“I bet,” Adair agrees, like she’s talking about the weather or something.
The fuck? They’re best friends, already?
“Well,” the shop girl waits for a suitably meaningful pause to develop, “I won’t pry. Let me know if you have any questions. And you should. I don’t even know what some of this stuff is for.”
Adair finds my hand at last and leads me back into the narrow canyon of vice.
“You don’t have to pretend like you want to be in here, you know,” I say, trying not to sound judgmental while keeping my eyes on her. Finally, she sighs.
“Come on, lover,” she says, pulling me along after her, out the door.
“Do stop in again. Maybe when you’ve had a chance to loosen him up?” the shop girl calls after us.
“Sooo… why don’t we stick to eating?”
“Embarrassed, Ford?” she asks, even though her cheeks are faintly pink.
“I just don’t think we need any help in that department.” I eye the colorful window display. “Unless you’re planning to replace me?”
“Never,” she promises.
We don’t get far before she slows down.
“How far have we walked today?” Adair says before waving away her own question. “Let’s find someplace to sit down and eat, okay?”
I gawk at her. “More food?”
“Are you judging me?”
“Never,” I promise.
I pull out my phone and check the listing for Levantine, my favorite falafel place. It’s still there, just a couple blocks away, and open for another couple of hours. “I know just the place.”
“Lead on, Ford.” She points the way—although it is the wrong way—with the authority of a career general.
“Lucky, you are just full of surprises today,” I marvel.
“Yeah, and it’s all your fault. Showing me new things and what not.”
“Good thing there is always new stuff to try,” I say, using my hand to crush her body against mine.
“You can say that again. Now feed me or lose me forever.”
25
Adair
Dinner with Francie is a casual affair, since I’m still stuffed from eating half of what New York has to offer. She tells me stories at the kitchen table, Sterling objecting every few seconds, until she looks at the clock on the microwave.
“I’ve got to be up early,” she says.
“Are you working?” I can’t help being surprised. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and I’d expected to spend the day with her.
“Tomorrow and the next day,” she says with meaning. “Nurses don’t get holidays.”
This, however, is news to Sterling. “I thought you got time off.”
“Two more shifts and then I have three days to spend with you,” she promises. “It’s better this way. I get holiday pay, and I had Thanksgiving off. Fair is fair.”
She stands up and ruffles his hair affectionately before stretching her arms over her head. Looking down, she shakes her head. “I never even got out of these scrubs. I’ll be out of the bathroom in a few. You two going to stay up longer?”
“We’ll head to my room. I don’t want to keep you up.”
“Your room?” I repeat. “I thought I was sleeping on the couch.”
Sterling and Francie share a look.
“Why would you sleep on the couch?” he asks.
“You don’t mind?” I question Francie. Even now, a few months from getting married, after living together for a year, my brother and Ginny sleep in separate rooms when she spends the night. It’s how things are done in Valmont.
“You can sleep on the couch if you want, sugar, but it’s not very comfortable,” she warns me before disappearing up the stairs.
“Worried I’ll try something?” Sterling nuzzles against my ear, laughter in his voice.
“I know you’ll try something,” I mutter. “I guess I’m not used to…”
“Being treated like an adult?” Regret flashes in his eyes the moment it’s out of his mouth. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”
“No, you’re right,” I stop him. “My father doesn’t treat me like an adult. He’s disinterested in everything but keeping up appearances.” That’s why he makes a big show of holiday parties and separate bedrooms. He cares more about what the world thinks of him and his family than he does about me.
We climb the steps to the upper floor, the stairs groaning under old shag carpeting. Sterling pushes open the first door in the small hallway.
“It’s not much, but I spent most of my teen years in this room—after I came to live with Francie, that is.” Sterling looks nervous. I think he’s afraid I’ll take one look and declare I’m getting a room at the Ritz.
The room is tiny, about half the size of a Valmont dorm room. A small window looks out on the red brick building across the alley, and there’s a twin bed in the corner next to it. The rest of the room is filled with books. Wherever there isn’t room for a bookcase, shelves have been bolted onto the walls. I notice that most of the books are marked with white Dewey decimal stickers.
“Is there anything left at your local library?” I say without thinking.
“I didn’t steal them,” he says, a little wounded.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fair.” He runs his fingers along the spines of a row of books, almost wistfully. “When the library around the corner closed, they moved most of their books to other branches. What was left over was sold four for a dollar. At that point, there wasn’t a single book from a bestseller list this century. I spent every dollar I could get my hands on. I looked for change on my way to school. I went so many times over their last month that the librarians ended up letting me carry off entire boxes for free, just so they wouldn’t have to take them to a landfill.”
“I’m sure it had nothing to do with you loving books as much as they did,” I say. “How many of them have you read?”
“Almost all of the fiction,” he says evenly. “Older non-fiction is pretty hit-and-miss. Racist historians from the 50s get old pretty fast.”
I almost can’t believe
