Truth in Advertising Page 0,51

old sweaters. Somehow Phoebe makes it look good. I follow her through the woods, watch the steam rise up over her. Our breathing is heavy, the snow crunching under our feet.

Phoebe says, “We’re going skiing tomorrow.”

I say, “That’s great. That’ll be fun. I’m going to New York to work. Also fun.”

“Do you ski?”

“The name Franz Klammer mean anything to you? Alberto Tomba? I’d embarrass these guys.”

I can tell, even standing behind her, that she’s smiling.

She says, “You could come with for a few days. If you wanted.”

I look up, at her back, waiting for her to turn around. But she doesn’t. She just keeps trudging through the snow.

“Thank you. That’s really nice. Honestly. And I’d love to. Except for this thing.”

She says nothing for a time. Then, “See that tree over there?”

I say, “No.”

She says, “Well, there’s a tree over there and that’s where Matt Simon gave me my first kiss.”

I say, “I made out with him once. Guy’s a pig.”

“Jackass.”

“Tongue?”

“It was so gross. He opened his mouth as wide as he could. Tongue going like he was searching for a filling.”

I’m walking alongside her now.

I say, “Your mother’s mean.”

She smiles. “She likes you.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

I say, “The hug. It was the hug, wasn’t it?”

“She hugs everyone.”

“Then what?”

Phoebe says, “The dishes.”

“What about them?”

“She let you do them. You volunteered for them. She likes that.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to do? Do the dishes?”

“Not just the dishes. She likes you.”

“I like sleep. I like warmth. Why are we out here again?”

“Stop whining.”

“Where are we going?”

“Just trust me.”

A long, gradual rise. We don’t speak. It’s a struggle in the snow, the cold air in our lungs. Toward the top Phoebe starts to run. She reaches the top ahead of me.

Phoebe says, “What d’ya think?”

There, laid out before us, is Boston, the city lights, the buildings, a plane in the distance on its approach to Logan. We’re standing close. I can feel her against me, hear her labored breathing from the sprint up the hill. I’m looking at her profile when she turns and looks at me, smiling.

Did she stand here with him? Her husband? Did she look at him like this?

Unless you are married, unless you are in a relationship, unless you are at the dentist, it is very rare to see another person’s face close up. Something happens in that small space. Fewer words, perhaps. A more fully realized understanding of the moment, of time, of vulnerability and fragility. Of breathing. You see them differently. When they do speak it’s in a slightly different voice. Quieter. Intimate. There have been a few moments like that—a party, out with friends at night at a crowded bar, once on our way downtown on the subway—when I’ve been this close to Phoebe. And they have unnerved me.

Now, here, in my mind, I wrap my arms around her waist, gently pull her toward me, feel her body through the layers. She puts her arms around my shoulders, her face so close to mine. I can smell the Carmex she put on her lips before we left the house. What a thing, what an impossible gift. She leans into me before I have the chance and kisses me on the mouth, gently at first, then more intensely, more forcefully.

“Phoeb,” I whisper.

“Hi.”

Except that’s not what happens. Only in my mind. I want to reach for her hand. I can’t seem to do it. My mind races forward to what if. What if she rejects me? What if it doesn’t work? What if the sun comes up and I want to run?

I’m looking at her and she’s looking at the skyline.

Phoebe says, “One beautiful thing.”

I say, “World peace.”

She says, “You’re a moron. C’mon. One beautiful thing.”

I say, “Your family.”

She turns and looks at me. “That’s a nice thing to say.”

“What about you?” I ask.

She looks out over Boston. “That you came up.”

It’s very cold. We stand there for a long time.

CAPTAIN UNDERPANTS

What a thing it is to live in New York City. To move here and not know a soul. A clean slate, a chance to walk away from the past and start anew.

Those first years were, for me, unlike anything I had ever known. The job paid very little. Most of my money went to rent. I’d often work late in part because they’d often order pizza or Chinese food and that meant dinner was free. On Thursday night the MoMA didn’t charge admission after 6 P.M. I read Here Is New York. I