to a girl I wish I could forget
do you wish you could forget me too?
We were in Times Square, on New Year’s Eve, on a mission.
Jayce orchestrated the plan: three days earlier, he’d gone to the Marriott Marquis in Times Square and convinced the front desk lady that he was an ‘avid fan’ of the Marriott hotel chain. He asked only for one simple souvenir: a deactivated room keycard. She suspected nothing. She gave him three.
An hour before the New Year, armed with these keycards, we pushed through an anticipatory crowd toward a police barricade on Broadway. It was a remarkably warm winter night, and the streets were packed. The roads surrounding our objective had been completely blocked off — nobody was getting in. Except, we hoped, us.
We strolled up to the policemen, dressed in our finest attire. There were six of us, including Jayce, Arthur, me… and you.
You were gorgeous, a whirlwind in a glittering green dress. Former valedictorian, gifted kid burnout. Covered in tats and addicted to Xanax, you recorded DJ sets and took Polaroid photos. Over the last few days, I’d learned about your family: how you lived under your sister’s Ivy League shadow. How your dad once pinned you down and hit you until you stopped struggling. How your mom just watched it happen. You were broken, like me. I thought you were beautiful.
But you were Arthur’s girl. Not that he particularly cared for you — he said you two weren’t serious. I hoped that was true.
The first set of cops told us to move along. We tried a different street. Rejected again. But at the third barricade, a policeman noticed the keycards in our hands, saw how we were dressed, heard Jayce loudly proclaim, “We must get to our hotel!” — and let us through. We were in.
Each year, thousands of suckers stand and wait for hours upon hours to watch the ball drop. They shit in diapers and piss in the street, penned in like pigs. Not us. We were young and bold and above the law. We strolled towards the plaza.
But before we could celebrate, we encountered another roadblock — literally. A second, unexpected blockade was just past the hotel, so our keycards were useless. We heard a great, collective cheer from just out of sight. Ten minutes until the New Year. There was no way through. It was over.
Jayce made a quick decision — he pointed at the Marriott Marquis. We flashed our phony keycards at security and made our way to the front desk.
“Is there a bar we can watch the ball drop?” Jayce asked. “A rooftop?”
“Well, there is,” said the front desk lady. “But it’s a private event.”
“Oh, we’ll just head to our rooms then,” Jayce grinned.
We took the elevator straight to the roof. Up top was a VIP dining area, guarded by bouncers, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows, a full panorama overlooking the bright billboards and flashing lights of Times Square. The tables were lined with champagne and platters of chilled oysters. Patrons wore their finest attire. We fit right in.
Jayce and I acted without thinking. We puffed up our chests, wore huge smiles… and walked right past the bouncer. Absolute confidence often goes unquestioned. It helps when you look the part.
But you and Arthur (and the others) weren’t so lucky. A moment of hesitation, I guess, and the bouncer stopped you.
“Tickets?” he asked.
I doubled back to the entrance and tried to wave you in.
“They’re with us,” I assured the bouncer. He inspected my arm.
“Where’s your wristband?” he inquired.
Fuck.
Now I was stuck outside of the party too, and I was pissed — I was in the promised land, and I’d screwed it up. Only five minutes until the New Year. My mind raced. Time slowed down.
I walk briskly back towards the elevator, thinking I cannot let the bouncer remember my face. By the elevator, I notice a door, slightly ajar. ‘Club Room’, reads the bronze placard. Nothing to lose. I go in.
Waitstaff are bustling around, carrying food and drink. Paintings adorn the walls, and well-dressed patrons wander about, chatting. Once again, I puff up my chest, wear a big smile, and walk through with confidence.
“Happy New Year!” I proclaim, nodding at other patrons.
“Happy New Year,” they nod back.
At the far end of the room, I push through a door… back into the crowd of buzzing partygoers by those great windows overlooking Times Square.
And with less than a minute to spare. The crowd starts to cheer. I look behind to see you and Arthur and the others spilling out into the party. Jayce runs up to us, and we’re all together again.
The countdown begins. We’re jumping. We’re screaming. The cheers reach a crescendo and confetti falls, bright red and endless, and you and I pass into the New Year enveloped in light and warmth, surrounded by friends, in the most unexpected and magical way.
Later on, you told me I was the best kisser of all my friends.
Here’s how you knew:
Later that night, we took molly at the club. Well, you and I did, and Arthur only pretended to swallow his pill. You sat between the two of us, glowing, and for a moment, everything felt right. Somewhere between the drinks and the molly, the lights and the laughing and the dancing, I fell in love.
We returned to Jayce’s Midtown apartment, where we were all staying, and Arthur passed out in one of the bedrooms — but you wanted to get physical. You tried shaking him awake, to no avail.
“If you don’t get up,” you threatened, “I’m going to make out with your friends.”
“Do it then,” he snapped, and rolled back over.
So you did. You came into the other bedroom, where the boys were hanging out, and announced your intentions. You started with me — my New Year’s kiss. Then you moved on to the others, one by one. You finished with Jayce.
But that wasn’t the end of it. You were still high off the molly and desperate to be touched. “Give me some action,” you begged. “Anyone. Just give me some action.”
“You should fuck Danny,” Jayce laughed. You looked at me. I looked away, disgusted.
I couldn’t believe it. I’d liked you so much. How could you have been such a whore?
No one touched you that night — you were still Arthur’s girl. The next morning, you said you didn’t remember anything.
But the damage was done: Arthur heard what happened, and he was through with you. When we went out drinking the next night, he made that clear by chatting up every pretty Latina in the club.
I’d gotten sick of watching you watch him all night, so I left early and went back to Jayce’s. I lay alone in bed, scrolling my phone in the dark. An hour later, you came back and slipped under the sheets with me.
“Wanna fuck?” You mumbled.
“Well… kinda.” I admitted. “How much did you drink?”
“Not too much,” you said. “But I took two bars.”
I froze. “Are you going to remember this?”
“Probably not.”
I took a moment to process that. You pressed your warm body against me.
“Do you even like me?” I asked, half-hoping.
“Honestly…” you muttered, “Not really.”
Pain and pride defeated desire. I got out of bed and slept on the couch.
Two days later, you fucked Jayce. You stayed in his apartment, and you fucked him after the rest of us had flown out of NYC. You accused him of stealing your panties. You texted me the details.
And that’s how we started talking.
