On Saint Marks and First, I spot a trio of handsome boys trekking East.
One is bull-shouldered and strutting, one is darkly slim and self aware, and the blonde in the middle wears a bright yellow tee from a well-known prep school that reads I’M A TEEN MILLIONAIRE in huge black letters on the back. I wonder what kind of asshole would wear that shirt. Then I run into the street.
“SEEKER!” I scream.
The yellow shirt whips around, and sure enough it’s him. His smirk is pinker from Riviera sun and wine, but otherwise he’s totally the same.
Forty minutes later the four of us - me, Boxer, The Seeker, and our friend Vinci* - sit crammed at a cafe table, having a makeshift tea party. As we scarf tarts and cold glasses of apricot ginseng nectar, we plot the summer. I don’t even remember what we said, except that it was familiar, and funny, and mean. Boxer describing various girls he’ll maybe call again. The Seeker making quiet jabs at Scout and Page Six and himself. Vinci trying desperately to be casual, even though we adore him for the opposite. Me eating slices of cupcake, zoned out and blissful.
In the cab back to work, we make plans to cannonball at The Seeker’s pool that night. Then it’s my street and the cab curbs and Boxer opens my door and says, “Hope you had a good lunch break.”
“Best ever,” I beam, sliding out of the cab. The boys wave from the windows, and I notice a streak of pink frosting on my skirt, which looks like a score mark on a baseball board. It melts as I walk three blocks back to work.
* We’re naming him Vinci because The Seeker and I wanted to name him Aviator, and Boxer wants to call him Chachi, so it’s like a compromise…
[EMMA FOREST - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]