You blush adorably and shrug. I stare at you until you look away first. That wrist motion, though. There it is, extend the arm, flick the wrist, ostentatious, a broad gesture dramatically delivered to reveal a fantastically expensive watch. A Bulgari, pink gold and brown alligator skin.
“Don’t do that, Jonathan,” I say, without looking at you.
“Do what? I just looked at my watch.”
“You made a show of it. No one cares how expensive your watch is. Doing so only serves to draw attention to your shallowness.”
“Oh come on, X. It’s how I check the time.” You sound petulant.
“True wealth does not draw attention to itself. True power does not clamor for notice. Command it without seeming to seek it.”
“Got it,” you mumble.
“Speak clearly,” I snap. “You are not a boy to mumble when scolded.”
“Fine, I got it. Okay? Igotit.” You shake your head and sigh. “Jesus.”
“This is your test, Jonathan. And I am with you, so your performance had better be flawless.”
“Then don’t get on my case about every little fucking thing. Makes me self-conscious, and that’s when I mess up.”
The elevator opens, revealing an expansive underground garage full of shiny and expensive-looking automobiles. You angle toward one, something long and low and sleek and black with only two doors, a trident logo adorning the nose.
There is a harsh rumbling noise from behind us, which takes me a moment to realize is coming from Thomas. It is a grunt, to get our attention. Thomas inclines his head to one side, indicating a different car. This one is long, low, sleek, and white. Len stands outside it in a tuxedo to match Thomas’s.
“Come on, kids. Time’s a-wasting.” Len slides into the driver’s seat, and Thomas takes three long steps—which covers something near ten feet—and opens the rear passenger side door, ushering me in and closing the door behind me as I sit.
“A Maybach, huh?” You take the redirection in stride, it seems. You wait until I’m seated and then circle around to the other side “Nice. Landaulet Sixty-two?”
“Sure is. Mr. Indigo’s own personal vehicle,” Len says.
I couldn’t care less what kind of car it is. The seats are luxurious, the air cool and comfortable. There is a sensation of smooth power, an incline, and then a bright, blinding wash of light as we exit the garage.
My heart hammers in my chest; I am outside, out in the world for the first time in a very long time.
I cannot breathe.
Your hand squeezes my thigh. “X? You okay?”
I force air into my lungs. Blink, curl my fingers into fists and force myself to breathe. In... and out. In... and out. I cannot answer you, and I am not, clearly, so it seems an inane question to me. Release my fists. Flatten my palms on my thighs, nudge your hand away. I cannot bear touch, not from you, not now.
Eyes open. Look out the window. The buildings are dizzying, rocketing hundreds of feet in the air, rising all around like a tribe of clustered titans. I am drowning at the bottom of a thousand glass canyons. Horns blare, loud even within the acoustically hushed interior of the car. The Maybach Landaulet 62, as you named this vehicle. Some sort of luxury automobile, I assume. I know nothing of such things and care even less. You seem impressed, which I suppose is the purpose.
The people. So many, many people. Crowds of them, an endless river of heads, hair, hats, and shoulders, swinging arms, blots of color, a black umbrella despite the clear, warm weather of the evening. A roar of an engine from a long, high truck with oversized wheels and vertical exhaust pipes spouting black smoke. A man in a suit darting between moving vehicles, running across the street, briefcase clutched under one arm. So much. It is too much.
“X. Look at me, babe.” You touch me. Fingers to chin, bring my face around.
I jerk my face away from your touch, but I look at you. And I breathe. A little, at least.
You smile. “Hey. There you are. It’s okay, X. It’s just Manhattan.” You frown, a subtle lowering of your brows, mouth corners flattening, lips thinning. “You really don’t get out much, do you?”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t.”
“Well... if you’re overwhelmed, why don’t you focus on me, huh? Look at me. Talk to me.” You take my hand, hold it palm-to-palm, fingers wrapped around the edge, as children hold hands. It is platonic, and strangely soothing. “This event, there’s gonna be a lot of famous people there. Except for that, though, it’s gonna be boring as fuck. Just so you know. Lots of standing around with fancy champagne and cheap scotch, talking about how rich everyone else is. Yachts and private planes, who owns which island and which estate where.” You take on an arch, pretentious tone of voice. “Have you tried the Lafite sixty-six? Positively divine, old boy. I have a bottle, you’ll have to come to my estate in the Hamptons.” You wave a hand in disgust. “Rich old windbags. The famous people are worse, I think. Just stand around and expect everyone to come to them, pay attention tothem. Like anyone fucking cares. Theydocare, though, you know? That’s what has me in such a pissy mood about it. They alldocare. Been to one of these, you’ve been to ’em all. There’ll be dancing, though. Proper waltzes and shit like that. Good thing I learned, right?”
“Good thing, yes,” I say, faint.
“Can you dance, X?”
