Page 58 of Love Marks
“So, you’ve always lived in Sunset Park?” Wesley asks, filling the silence in the car.
“It’s technically South Slope, but yes.” I correct him.
“Oh, right. Do you like it?”
I shrug. “Yeah. I guess I do. Not much to compare it to, really.”
It’s quiet again.
I’m suddenly aware of how weird this is. Wesley and me being friends. Like, the whole concept of it is ridiculous. We’re from completely different worlds.
“I live in Dumbo, actually. Normally, I mean. Before I moved into the hotel for work,” he says, shocking me. “Sometimes I go into your area to get stuff from the Japanese market.”
“Wow,” I say. “I was not expecting that. Is your apartment nice? Is it bigger than the penthouse?” Then I shake my head. “No. No way.”
The corners of his lips tug upward, but he still doesn’t break. “Yes, it’s nice. It’s smaller than the penthouse, but I like it.”
He pauses for a moment.
“You should come see it sometime.”
My stomach flutters with the thought. I don’t know why I should be so nervous about the prospect — it’s not like I haven’t seen his bedroom at the hotel or been in close quarters with him. For some reason, though, this offer feels more…intimate.
“Sure,” I manage to squeak out.
He connects his phone to the Bluetooth and asks me about what kind of music I like. We spend a few minutes bickering back and forth about what constitutes classic rock before he finally puts on Tame Impala and we sit quietly, humming along. He gives me his phone to queue up some songs and as I swipe through his Spotify, I’m struck again by how different Wesley is than what I thought.
“Arctic Monkeys? Soccer Mommy?” I try to hide my shock. “I can’t believe you listen to like, indie rock and sad girl shit.”
He shrugs. “I’m not that old. Also, my friend Jake works at Atlantic Records and he’s always sending me new artists and playlists.”
Dammit. He’s supposed to be stuffy and fancy and uptight. He’s supposed to eat caviar and listen to Chopin. Instead, he likes hot dogs and listens to some of my favorite bands. This is not good.
We get to my apartment and Wesley pulls over. I gather my bag in my hands and brace myself.
“Well. Thanks for inviting me.” I glance away from Wesley. “Luna is really sweet.”
“Yeah, she’s pretty cute.”
Why does it suddenly feel so heavy in here? The weight of my goodbye is pressing against my head.
“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say.
“Yeah?” He runs his hand through his hair like he does when he’s nervous. I recognize the move by now. “I’d understand if you wanted to quit. I won’t be upset or anything.”
“Why would I do that?” I grab the door handle. “Bye.”
I push open the door and sprint up the steps towards my building, not looking back. I close the door behind me and duck into the window, wave, and turn on my heels to run up the stairs to my apartment, not looking back.
* * *
“I don’t want you to go.”
I’m pouting. Like a child. I feel about ten years old gripping Sheila’s arms and hugging her against me like I’ll never let go. She rubs my back.
“I know, baby. But it’s time.” She steps back from my hug and watches as her son, Darius, picks up the last of her boxes and loads it into the U-Haul. “I’ll be back to visit soon. You won’t even notice I’m gone, you’re gonna be so busy.”
I push down the tears threatening to spill over. I will not cry. I will not cry.