“You’re still laughing at me?” She held up her pinched thumb and forefinger. “I was this close to barfing.”
“Is barfing in the Oyster Bar a very New York thing to do?”
She gave my bicep a playful punch. “Shut up. Anyway, I’d like to walk around Greenwich, have a late lunch, maybe do some shopping, and then have a cocktail at a jazz lounge or something. Sound good?”
She always asked me that. Sound good? And I always pretended to think about it for a half a second, before saying, “Sure.”
As if I’d deny her anything.
We showered, dressed, and headed out into another sticky, sun-drenched day. Thea wore shorts and a white tank top with flowers embroidered along the top.
“You’re beautiful,” I told her on the elevator ride down.
She leaned into me, kissed my neck. “You always say you’re beautiful, instead of you look beautiful.”
I shrugged. “Both true.”
“Yes, but one is a sweet compliment about how I might look at the moment, and the other feels like you’re describing who I am.” She sighed and rested her cheek on my shoulder. “You’re very eloquent. Has anyone ever told you that?”
I smirked. “What do you think?”
“I think everyone who missed that about you can suck it.”
“It’s not like I gave them many opportunities. I didn’t say much. But I had this one teacher, Mrs. Marren. She was nice to me. Said I was smarter than anyone thought, including myself. She’s the one who told me to sing to help the stutter.”
“I love her already.” Thea glanced up at me. “Speaking of singing…”
“Ah, shit.”
“How have I completely forgotten you brought your guitar?”
“Because I keep it stowed in the hotel closet?”
She grabbed my arm as the elevator door opened on the lobby. “Promise you’ll sing for me? And play? At least once?”
“What do I get out of it?”
Thea tapped her chin, pretending to think. “Sex. All the sex.”
“I’ll sing for you. No sex required.” I kissed her softly. “But since you’re offering…”
“Oh hell, let’s be real,” she said, looping her arm with mine as we crossed the lobby. “If you play guitar and sing for me, Jimmy, I’ll be naked before the second verse.”
We took the subway to Christopher Street and proceeded to walk approximately every square inch of Greenwich Village. Thea dragged me up and down the streets, pausing to admire window displays or pop in every other shop. She took us over to Bedford Street to see the apartment building they used for the exteriors of Friends.
“Second best show on TV after The Office,” she declared and had us take a selfie while she sang a terrible song about a smelly cat.
We had lunch at a noodle restaurant on Sixth Avenue, then headed back over to Christopher Street for soft-serve at The Big Gay Ice Cream shop on the corner.
The entire time, Thea’s happiness wrapped around me like a summer heat—not thick or humid but the kind of heat that thawed a decades-long winter. I wasn’t the only one basking in Thea’s radiance. Anyone who came in contact with her—waiters, passersby, street vendors—they were in love after one smile, joke or hug.
It’s so damn easy.
In the Big Gay Ice Cream Shop, Thea spent half an hour listening to the cashier—Jonathan—vent about his on-again, off-again boyfriend as if Thea were a lifelong friend and not literally someone who walked in off the street. When we left the shop, Thea had the guy’s number in her phone and was surreptitiously wiping her eyes.
“Since the accident, all my old friends in Richmond have moved on,” she said. “Or maybe Delia cut them out of my life. Other than Rita, I haven’t had a friend until you.” She gave my arm a squeeze. “But you’re my boyfriend now, so that’s not the same. Everyone needs that BFF to talk boys with.” She waved at Jonathan through the window and blew him a kiss.
He waved vigorously and mouthed Call me.