Come As You Are

When we exit, I turn off the recorder and tuck my phone away. I’ve accomplished some of what I’ve come to do today. I understand what motivates him. He’s a man of learning, not only a numbers guy. He finds inspiration everywhere. That’s what makes him tick.

Perhaps he’s figured out it’s my jam, too, because I love the tour.

He’s a member of the New York City Transit Museum, and they offer private tours for its members. A docent shows a small group of us through the once splendid subway station and I drink in the mosaics, the architecture, the feel of old New York, as well as the stories of the master artisans and the architect who worked on this station.

For an hour or so, I feel as if I’m transported to another era, as if I’m in New York before my own time and before all my own troubles. On this fine June evening, I’ve made my great escape and I’m existing in a slip of the past, a whisper amidst the storm.

When we’re done, I thank the docent and we head aboveground.

“That was amazing,” I say, practically bouncing. “I’m almost ashamed I’ve lived here so long and I haven’t done that.”

“Don’t be ashamed. Be glad you did it. I think there are so many things right in front of us that we don’t do. We don’t always take advantage of what we have. I try as much as I can, but you can’t get to everything.”

“Do you try because a great idea for work might come from doing something unexpected?”

He shakes his head vigorously. “I suppose it’s a welcome by-product if it happens, but no. I like new experiences in and of themselves. I like learning for learning’s sake. I do it for that reason, whether it has an obvious benefit or not.”

There he goes again, amassing points he isn’t even trying to earn as he stimulates my mind with his thirst for knowledge. He’s everything I like, and exactly what I must avoid.

He’s a risk I can’t take.

But he’d be a risk no matter what. Even if it wasn’t a conflict of interest to date him, it would be a hell of a conflict to my wounded heart. I already like Flynn Parker too much for my own good. I can only imagine how much it would hurt when he left me.

Because he would. We’d date, and laugh, and screw, and talk, and visit all the hidden spots in New York.

Then he’d leave.

He’d be done.

He’d break my heart.

“By the way,” he says, “do you know there are several other abandoned subway stops around the city? You can see some of them when you ride the train if you know where to look.”

“I’d love to see them,” I say wistfully, hoping I’ll do as he suggests, hoping I’ll take advantage of everything that’s truly in front of me.

I’ll be doing it alone, but I’ll do it. I want to experience all that the city has to offer. Now that I’ve ditched the dress, it’s time to immerse myself in living again, experiencing things anew.

He looks at his watch. “Come to think of it, I don’t have anything going on at the moment. Do you want to check them out now?”

My skin tingles. The birds sing. The sun kicks its heels in the sky.

But a voice reminds me—he’s a risk you can’t take.

I silence the voice. There’s nothing risky about doing this because nothing will happen with Flynn. Not now, and not in two weeks.

“I do want to.”

I’m not dating him, and we’re not together, nor can we be, so he can’t hurt me. He can’t stab me in the back with a rusty serrated knife and move halfway around the world, going radio silent.

Flynn is work, and we are professionals who like spending time together. There’s nothing more to it, and my heart is safely locked in the steel cage I built for it with the remains of my failed un-wedding.

That’s what I tell myself as we ride past the Worth Street stop and he points out the shuttered station’s name on the tiled columns, then the closed Eighteenth Street station that’s now merely a home for graffiti.

When we finish checking out the hidden treasures of the city’s transit system, I feel refreshed and vibrant, like I’ve gone on a great date.

In an alternate world, this date would lead to me taking him back to my tiny place, grabbing the collar of his shirt, and yanking him close. He’d push me against my kitchen counter, spread my legs, and fuck me. A spark tears through me like a fire lit and roaring as I imagine Flynn parting my thighs, tearing off my panties, and filling me.

So deep.

So good.

I could get lost in him. I could get lost in his kiss, his rough and tender touch. I could disappear into bliss, and let it consume my hurt. The pleasure would burn away any lingering ache from the past.

We could be Angel and Duke again for a night.

But us too. I want to know how it feels to be us and to be them.

I want that because this feels like the best date I’ve been on in ages.

That’s why when I’m home that night, I resist every urge to text him and tell him what fun I had. I abstain from sending him math jokes or grammar puns. That would be something I’d do post-date and this—this was work.

That echoes through my mind as we set a time for our next interview. Because that will only be work as well.

That way, he can’t become Ray.

He can’t leave me for no reason.

Because I won’t let him in.

But he texts me the next day. As the duke.

17

Flynn

Duke: What’s your favorite place?

Angel: Too many to name.

Duke: You made me pick.

Angel: Made you pick? Did I twist your arm?

Duke: Yes. My wrist still hurts from your sheer, brute strength.

Angel: I’m powerful.

Duke: Like a genie. Incidentally, you’d look good in a genie costume. Just saying.

Angel: You’d look good in many costumes—an earl, a prince, a pirate, a bandit, a highwayman . . .

Duke: You have such a fascination with olden times.

Angel: Yes, I do. Regency, Victorian, historical—give me breeches and I’m a-swooning.

Duke: Next time, I’ll be donning a waistcoat and a top hat.

Angel: I fainted in a most ladylike fashion. See? It really does work.

Duke: Excellent, m’lady.

Angel: Also, I’m so sorry I hurt your wrist with that hard twist I gave. That was cruel of me.

Duke: Now that I think of it, maybe that’s not why my wrist hurts. ?

Angel: You’re naughty.

Duke: Naughty? Me? Why would you say that?

Angel: Your wrist hurts? Okay, my fingers hurt!

Duke: My wrist hurts from racquetball. Did you think I meant something else?

Angel: You know what I think you meant.

Duke: Spell it out for me. What did you think I was doing that made my wrist sore?

Angel: Gee. I wonder.

Duke: You need to get your mind out of the gutter, Angel.

Angel: You led it there, Duke.

Duke: Somehow, I think you can find the gutter on your own.

Angel: Guilty as charged. But back to favorite places. Why do you want me to pick one?

Duke: Hello? Our next interview. You’re allergic to offices, and since I took you to one of my favorite spots, it’s your turn to choose one for our next chat. Name some.

Angel: My favorite place in all of New York City is New York City. ?

Duke: Clever.

Angel: But I’d also have to add Central Park, the hidden underground gin joint in Chelsea, the small Elevator Museum in Tribeca, the Starry Night locksmith in the West Village, one of the street artists in the East Village, the Met, and I think I would probably also love Gramercy Park.