We put the table down and I look at the gates. “Now what?”
“You’ve got your MetroCard handy?” he asks, flicking his out of his back pocket.
I dig mine out of my bag and hold it up.
“If we flip it legs up, you won’t have to hold it so high to get through the turnstile.”
He looks so serious, as if we’re doing brain surgery or something, and it suddenly strikes me as funny. I crack up.
“You have a lovely laugh.”
Something in his voice makes me stop. When I look at him again, his face has gone from dead serious to soft and slightly amused.
There’s a rush in my stomach, a sudden whirring of butterflies, but I shut it down. “Let’s go,” I say lifting my end of the table.
No one tries to stop us as we wrestle it through the gates and onto the subway platform, then set the table on its legs next to the wall.
I sit on it and lean against the tile wall as we wait, rubbing my sore palm on my jeans. “Thanks for doing this,” I tell him.
He sits next to me. “My pleasure.”
I think about what I told him that night after Club 69—that I’d never needed him—and wonder if he knows it’s a lie.
When we hear the train in the tunnel, we slide off the table and pick it up. But when the train gets to the platform, I see it’s packed.
“We should wait for the next one,” Alessandro says, starting to lower his end.
“Uh-uh,” I say and push him backward toward the door.
At first, most of the people standing in the door don’t move, like if they ignore us, we’ll go away.
But I’m not going away.
I shove the table and Alessandro staggers back into the crowd, bumping hard into a skinny guy with his nose in his iPad. Eyes widen behind him as the people there realize we’re coming whether they like it or not, and they press deeper into the car.
“I’m going to turn it on end,” Alessandro says, lifting his end higher. “When you’re in, set your end on the floor.”
The doors start to close on the table, but I don’t back off. Alessandro angles the table up so it doesn’t take so much room, and when I’m in, I set my end down. He tips it the rest of the way up so it’s standing on end and I’m trapped in the cage of its legs. It’s only now, when I’m smashed into the bottom of my new old table that I realize there’s a lot of gum stuck here.
At the next stop, we’re able to slide the table away from the door as people get out and make room. As we wrestle it out through the crowd at the Seventy-ninth Street stop, a middle-aged woman with a Macy’s shopping bag gets caught in the legs and we bring her with us onto the platform. She glares as she steps back onto the train just as the doors swish closed.
We haul the table up the stairs the same way we brought it down at Times Square, but when we reach my building we find out that it barely fits through the door. We have to do some fancy dancing, twisting and turning it around the corner of the door frame.
It’s only when we wrestle the table out of the elevator, wrangle it into my apartment, and set it down in front of the couch that I realize how huge it actually is. It takes up almost the entire space between the couch and the wall where the TV is mounted with just enough room to walk between them.
“It fits,” Alessandro says, and I can see him biting back the laugh.
“It does. It’s perfect,” I say a little defensively, sweeping some dirty dishes off the couch and dropping them in the sink on top of other dirty dishes. I come back and sit, kicking my feet up onto my table.
Alessandro slides in next to me on the couch. “Well, then, it was a productive day. I’ll have to think of something equally as productive for Thursday.”
“Next Thursday is Thanksgiving.” I don’t mention that Brett’s coming home. I don’t even want to think about it. “Can we do Friday? Or maybe Saturday? I just have to be home by fourish to get ready for work.”
He nods. “Friday then. Argo Tea? Eleven?”
“Done,” I say, standing and moving to the kitchen. I scrape some more dishes from the counter into the sink. “I feel like I owe you dinner.” I went shopping Tuesday, so I can probably pull something together.
“Thank you for the offer, but I already have dinner plans.”
“Oh.” I can’t explain the sudden wash of cold I feel. He said he wasn’t with that girl he fell in love with, but it never occurred to me until this second he could be seeing someone else. I start to ask who, but realize that’s none of my business. “So . . . something to drink?” I pull open the fridge door and peek inside. “I’ve got Diet Coke and . . .” Nothing. All I drink is Diet Coke. “Um . . . water, I guess.”
“Coke is fine,” he says, settling into the couch.
I pour two glasses and bring them to the couch, handing one to Alessandro.
He takes a sip then leans forward to put the glass on the coffee table. “This table looks a little like the one in my grandparents’ living room.”
“In Corsica?”
He nods. “It’s been there since I can remember. I think Pépé might have made it. I never asked.”
“Made it? Really?”
He nods. “That’s what he did for a living.”
“Do you miss them? Your family?”
He sips his drink and settles deeper into the couch, looking at me. “I do.”
I take a long sip so I don’t have to look at him. “How long do you think you’ll stay here before you go back?”
“I don’t have any definite plans, but I don’t anticipate leaving in the near future.”
Something in my gut loosens a little. “I think I might paint it,” I say, setting my glass on the table.
He leans forward and brushes his fingers over the surface. “Or you could refinish it. This is a nice piece of wood with a bold grain. It would look great if you stripped it and put on a fresh coat of varnish.”
“I don’t know how to do that. Painting is easier.”
“It’s up to you, of course, but if you wanted to try stripping it first to see what’s under all these layers, I could help you.”
He’s way too good at stripping away layers and seeing the stuff underneath. He does it with me every time we’re together. “Maybe I’ll just leave it be.”
“As you wish.” He finishes his Coke and sets the glass down. “So, Friday, then.” He stands. “I really need to go, but I’ll call you with details.”
“Sounds good. And it better not be the Empire State Building.”
He smiles and moves to the door. “I promise to choose something less ‘lame-o,’ ” he says, making air quotes. But then he hesitates with his hand on the doorknob. “I had a really nice time today.”
“Me too.”
He nods and pulls the door open, heading to the elevator. I stand here for a minute, watching him, but then decide that’s awkward, so I close the door and pretend I’m not listening for the elevator door.
After he’s gone, I sit on my table and think about all its layers. My fingers trace gouges and scratches and I just know it’s been through a lot. What if all those layers on the outside are the glue that’s keeping it together?
I decide not to let Alessandro strip off any more layers. But maybe I can help him strip a few of his own.
Chapter Thirteen
IT’S MONDAY MORNING when I call Alessandro. Brett is coming home tomorrow for a few days, and now that I’ve got my nerve up to do this, I don’t want to leave it until after he’s gone.
“Hilary,” he says when he connects.
“Are you free for an hour this afternoon?”
“I’ve got lessons at the Y starting at two. Was there something you needed?”