the only living boy in new york.

       “Oh, right.” Arizona nodded, completely forgetting about the event. It was etched in the back of her mind with all the other history from high school. She offered an amused grin, leaning back against the cart seat. “If we weren’t so beat, I bet I’d get you to dance it.”

Nate nearly laughed, but he supposed it was a sweet sentiment. “Not much of a dancer,” he stated. “I doubt that I could do it even if it wasn’t two in the morning.” He looked around, tapping his fingers against his knee as he forced himself awake. “Not that it’s any of my business,” he began again, “but, uh, you looked a little distressed when you got on.”

      She sat and listened. The genre was something completely unknowing to her. A soft grin fell on her tired expression. “That actually sounds pretty nice, though strange that some bars still play it.” Arizona said, tilting her head at the idea. “How do you dance to it?”

“They do in Harlem because it was incredibly popular there back in the day. Harlem Renaissance and all that.” Normally Nate would’ve gone on, but something about this night had sapped his energy completely. When she asked about dancing, he thought for a moment. “Charleston,” he said confidently. “They do the Charleston.”

                                                    Victoria rolled her eyes. Internally, she found herself amused at his comment, the way he twisted her words and threw them back at her. It was, in all honesty, hilarious.  ❛   – it’s not a phone call,  ❜  she made a point of clarifying, using her thumbprint to unlock her cell and scroll through the message. Without looking up, she continued… ❛   – and I highly doubt Starbucks has a designated room for cellular conversation, but whatever.  ❜  Having fully read the message, some ridiculous theory about the wolf found at the ANHM, Victoria looked up, and smiled sweetly. 

Nate’s expression remained flat as her phone continued to make noise. “Sounded like a phone call to me,” he said pointedly, shrugging even when presented with the evidence otherwise. Whoever the woman was, she looked important, and Nate loved nothing more than getting on the nerves of New Yorkers who considered themselves important. “No, but they do have literally any other space where you can conduct your business that’s not in front of the straws. Can’t imagine what would be so important that somebody needs to send you that many messages.”

Ramsey usually walked everywhere when she could. She had other ways to get around, but she never picked any other way until today. She was late to get somewhere and felt as though she had to at least make an attempt as she got n the train only to realize it seemed rather empty aside from a familiar face. “ It’s my teacher on tricksters” Ramsey joked as she looked over. “ You look tired” 

Nate’s face cracked into a half-smile when he recognized his new train companion. Thank God it’s not a serial killer, he thought. “Oh, hello, girl who hangs out in alleys and attracts raccoon trickster spirits,” he said. He was surprised she’d even recognized him given how dark their first meeting had been. He supposed he must’ve looked much older under the harsh train lights. “I’m exhausted. It’s after two, to be fair. You don’t look tired at all, though.”

       Stranger and stranger. The girl crossed her arms, seeming more comfortable when barriers were set up. The cart moved, shaking ever so slightly over old railways. She shot a strange look at the mention of Dixieland jazz. “Come on, that can’t be a thing.” Arizona retorted. “What does that even sound like? The crushed dreams of George W.?”

Nate cocked one eyebrow above the other, wondering how it was possible she hadn’t heard of Dixieland jazz. His teaching instinct took over much quicker, however, and he sat up. “Dixieland was like a precursor to big band jazz,” he said. “It’s mostly early 20s-style music before big band really took over. Takes a lot of inspiration from ragtime and slave spirituals. It’s really very underrated.” 

It wasn’t a face CJ expected to see again because what were acquaintances made in bars except exactly that. Perfect strangers really but you never did know who the city would let you run into next. Still, however serious she may have appeared, she could still appreciate humor of being stuck on the subway at 2am after being stuck in a bar with the very same person around the same time. “Still running from your problems?” She said, recalling their first and last conversation briefly as she took the seat opposite Nathaniel, looking at it him expectantly, as if awaiting an answer that didn’t really matter. He either was or he wasn’t and that was that.

The vaguely familiar voice made Nate pop his eyes open. His face broke into a grin when he recognized his new riding companion. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he mused. “God, this city is amazing, isn’t it? Nearly nine million people here, and you always somehow end up running into the same damn person.” Something about the fact that she remembered the topic of their conversation made Nate happy. Whether or not she was humoring him was still up for debate, but it made him grin nonetheless. “Oh, absolutely. You know me, I can’t help but run from something. What about you? Our tendency to meet at lonely places late at night doesn’t make you look any different.”

      Arizona squinted in his direction, not quite sure what to make of his comment. The way he barely looked at her made the conversation seem even stranger. A laugh bubbled past her lips. She wasn’t sure if it was from the mere exhaustion or the comment from the older man. Regardless, she was unexpectedly enjoying herself for a late night ride with an odd stranger. “I had a fun interview with John Oliver. Not quite as charming as he appears to be on television.” She rolled her eyes. “What about you, hm?”

He supposed she’d said it to sound impressive, but Nate had never had much of an affinity for celebrities. In terms of their pop culture relevance, he saw their value, but there wasn’t much beyond that he found particularly interesting. “John Oliver,” he repeated. “I guess you could call that fun.” At her comment about his not being as charming in person, he shrugged. “Well, they always say ‘never meet your heroes.’ They’ll always disappoint you.” She turned it around on him, and he didn’t have much to say. “There’s a pub I like in Harlem that plays Dixieland jazz. So I was drinking. By myself. Heard some great music, though.”

      “I should’ve assumed that before moving here.” Arizona took a seat across from the man. He seemed more exhausted than she felt. She almost persisted the conversation, though her phone was itching in her hands. It almost demanded to be looked at, as if Paden would send an update this late at night. He was probably already asleep. She clicked her phone, but nothing important revealed itself. With a glance forward, Arizona sighed before speaking again. “You look like hell.”

The train car finally screeched forward, but he had quite a few stops before they plunged below 14th Street. Wondering if it would be worth it to try to sleep, he ultimately decided against it as he didn’t know how much he could trust the woman across from him to wake him up should some terrible accident befall them. When she commented on his appearance, he eked one eye open again, searching for her in the harsh subway light. “Thanks,” he said lightly. “I wasn’t sure, but I’m glad you gave me the confirmation. It’s been a hell of a couple days.” His eyes drifted shut once more, but the comment had woken him up a bit. “You don’t look like you won the lottery today either.”

       It wasn’t normal for the woman to be alone at such an hour. She was normally at home, bracing to lay in bed until the early hours of the morning without a wink of exhaustion. Her insomnia wasn’t the reason she was out. No, not quite. She was forced to attend an interview with a late night show host. In return, Caiden was spending the night at her ex’s house. The boy was a bit too excited to go for her liking, but it wasn’t as if she could explain her disdain for his father. Instead, she remained quiet. He eventually would find out on his own terms. Strapped in a tightly wound suit, Arizona walked into the train hoping to be alone. The click of her heels hit against the pavement as the disgruntled man merely stared at her. She offered a quick look, not quite sure how to assess the situation. Should she speak?

                     “I don’t want to sound rude, but - I was hoping to be alone.”

Nate’s eyes had opened just wide enough to assess the incoming occupant. Deciding that she didn’t seem threatening, he closed them again. Being on the train this late in Manhattan was never an incredibly safe excursion, so he at least had to make sure he wasn’t sharing a train alone with Jeffrey Dahmer. The woman looked annoyed to say the least, and once her eyes fell upon Nate, the look did not improve. At her admission of wanting to be alone, Nate chuckled, closing his eyes once more. “Well, that makes two of us. I guess neither of us is getting what we want.” He thought that if the bar behind his bed got any cooler on his neck, he would have to change positions, and that irritated him even further. “I suppose solitude is a luxury here.”

                                   Victoria stared. It wasn’t necessarily a glare, but it certainly didn’t come with a smile. For a brief moment, she considered simply ignoring him, but while she had the potential to be a complete and total bitch… she just wasn’t feeling it today. Stress, it seemed, made her soft… for once. Stepping aside, Victoria made just enough room for him to take what he wanted, though she couldn’t help but snipe as her phone chimed, yet again, and she huffed, irritably.  ❛   – there’s another station by the door with a full container of straws… – for future reference.  ❜ 

Nate wasn’t much intimidated by the woman’s glare. People glared at him all the time. The fact of the matter was that he knew there was another station, but he liked this one. And he didn’t like when people hogged it. As she made the comment, Nate looked between her and her constantly-chiming phone and said flatly, “There’s another room for making phone calls. For future reference.” 

“So you’d have to be some kind of charismatic god? You learn something new every day.” A noise of realization made its way from the young woman, smiling at her own words. “I guess I should stay away from your classes then, or we might have to start taking these conversations seriously. What’s your name? Just so I can make sure to tell my advisor to blacklist it.”

“Charismatic god is a first.” Nate couldn’t help but chuckle. What a ridiculous thought that was - if he had been a god, he wouldn’t have done anything except rearrange the veins in the face to make them more resistant to alcohol and less prone to aging. The lines around his eyes didn’t do his constantly tired-looking face any favors. He half-smiled at her. “Nate Venderetti, but I suppose it’d be Dr. Venderetti for you. And I hate to tell you, but if you haven’t taken Modern America: From Reconstruction to Generation Y yet, I’m the only one teaching it this semester.”

When he finally diverted his attention towards her, the magpie was surprised that he would offer to leave so soon, claiming that she looked tired. Full lips threatened to purse and form a pout that would rival any spoiled child but the socialite smiled instead, forming a tight-lipped one that eased into something sweet and yielding.

“That’s very sweet of you, dear,“ she replied tenderly, though she looked at Nathan in displeasure for a moment. Sophia wanted to stay longer, even if it was distasteful. She didn’t care that she was in mourning, she thrived in these gatherings, the vapid nature of it all amused her and as she nodded and placed a hand on the professor’s arm, she took one last look at the diamond ring on Mrs. William’s finger.

She’ll just have to fly later to retrieve it, she thought as she bid each of them farewell. Mrs. Williams was relentless and reminded both Nate and Sophia that the gathering was for a luncheon and afternoon tea. She nodded and tightened her hold on the man as they made their exit.

“I wanted to dance,“ she told him quietly as they made their way to retrieve her coat, “and I don’t look tired,“ she argued, her vanity taking front and centre that evening.

Nate watched Sophia bid each of her equally vapid friends adieu, contemplating what exactly he was going to say to her when he got her alone. He didn’t want to force her to leave, after all, if she really didn’t want to, but he wanted to talk to her. He wanted to explain himself to her, make her understand he didn’t want to upset her. He wanted to do the exact opposite of that. 

When they reached the coat closet, the valet smiled at the couple and asked if he could retrieve their belongings for them. Nate waved him off, however, saying he’d rather do it himself. With Sophia still on his arm, the pair moved past him into the privacy of the coat closet, shutting the door behind them without worrying about what the valet thought. The light was dim, but the room was surprisingly spacious. He supposed he shouldn’t have been all that impressed; it was an internationally famous museum after all, and the rich who had paid for it wouldn’t dare to leave their things in anything that wasn’t as pretty as the belongings themselves. 

He heard Sophia say that she wanted to dance, and he almost responded that he would leave her alone to do just that but stopped himself before any words leapt forth. In the low light, he could make out the curve of her lips, the swirls at the end of her hair that fascinated him so intensely. “I know,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry, I just...”

He trailed off. Suddenly he realized how silly he was being. He shouldn’t have drunk so much, shouldn’t have even spoken to her when he saw her. What could they possibly know of each other’s worlds? That had always been his problem; he never knew how to leave well enough alone. Moments in time couldn’t simply be moments, there one minute and gone the next. It was the reason he loved history so much. In history, nothing ever died, no time ever passed. He loved it because it, like he, couldn’t let things go. 

Being alone with her without a plan was as exhilarating as it was terrifying. He stepped forward a little bit, deciding perhaps words were not the best course of action. He cupped one of her cheeks in the palm of his hand and leaned down, and when she didn’t pull away, he ever-so-gently touched his lips to hers. 

The sound of his voice in her ear made the woman pause, the intimate gesture catching her off guard. She turned to face him, placing a hand to caress his face as she dismissed the invitation. “What’s the matter my dear? We can discuss it later when you take me home,” she assured him in an equally low tone.

Sophia’s action was flirtatious as she tackled her new role. He was her lover for that evening, the professor having thrown himself in the middle of things and for her to deny and make an excuse would just make the others more curious. The show of affection was welcomed and Mrs. Williams eagerly tried to include him in their circle by asking Nathaniel if he were to join them for a more private gathering a couple of days from now.

The magpie knew what Mrs. Williams was doing, the old hag hoped that by engaging the professor in conversation, that her lover would be welcomed too. But the boy was an idiot, as beautiful as he was, and their age gap proved too vast that she was often asked if the boy was her son. Sophia looked at her as though she was an insect, though she continued to jealously eye the blue diamond on the old woman’s finger. Was this her future? Living alone and taking in boys more than half her age as lovers, hoping that by some miracle it’ll push back the dread and pain of old age? She thought of the Martell boys and how much more salacious it would appear had they caught her with the young Catalan shapeshifters; she was in a precarious situation and Sophia needed to balance everything.

“His work doesn’t afford him the luxury we have of lounging around in our designer gowns,” she began, “He simply can’t attend every party he’s been invited to,“ she reminded the group. He was, after all, a professor, a man of intellect who poured hours upon hours on textbooks,  “but, if Mr. Venderetti could honor us with his presence, it would be most appreciated.” She didn’t know much about him, most of the stories shared were of his professional career and so she was at a disadvantage for the moment.

The symphony played a lively concerto that perfectly described the madness that was currently happening as their eagerness to know more about the male, his pedigree, the money he had and everything else came piling up. Who were his parents, what business did they have, was he married and how come they’ve never seen him in the other galas, did he play any sports and where did he spend his summers, was it the Hamptons or did he have a house in Tuscany like Sophia and why history and not art or music or philosophy.

Her closeness made Nate’s throat tight in an old, familiar way. In the glow of the evening, he’d become too preoccupied with the way the light made the loose strands of her hair glow golden to realize that he had been reeled into something of which he’d rather stay separate. Calling him her ‘dear’ only made the illusion seem stronger, but he didn’t really mind. He blinked confusedly at her insistence that he would be taking her home later, but he didn’t argue. Why would he? He liked looking down at her; he liked the gentle touch of her fingers along his arm; he liked it all a little too much. He even smiled at her when she said it, blissfully unaware. 

His beautiful illusion was broken when the older woman, who he believed she’d introduced as Mrs. Williams, stepped forward to invite him to some social event or other. For a moment, he saw a flash of sourness behind Sophia’s eyes, but she replaced it with mirth just as quickly. Before Nate could even open his mouth, she had replied for him, assuring them that he was far too busy to engage in their type of lounging.

In truth, she wasn’t lying. The semester was approaching, and he only had one syllabus completed. The lazy summer days were getting the best of him. His therapist had told him this was a good thing, however. He wondered how that could be, as lethargy often accompanied depression, but according to the older man, his own brand of depression came with hyperactivity. He shut himself off and went into autopilot, not thinking or feeling beyond what he needed to do for his day to day tasks. His longing to let the summer linger a little longer meant he was feeling something after all. 

His presence, though, had prompted a thousand questions. Where was he from? “Ohio, actually. Just outside of Columbus. Taught at Ohio State right after I graduated.” They asked about his parents, but nothing of note could be reported there. No, he wasn’t married - divorced, actually. That seemed to spark their interest like moths and flames but he had no desire to talk about that, especially in front of Sophia, especially if he was to be taking her home later. He fielded the rest of the questions as best he could, smiling surprisedly when they asked why he’d chosen history. “History is the story of all of us,” he replied simply. “There’s no subject more important.”

The barrage of questions had tired him unexpectedly. He turned to Sophia. “You look tired, dear,” he said, making sure it was loud enough for the others to hear. “Why don’t I grab your coat and take you home?”