In Your Dreams — Chapter no 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

James

2:23 P.M.

“Tell me the truth—how many attractiveness points did I lose when you saw me in sneakers instead of my boots?”

“One million.”

“Dammit!”

“Honestly, I’m cured.” Madison sips her coffee and smiles over at me, Central Park buzzing around us. “You’re basically a dork now.”

“You’re not into dorks?”

“Nope. I’m very basic. My type is tall with dark hair. Muscular and suntanned.”

The exact description of me settles between us, and somehow our joking moment turns serious. She pivots away from it. “And boots cemented to his

feet that never come off.”

“Niche.”

“I’m nothing if not specific.”

We continue to walk for a bit, and I wait for her caffeine high to kick in.

Everything is green. The trees are big and beautiful, and everywhere you look someone’s doing something interesting. That guy has an easel set up, painting a portrait of his nondescript, fuzzy gray dog lying on a picnic blanket. There’s a woman rollerblading in an all-pink spandex outfit.

“Look over there,” I say after we visit Bethesda Fountain. “If you lived here, you could do yoga in the park.”

Her gaze follows mine to the twenty or so people moving through a downward dog pose.

“Do I want to do yoga?” she asks, giving it serious thought.

“I don’t know—do you?”

She squints and then says, “No. I prefer to be tricked into exercise.”

“How do you do that?”

“Go outside on a windy day holding a very important piece of paper, then spend thirty minutes sprinting after it when it gets ripped from your hand.”

I bump her shoulder lightly. “Your spaghetti noodle arms are making more sense now.”

She bumps my shoulder back. “Hey. By the way, I noticed you ordered decaf coffee.”

I grunt. “Might as well have gotten water.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?” Oh my god, there’s a person walking a cat on a leash.

“Taking care of yourself,” she says, and I have to look down at her because I’m not sure anyone has ever thanked me for choosing myself before. Thanked me for sacrifice, yes. Thanked me for all the ways I’ve helped them, absolutely. But never for the things I’ve done to help myself.

I’m at a loss for how to respond, so I say a very pathetic, “Sure thing.”

3:45 P.M.

We catch a quick ride from Central Park to Times Square. Madison tells me this is an unnecessary stop because she’s already been.

“Yes, but have you tried to get a street performer painted like a statue to break character before?”

Her expression says I’ve made a fair point. We go on a hunt for a statue person, looking like jungle tourists naïvely hoping for a chance encounter with a tiger.

“Hey, so I’ve been thinking about your predicament,” she says casually.

“Do I want to know what you think my predicament is?”

“Your relationship with Tommy.”

“Ah.”

“I think you should text him.”

I imagine I look horrified. “About what?”

She shrugs. “About nothing. Anything. Something.”

She tosses her empty coffee cup in the trash as we pass one, then realizes mine is empty too, takes it, and doubles back to toss it out.

“Here, look at my texts with my siblings.”

Madison unlocks her phone (passcode: 1234) and hands it over to me, open to a long string of messages between the four of them.

MADISON: I had a bad dream last night.

EMILY: About what?

NOAH: I don’t want to hear about your dream. They’re always too long and don’t make sense.

MADISON: THEY’RE IMPORTANT EVERY TIME. Especially

this one.

ANNIE: I’m intrigued.

MADISON: I went to the salon to get a haircut, and when she turned the chair around, I was a gorilla wearing a pink dress! But the weird part is, I loved it. So then I got in my truck to drive home, and it turned into an airplane and left the ground. That’s when I realized I didn’t know how to fly a plane. So it crashed. But I didn’t die because it crashed into an alternate world where the ground was cotton candy.

NOAH: I can’t believe I read that whole thing. Two minutes of my day I’ll never get back.

EMILY: Noah . . . it took you two minutes to read that?????

ANNIE: I like the bit about cotton candy.

MADISON: But what does it mean?!

NOAH: That you ate too close to bedtime.

Laughing, I hand the phone back to Madison. “So you think randomly texting Tommy about my dreams is going to bring us closer together after thirty years of not getting along?”

“It’s a start. You guys don’t even know each other now. Maybe if you get to know him little by little, you’ll find something you like or relate to.

Something that sticks out more than the negative.”

“I’ll think about it.”

We’re quiet for a few minutes as we push through the crowd.

“And obviously, your dream means you’re craving something new in life and transforming old habits . . . except during it all, you feel you have no idea what you’re doing—scared you’re going to crash.”

She turns to me sharply, eyes bright. “Exactly what I thought! But what’s the cotton candy mean?”

“Maybe deep down, you have hope that if you do crash, it’ll be okay.”

“Maybe . . .” she says thoughtfully.

Then her eyes catch something beyond my shoulder. “Oh! Over there. I found one!”

Madison spends the next ten minutes telling the limestone-green man- statue knock-knock jokes and embarrassing stories and making absurd faces at him. The man does flawless work—doesn’t move so much as a centimeter. And that’s when a woman carrying a big-ass tote bag comes over and tells us, in a tone that screams hey idiots, that this is not a street performer. It’s a literal statue.

I’m now the proud owner of at least a hundred photos of Madison trying to make a rock laugh.

4:32 P.M.

“Best and worst thing about running the farm—go,” says Madison as we walk away from the hotdog stand, a glob of napkins pinched between her elbow and side.

“Best: the open air and getting to literally watch my efforts pay off when the crops come in. Worst: sunburns.”

“Really? I thought for sure you’d say the early mornings.”

“Nah, I love those. Being up before the world is my drug.”

I see her grimace from the corner of my eye.

“You disagree?”

“I mean, yes. But that’s not what my look meant. I made a bad decision

with my order. How’s yours?”

“Amazing.”

I pluck her hotdog covered in relish from her hands and replace it with mine—chili, cheese, and mustard topping it.

“No, no, no. I didn’t mean for you to give me your hotdog,” she says, trying to take hers back, but I turn away and hold mine above my head.

“James! Keep your delicious hotdog for yourself.”

“Quit saying ‘hotdog’ so salaciously!”

“James!”

“Madison. Try that hotdog and tell me you don’t want to keep it.”

She gives me a look before finally taking a bite, and then her shoulders

melt and her telltale moan escapes.

“Told you.”

She chews and swallows, then rips the drippy dog in half and extends part of it to me.

I raise my brows. “You’re going to share?”

She shrugs like it’s no big deal and not actually the biggest gesture in the

world, coming from her.

“What’s next on the agenda?”

I look around, hoping for inspiration to strike, since this whole thing was my idea, but I’m at a loss. Madison uses my moment of indecision to walk over to a guy in mini sunglasses (they can’t actually be doing anything against the sun), a vest sans shirt, and a pair of cream wide-leg slacks. He doesn’t look happy that she’s interrupted his reading time. But after a minute of talking, he’s laughing and showing her something on his phone.

And that’s how we end up at the Color Factory. We snagged two tickets an hour before closing.

The place is a literal explosion of color. I imagine this is what the inside of Madison’s mind looks like.

She disappears behind a curtain labeled CONFETTI ACCUMULATION ZONE, and when she steps out again she’s grinning like a five-year-old, bits of pastel paper stuck in her hair and clinging to her lashes.

“I fought bravely, and I lost,” she says, holding her hands up in surrender.

I brush confetti off her shoulder, pluck a few pieces from her hair, only for more to rain down from a ceiling chute, dousing us in color.

We wander through the scratch-and-sniff wall (sensory overload), then Madison drags me into a room with a giant ball pit that looks like someone on a sugar high designed it.

“Nope,” I say, backing away, drawing the line. “Do you know how many bodies have been in that thing?”

She lifts a brow, already toeing off her shoes. “You’re the one telling me to live it up.”

“I didn’t mean run off and contract hand, foot and mouth disease, though.”

Barefoot, she walks up to me and takes both of my hands. “Please.”

I turn to putty.

And just like that I’m tumbling in after her, embracing god only knows how many germs, surrounded by a sea of bright blue plastic balls and the scent of gummy bears.

It’s chaos. It’s ridiculous. And for the first time in a long time, I feel light as air.

This was supposed to be for her, but I think I’m gaining the most from it.

She swims over to me and makes a big show of getting yanked under into the plastic abyss by an imaginary monster. She’s shrieking and flailing, pretending to drown. People are staring. She doesn’t care—and neither do I.

Grinning, I rescue her, tugging her to the surface. She’s happy and out of breath as she loops her arms around my neck. Her eyes meet mine and her wild smile softens.

The current of attraction grips me—grips her too, I think—and even though I want to kiss her again more than anything, I remember my vow.

“They’re about to close. Should we race through the rest of this place?”

“Give me a head start,” she says, making her way out. “You have much longer legs.”

7:15 P.M.

Madison is wearing a veil and hopping from her left to her right foot over and over, hips jutting out with each sway as she belts “I Feel Like a Woman” into the microphone. The fruity pink drink in her other hand keeps sloshing over the rim, but she’s too absorbed in the song to notice.

The bride, who placed her veil on Madison’s head a few minutes ago, catcalls as the rest of the bachelorette party whoops and hollers. I’m not even sure how we ended up here, to be honest. We wandered around outside the Color Factory for a bit, googling what we should do next. A karaoke bar in SoHo popped up in the results—and it might as well have had Madison’s name in neon. We Ubered over only to find out it was by reservation only.

All the rooms were booked up.

Madison went to the bathroom, came back with a bachelorette party and a bride whose dress she’d saved from a drink stain, and bam, we were invited to join their party. Now Madison is endearingly drunk and singing at the top of her lungs.

I’m sitting on the bench lining the plush wall, squinting now and then as the disco ball mirrors a flashing neon light into my eyes. But I don’t care.

I’d stay here all night to watch Madison laugh and dance like that.

Suddenly, a female form cuts off my view of Madison. One bachelorette plops down right into my lap and hooks her arm around my neck. “Hi,” she says, so close to my face. “Want to make out? My boyfriend said whatever happens tonight is fine with him as long as you’re gone by the morning.”

“Generous,” I respond, then look up and catch Madison’s eye. She’s still singing, but she’s gone down a sad octave and her words are two beats behind. Who knows, I might be imagining it, but even in my imagination I don’t like the sight of Madison hurt. So I stand slowly, giving the lady time to find her footing as she’s forced to stand too. “I’m going to have to pass. I think my friend needs me to jump in on this chorus.”

“Awww, that’s actually cute,” says the woman, who is now behind me.

I make my way to Madison, holding her gaze the entire time until I’m right in front of her. Unspoken words pass between us. I don’t want her. I don’t want anyone else but you. Even if I can’t have you.

I lean down into the microphone and sing, “. . . I feel like a woman, oh, oh, oh.”

Madison cackles, the bachelorettes cheer, and together Madison and I finish the song plus an encore of “No Scrubs.”

10:55 P.M.

“Drink this,” I say, uncapping a bottle of water and pressing it to Madison’s mouth. “You’re dripping sweat.”

“Quit trying to hydrate me and dance,” she says, still vibrating with dance moves as she wipes the back of her mouth with her hand. Her arms are doing some sort of waves before she turns around and backs it up on me.

“I don’t like to fall into many stereotypes, but please hear me when I say I am a farmer—”

“Cowboy.”

“—and so I do not dance.”

“I’ve seen you line dance though!” she yells up at me, unable to stay still.

“Would you like me to line dance to this techno music?”

Over at the bar, a loud cheer erupts from the bachelorette party that invited us along after karaoke. They just threw back shots and Madison throws her fist up in the air out of solidarity.

I can’t help but smile down at her flushed face, sweat-damp hair clinging to her temples. A little drunk from her steady stream of drinks. I stopped after my pink drink at karaoke so I can make sure Madison stays safe.

“Are you having fun?” I ask her, pretty much acting as a human pole for her to shimmy and bump against.

“The best time! I can’t believe all of this was under my nose the whole time and I never experienced it!”

It’s good, I tell myself. This is what I wanted for her—to see this city differently, to feel like she could actually belong here if she wanted. But I didn’t plan for my heart to sink down into my gut at the thought of her actually staying, choosing a future I’m not in.

And for one selfish minute, I wish I hadn’t made this night happen.

11:32 P.M.

We’re in the back of our new friend’s Mercedes, headed to a drag club.

Some guy Madison was dancing with mentioned he and his husband had a babysitter for the night and were going there next. They invited Madison to

come. (And me, by default.) They’re nice guys—currently belting old-school Britney Spears from the front seat. Rich, too, judging by the model of this vehicle and the fact that they can afford to own a car in New York City.

“What’s that?” I ask, peering over at Madison’s phone just as a cartoon monkey swings across the screen and plants a kiss on the glass.

“An e-card from Tommy.” She grins and tilts the screen toward me. The note attached reads: Let me swing by and pick you up sometime?

I groan. “Is he still harassing you?”

He sent her a diamond necklace the other day. That she returned to him, saying she didn’t feel right keeping it.

Now she gasps, mock offended. “How dare you! This is classic wooing.

He’s doing a great job.”

“In what world is that good?”

She laughs. “Okay, fine. Tommy’s pursuit is kind of like if a thirteen- year-old suddenly came into a lot of money. But that doesn’t mean it’s bad.

He’s being sweet.”

“He’s being a relentless pain in the ass.”

She slides her phone back into the crossbody purse she’s had slung across her chest all day. “You’re just jealous because you don’t want to share my attention.”

It’s a joke. But the guys in the front don’t know that.

The tall one in the passenger seat turns around with a wistful smile and a dramatically pursed lip. “You two are so cute. I miss being young and in love,” he says, reaching across to squeeze his husband’s biceps.

Neither of us corrects him.

1:00 A.M.

“I can’t believe I met Audrey Hepburn in real life!” Madison says, slumped against me on the sidewalk outside the drag club we just left.

“She was pretty awesome,” I say, steering Madison in the right direction.

“I can’t wait to show Amelia. She’s going to be so jealous.” A huge yawn tumbles out of her. She switched to water at the start of the show, so I think she’s mostly sobered up at this point. Exhaustion is setting in now.

“Where should we go next?” she says, eyes closed, head resting against the outside of my biceps like this is completely normal for us. And oddly, it does feel normal—just as every second of the day has so far.

“Next? I’d say sleep.”

Her groggy eyes pop open. “We can’t call it a night yet! I haven’t even been arrested.”

“We have to leave something for next time,” I say, checking my phone to verify the car pulling up is our rideshare.

“Can we at least tell everyone I got arrested?”

“Sure.” I gather her wrists behind her back and she grins up at me. After opening her door, I place my hand that’s not holding her “cuffed” wrists on the top of her head and guide her through, down into the seat. She scoots over, making room for me. The driver—with a Star Trek emblem hanging from his rearview mirror—looks concerned that he’s just picked up two people who are into kinky stuff. I give him the code and we’re on our way now to the apartment where Madison used to live.

Fatigue is heavy after our nonstop night, and Madison has gone into full zombie mode, her dazed eyes staring out the window, head tilted back against the seat, absolutely silent. A rarity for her. All I want to do is sleep for a million hours. When we’re about five minutes from the destination, a slow rain trickles down onto the car, followed by a full-on shower.

Suddenly, Madison rockets forward. “Hey, sir, can you stop and let us out here?” she asks the driver.

Again, he looks concerned. “Here? It’s raining. You’re still a few blocks

from your stop.”

“Yeah, I know. Stop here!”

He does, with a “whatever, lady” shake of his head.

She leans around me and opens the door, exposing us to a wall of rain.

“Madison. What are you doing?” I ask as she attempts to shove me by the shoulder out of the car. “That’s the wet world out there. The wet world is a bad place.”

She laughs. “Come on! One last adventure together in New York. Let’s run in the rain.”

That word—together—sticks. Lodges somewhere beneath my ribs.

I loll my head in her direction, and she combats my protest with big anime eyes. “Fiiiine.” I unbuckle and jump out into the rain first. I extend my hand and she takes it, joining me out here in the ocean.

For three heartbeats she looks up at me, water dripping over her smile, and I feel the kind of happy that scares a person. The kind I’ve been terrified to experience, because then I’ll know the lack of it. But then the driver peels away like we’re psychopaths he’s afraid are going to try to stuff him in the trunk and steal his car, and the moment is shattered.

We laugh, and then it’s like the sky opens and the real downpour begins, so heavy it’s hard to see a foot in front of us.

“Oh my god!” Madison yells, laughter spilling out with the rain. “This was a bad idea! Seemed cuter in my head—Wait, is it hailing?!”

I grab her hand. “Let’s run!”

So we do. Feet sloshing through quickly flooding sidewalks. Free hands hovering above our heads to protect us from the small, but definitely present, hail.

Finally, drenched and exhausted, we make it to the brownstone apartment building. Madison shoves a key into the old, rickety lock while telling me how glad she is she forgot to give her key back to her landlord.

As soon as the lock clicks up we burst inside, letting the door fall shut behind us.

The sound of the rain fades, and after one final sigh we look at each other—half-drowned and deliriously happy. Water drips off our clothes, splatting on the old hardwood floor, and I’m not sure where to go from here. And I don’t just mean in this apartment.

“You know . . . I don’t normally do this for guys who aren’t wearing boots, but . . . do you want to come up to my place?” she says in a dramatically sultry voice that is one hundred percent playful but also, unfortunately, one hundred percent turning me on.

I gesture toward the stairs with my hand. “After you, Chef.”