Part 3 (1/2)
FOUR.
”THREE, FOUR, FIVE, six,” Agatha counts rapidly as we walk down Ninety-third Street.
”There he is-that's your future husband.” I look at the short, round man bobbing toward us. His briefcase swings out from his left side in a way that seems destined to clock someone in the s.h.i.+ns, and his blue checked tie is flapping in the breeze as if trying to take flight. He wears a panicked expression as he fumbles through his pockets. If Gabriel were here he could tell this guy exactly where he left his BlackBerry. Even I can guess that's what he's searching for. Then I shake my head a little. There's no need to think about Gabriel. Nope. No need at all to think about him. Or the fact that we haven't spoken since Rowena and James's engagement party last week. He must have really decided to take my advice on steering clear of the family misfit.
”Okay, my turn,” Agatha says, taking a sip of her raspberry smoothie.
”Nineteen,” she says. I raise an eyebrow at her.
”Shooting high?” Then I start counting as quickly as I can.
”Fifteen, sixteen-ooh, too bad that one's seventeen,” I say as a guy roller-skates right by us, his left arm brus.h.i.+ng up against my shopping bag. Turning, I follow his progress, checking out the tight cords of muscle in his calves and arms.
”Eighteen, nineteen. Hmm” This one is very clean-cut, with a square jaw and wearing a dark suit and sungla.s.ses. Normally I don't like a man in a suit. But somehow this one seems to fit.
”He looks like a banker,” Agatha complains. She's more into the tall, skinny hipsters who wear thick-framed gla.s.ses and Ramones T-s.h.i.+rts.
”You never know. You could have it all. The house with the white picket fence, the SUV, and two point four blond, blue-eyed children.
”Agatha makes a face at me.
”That sounds perfectly hideous.” I smile at her. Since her British literature cla.s.s last semester, a lot of words like perfectly and perhaps have permeated her language.
”What's your idea of the perfect life, anyway?” She weaves her way around a doublewide stroller and then falls back in next to me. I sip some of my strawberry banana smoothie, crunching the crushed ice between my teeth.
”Now,” I say.
”Now? What do you mean?” Agatha is staring at me bemusedly. I wave my hands around me to encompa.s.s the bright air, the sidewalk cafes, the chatter and clatter and bustle of everything.
”Now. This. This is perfect.” She's squinting at me, a little the way she does at a particularly hard problem in her math book.
”I mean, walking around, drinking smoothies, buying all these books, thinking about my cla.s.ses this fall, and I don't know ... just being here, and this is all that's expected, this is all I can be.” Okay, now I'm starting to sound like an army slogan.
”My turn,” I add brightly.
”I pick number . .” I say a little loudly, hoping Agatha will stop giving me that look. Seven.
”Seven it is,” Agatha says.
”One, two, three, four,” she begins, and then, ”Yum,” she says as a guy wearing a bandanna and a dark blue T-s.h.i.+rt wanders by.
”Too bad he's only number five” She puts her hand out and stops me from crossing the street. Agatha takes the traffic laws very seriously. Two bikers hurtle past us as we wait for the light to change.
”Six, seven. Mmm,” she says and smacks her lips in appreciation. With a not-so-subtle hand movement, she points out my next future husband. I nearly choke on my straw. Alistair Callum is crossing the street toward us, clutching a dry cleaner's bag and a sheaf of papers under one arm. I blink and then blink again, but no, he's really solidly here and not just a figment of my overactive imagination. A taxi cruises past and it seems asthough he's about to hail it when all of a sudden he looks up and our eyes lock. I raise my hand and make a flapping motion that I hope he takes for a wave.
”OmiG.o.d!” Agatha murmurs.
”Your future husband is coming right at us. Look cute!” she instructs, swiping at my hair.
”Um, listen, yeah, thanks,” I say, batting away her hand.
”I know him. And by the way, he thinks my name is Rowena. Don't say anything!”
”What-” And then thankfully she swallows the rest of her words as Alistair arrives.
”Rowena,” he says, s.h.i.+fting his papers from one arm to the other.
”What a pleasant surprise.”
”Hi, Alistair,” I say brightly, smiling up at him. A bus swooshes past and we all step back onto the curb. The gold-flecked stubble is gone, revealing a firm chin divided by a slight cleft.
”Funny, running into you on the Upper East Side. You're a long way from NYU.”
”Yes, well, occasionally I do escape to other parts of the city,” he says, nodding politely at Agatha.
”Was my office too difficult to find, then?” A quick smile blooms on his face and I realize he's trying to make a joke.
”What? Oh, no, no, not at all!” Great. Now he thinks I don't want to help him after all.
”No, I just got back yesterday and today was our first day of cla.s.ses and then I had to buy all these books,” I say, hefting my bag into the air as proof.
”I swear I was coming to see you this week,” I add, all too aware of Agatha's fascinated scrutiny in my peripheral vision.
”By the way, this is my roommate, Agatha. Agatha, this is Alistair Callum.”
”Charmed,” Agatha says, and I try not to roll my eyes. She must be giddy that he's British. Alistair smiles at her.
”A pleasure, Agatha” Then he turns back to me.
”You still will?” The note of hope in his voice is too much to handle.
”Of course. I have back-to-back free periods Wednesday. Are you-?”
”Perfect. I have office hours on Wednesday from ten to twelve. I'm in Lerner Hall.
Waverly Street. Do you know where that is?”
”No. I mean, yes, I can find it” I pinch the end of my straw between two fingers.
”Wednesday,” I repeat, because he's looking worried again” Waverly Street.
Trust me, I'll be there.”
”Wonderful,” Alistair says, bestowing a smile on me and another on Agatha.
”Back to the office for me now. No rest for the weary and all that,” he says, and turning, he plunges back into the whirl of people. I watch as he navigates his way, his dry cleaning flung over one shoulder, the plastic sleeves now curling up in what seems like a jaunty manner.
”Just out of mild curiosity,” Agatha begins. Okay, here it comes.