Page 10 of The Publicity Stunt
“Forcing you to watchX-Men, because there’s no way Rogue is better than Magneto.”
“You do realize she’s kicked his ass in the comics several times, right?”
“Incorrect. That happened only once.”
For the next thirty minutes we argue about which Marvel character is superior. I stick to Magneto. April stays adamant on Rogue.
She cuts into her stack of pancakes and I take another sip of my milkshake.
It’s eleven p.m. I’m at Susie’s, sitting opposite this girl who probably goes around throwing Marvel spoilers at anyone who pisses her off. All the while, I’m wishing she ordered more food. Because for some inexplicable reason, I don’t want this night to end.
ChapterThree
Present Day
APRIL
Not quite sure what you say to someone you haven’t seen in over eight years, but the monosyllabic sounds coming out of my mouth can’t be it.
“April?”
My heart is hammering so hard, I can hear it pulse in my ears. What the fuck is going on right now? How is he here? Why is he here? Is this seriously happening? Am I in some sort of trance? One bad date equals hallucinating an ex-boyfriend.
He takes a step forward and a car horn goes off. His eyes dart toward the sound and he lunges forward, pulling me back onto the sidewalk.
“Shit, are you all right?” he asks. His palms are on my shoulders and I’ve now turned into a mute moron. So I squint and nod, then I repeat the process like some dashboard bobblehead on an uneven road.
Of course, I’m not all right. What an inane question.
“Wha-what are you … you’re here?” I stutter.
Parker isn’t looking at my face anymore. His eyes are perusing every inch of me, from my arms to my legs to my feet. He pales like he’s seen a ghost.
Same.
I was one hundred percent not prepared for this today. So much so, that even Ajax and his lube picnic bag are starting to seem less and less bizarre.
“I … well, yeah.” His grip around me tightens. “I was walking down the street and saw your hair, and—”
“My hair?”
The corner of Parker’s lip twitches up, amused. “Yeah.”
A blaring MTA bus passes us on Canal Street and I free myself from his grasp, taking a step away. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
He doesn’t say a word. No, he just stands there looking at me, trying to figure out what I’m thinking. “Parker?” I ask.
His eyes flicker to mine. “I live here.”
My brain zeroes out into nothingness, unable to compute his statement. He lives here? That makes no sense. I live here. New York is mine. He lives in LA. That’s where he lives.
“I moved to the city a few weeks back,” Parker adds.
I look up, and any sign of his slow-forming smile fades away immediately. “I would’ve called you. I just wasn’t sure you wanted to see me.”
“Oh … I, um …”
He cuts me off. “Do you want to get some coffee? I’d love to catch up.”
