non-European ancestors are on that tree?”

“None.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Hey, but I spoke better Spanish than any of the other actresses in the musical.”

“Yeah?”

“
Sí
.”

“Did you guys actually say
coño
when you performed it?” She smacks my arm. “Don’t hit the driver,” I caution her, but still smile. “It’s a legitimate question. I’ve always wondered.”

“We almost did. Our theater teacher hadn’t bothered to check the meaning of that until the last minute. She was mortified when she found out what it meant.”