Like a hawk swooping down from the sky, the guilt returns. This time it plants claws in my chest, settling in for a long stay. I shove my hand through my dark hair. My father is going to be so disappointed when Charlotte and I break up. “You’re such a hopeless romantic,” I say.
He laughs as we slow our pace when we near the crowds milling outside the brightly lit marquee. “That’s why I run a jewelry store.”
“Not much longer, though,” I point out playfully. “You’re a free man soon.”
“I know.” He sighs, a wistful note in the sound. “I’ll miss it.”
“You’ll be happy to be retired, though.”
He nods several times, as if he’s bucking himself up. “I’ll be happy to spend more time with your mom. She’s the center of my world. Like Charlotte is for you,” he says, clapping me on the back.
Yeah, weirdness. It’s happening now for sure.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The usher seats us.
Charlotte crosses her arms, and heaves a sigh.
“You doing okay?”
She nods. Her lips form a straight line.
“You sure? Because if I were a betting man I’d say you’re pissed.”
“I’m fine.”
I arch an eyebrow skeptically. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” She uncrosses her arms, grabs my shirt sleeve, and shifts gears instantly. “When are we going to make a voodoo doll for that reporter?”
I pretend to stare thoughtfully in the distance. “Let’s see. I’ve got that on the calendar for tomorrow at three. That still work?”
She nods vigorously. “You bring the pins; I’ll get the cloth.”
“Excellent. I’ll find an instructional video on YouTube so we can do it up right.”
She beams, then whispers to me as the overture begins, “I hated those questions.”
“He was trying to play hardball, and it’s such a pointless topic. You did great though.”
“They were embarrassing,” she says, then beckons me closer as fiddle notes carry across the audience. “Do you think he’s onto us?”
“It felt that way, but I think he was just lobbing questions to see which stuck.”
“Did you like my final answer, though?”
Like it? I loved what she said about things happening quickly. More than I should. “It was fantastic.”
“I did good with that one, didn’t I?” she says, blowing on her fingers like she’s too hot to handle.
My heart plummets, then craters to the floor. That sinking feeling comes with the recognition that I wanted some truth to what she said. I wanted something in it to be real.
“It was thoroughly believable,” I say, managing a smile that is fake, and her answer is a reminder that even though for some unknown reason I don’t want this to end, Charlotte is over and out in four more days.
She’ll be done, but I’ll want to keep this up.
The first number begins, and I think—no, I’m sure—that this is officially my least favorite time at a musical, ever. Watching it hurts.
* * *
Charlotte is quiet as we wander through Times Square, having said good night to my parents and the Offermans. We thread our way through the crazy crowds in the glitzy neon of Manhattan’s famous sardine tin, sort of a mosh pit meets a zoo of people in a city of millions. A man painted as a silver robot makes jerky gestures next to a top hat collecting a few coins. A guy peddling Statue of Liberty key chains bumps into Charlotte and knocks her with his elbow.
“Ow,” she mutters.
“You okay?” I ask, and reach my hand to rub. Instinct, I suppose—to take care of her. But I pull my hand back. She doesn’t want it, or need it. She can take care of herself.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” she says, shrugging it off. “And hey, we survived another performance.”
“Of Fiddler?”
She shakes her head. “No.” She adopts the tone of a radio announcer. “And tonight at eight p.m., we have another rendition of Happily Engaged Couple.”
I wince. “Right. That one.”
This is when I should make a joke. When I should reassure her. When I should tell her thanks once again.
I say nothing. I have nothing to say. A bald man with two gold teeth barks out offers to a half-nude comedy act. “Half nude, half off.”
Someone shouts back, “All nude, all off?”
We pass a theater, then a T-shirt shop, and sidestep a couple in khaki shorts, white sneakers, and FDNY T-shirts. I have no idea where we’re going. Honestly, I’m not even sure why we were walking on Broadway in the first place. I think we just went in a U. What is wrong with me? I can’t even navigate my own city anymore.
We reach the corner of Forty-third and stop on the concrete. A bus crawls up Eighth Avenue. Tourists circle us as we stand awkwardly, facing each other. My whole life I’ve known what to do, how to move forward, how to meet life at every curve and bend. Tonight, I’m thrown, and I barely understand how to put one foot in front of the other.
I scratch my head.
“Um, where are we going, Spencer?”
I shrug. “Hadn’t thought about it.”
“What do you want to do?” she asks, clasping her hands together as if she’s looking for something to do with them.
“Whatever works for you,” I say, jamming my thumbs into the pockets of my jeans.