The Favorites by Rosemary Hennigan

Author:Rosemary Hennigan [Hennigan, Rosemary]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-09-06T16:14:36+00:00

Chapter 20

The city was on edge, the air charged, and in the eyes of the strangers we passed, I saw suspicion, and I saw fear. Crossing the river together, we walked down Walnut Street, where a man in a MAGA hat was roaring about victory, and another man told him to shut the fuck up from the other side of the road. They were advancing toward each other, shouts growing angrier, when Crane tugged urgently on my arm.

“Let’s go this way,” he said, standing slightly in front of me, as if ready to protect me. My mind flashed to his wife. Where was she tonight?

I had been careful not to drink too much, and this caution was now paying dividends. Briefly, I wondered if this was how predators felt, walking next to their prey, with a belly full of ill intent and a heart of darkness.

We stepped into a liquor store on the corner of Walnut and 23rd. Every bar was blaring election coverage, and neither of us could stomach watching the advancing decline of the American republic live on a television screen. So, instead, we purchased a bottle of bourbon and shared it as we roamed the streets, past the shuttered shops, past apartments and town houses, past churches and parks. My head felt light with the knowledge that we were doing something we shouldn’t. Professor and student, overstepping the line dividing us into our publicly recognized roles.

Crane was animated, telling stories of his time as a student at Yale. The culture wars that had been waging since then, the decades of rancor, seemed only a prelude now. I let him talk, listening, as he wanted me to, and answering when prompted. Outside City Hall, the mood was strained. Across the road, an argument was starting among a group of people outside a bar, voices elevated, tensions rising. We heard a glass smash, then shouting.

“I think it’s time to call it a night,” Crane said, his hand on his head. He was swaying slightly. “We should get you home.”

“Not yet,” I said, feeling opportunity beginning to wane. My hand gripped his upper arm, pulling him into the central island on Broad Street, between the two lanes of traffic stopped at the lights on either side of us. Behind us, City Hall rose in all its baroque glory, its tower topped by the upright figure of William Penn, gazing out toward the Delaware River. “We need to remember this night,” I said, removing my phone from my pocket.

As I took the selfie, I leaned my cheek right in against his. A time-stamped, geolocated photograph would put us at this time, this place, together. I don’t think he had awareness in the moment, of why that might not be a good thing for him. He seemed to have forgotten our relative positions in life, our disparate status. This didn’t entirely shock me. Hadn’t he done it all before?

He studied his phone as he took another swig of the bourbon. “He’s ahead

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