I FEEL impulsive and reach for my phone, hitting the call button at the first name under Contacts. Drunk dialing is a little bit like Russian Roulette. Nine times out of ten, no one picks up. After all, these calls usually happen late or on the weekend. But this is a weeknight and it is still early. On the other end, there’s an answer.

IT’S HER last night in Brooklyn and she has yet to set foot in a single establishment of note in the two months she’s lived here. With three jobs and plenty of friends in Manhattan, Jules never parties down the block from home. Instead, she hops on the train and heads toward the part of the city tourists think about when they hear “Big Apple”. Across the bridge, she downs drinks and flirts with dawn, the train schedule on the back of her mind. Somehow, she always returns to Brooklyn before the morning.

Sunrise usually finds her sobering up and dozing off in a quiet, still Park Slope bedroom, while street chatter and zipping cabs continue on in another world just a water’s width away. But after tonight, she won’t be back here, at least not as a resident. Tomorrow, Jules will be packing her clothes into the trunk of a friend’s car and driving over a hundred blocks north to her new apartment at 118th on the east side.

When I learn just how little she’s seen of her own neighborhood, I decide that this is something that must be amended immediately.

“This is what we’re going to do,” I tell her on my way out of work. “I am coming to Brooklyn — god knows I won’t have a better reason to be in Park Slope until motherhood — and we are going to go to one restaurant and one bar, and that will comprise your Brooklyn experience.”

It is an eleventh hour try at redeeming the past eight weeks of flight from a neighborhood she will probably see little of from now on. But that is precisely why we need to do it.

IT ALWAYS surprises me when the F train lurches above ground as it moves deeper and deeper into Brooklyn. From afar, the skyscrapers and water seem eerily removed, as if they are imagined destinations and not within less than an hour’s reach. This part of the ride reminds me of my favorite moment on the Boston subway: when the Red Line train rises over the Charles River and offers a brief and blissful view of the water that lasts just the length of the journey past Charles-MGH. Every Monday during fall semester, I caught this sight twice over on my commute to an internship downtown. Every day this summer, Jules has glimpsed its New York twin.

I get off at 7th Avenue. We opt for a Thai restaurant just footsteps from the train station, our decision mostly resting on its cocktail menu. She orders a Long Island; I get a lychee-flavored martini. To our amusement, my fried rice is shaped like a Star of David. It is also unexpectedly spicy. After just a few bites in, my eyes begin to water.

“Jesus,” I sniff, not ironically. “I don’t know how I’m going to finish this.”

Across the table, Jules laughs at my dramatic deep breaths. Her safe, though bland, selection of pad thai suddenly doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. I take a large gulp of water and ask our waitress for a side of white rice.

“I just lost hearing in my right ear. Is this an allergic reaction?” I ask my giggling friend.

I am being ridiculous as per usual but I’m not entirely joking. I sniff again and blink back tears. With genuine concern punctuating her laugh, Jules suggests that we go for post-dinner ice cream.

We wind up in a liquor store instead. After I miraculously (and painfully) finished my meal, we downed the last of our drinks and decided to go bar-hopping, only to discover that the Park Slope crowd is neither young nor college-friendly. The establishment we walk into is not like any store I’ve been in before. There is a thick pane of glass between us and the shelves of alcohol. I can only assume that the strange barrier is a preemptive measure against theft. And here I thought we were in the Pleasantville of Brooklyn.

In front of the dread-locked cashier is a sign that says “Cash Only”. I wonder if anyone actually walks in with enough green to purchase several of the bulkier bottles. Jules and I can’t decide what to buy so we finally settle on what we drank the last time we were together: a miniature bottle of Skyy, enough for four shots each.

On the way home, we pick up a pack of cigarettes. We’re already feeling good — the drinks during dinner have hit us — when I spot on the lowest shelf of a corner deli the bottle of Welch’s White Grape Juice I’ve searched three stores for. Fuck bars. This is all we need.

“MMPH,” she murmurs, handing her emptied glass to me. “Get another.”

Jules and I are in her apartment, determined to turn our unfruitful search for a bar into a nonetheless entertaining evening. I’ve been mixing drinks for half an hour, but this time, when I reach for the bottle, it’s empty. I’m slightly taken aback though I know perfectly well where the alcohol must have gone.

“Jules, I have to tell you something,” I say.

She returns my grave expression with a quizzical look. “Okay,” she says.

“You have to promise me you’re not going to freak out.”

“I promise.”

I pause dramatically before I lean in and tell her, “There’s no more vodka left. We finished the bottle.”

“What!”

She is incredulous. I pick up the bottle and flip it over to demonstrate the severity of the circumstances. Jules screams and covers her face, bursting into giggles.

“Holy shit,” she says. I can’t help but laugh too. It’s not even the alcohol, though I’m starting to feel tipsy. The entire situation is comical.

“Oh my god, Jules. In about 15 minutes, it is going to hit us. Hard. We are going to die in 15 minutes. What do we do? What do we do to prepare for this?”

Jules can barely respond. She is on the floor laughing with the box of cigarettes pressed against her lips. A few minutes later, we discover the bottle of juice uncapped and we embark on a frantic search around the room for the top.

“We need to find it while we’re still sober!” she says.

We are stumbling.

AFTER the fifth or sixth cigarette, I get up from the stoop. Before I am even halfway upright, I stumble backward. The open night air feels like it is throbbing, pulling me to the floor. It’s been over 15 minutes and I’ve overestimated my sobriety. This was what I was telling Jules about earlier — “dying”, or rather losing all feeling and emotion. I am numb. Every part of me is numb.

She pulls me up and I clutch her hand hard while spreading open my arms for balance. It is a warm evening with the occasional cool breeze and I am clad in her clothes: a pair of boxers and a green t-shirt I’d never buy for myself. Unsteadily, the two of us circle her block, walking arm in arm, cigarettes in hand. We are having a full-fledged conversation, but I know that it’s the kind we’ll forget about the second there’s a pause. Each step is heavy, heavy like our intoxication, and my feet land in thuds against the pavement.

The smoke and the scent of Jules’ clothes on me make for a heady combination. Her voice has a lulling effect. But everything does when you’re drunk. My fingertips are raw from lighting multiple matches, most of them burning out too quickly to be of use. After we strike the last of them, Jules and I light up by pressing the tips of our cigarettes together in a sort of kiss. I suck hard on mine and exhale slowly. It burns my throat. It almost smells sweet. And suddenly, it occurs to me that I don’t know what it is I’m drunk on, if it’s the alcohol or the company or the city or the weather.

Jules flicks her cigarette and an ash lands right on the web between my index and thumb.
“Fuck!”

I flinch. The unexpected pain pulls me right out of my thoughts. Maybe I’m not so numb after all.

By the time we walk up to her doorstep for the second time, our tongues are dense with tobacco and we are so heavy in our drunkenness that we have to pull ourselves up the stairs by the railing. When we get inside her room, we collapse into bed, one after the other, abrupt and indelicate, as if weighed down by lead.

I’m worried that I won’t wake up for work in the morning, but Jules shoves a vibrating alarm under my pillow and assures me that if it’ll wake up someone with ADD, there’s no way I could accidentally sleep in. I shut my eyes and wonder how soundly I’ll sleep tonight. Her sheets feel cool and crisp against my skin. Our nightcap is doing the opposite of its intended purpose and the more I try to calm my mind, the more thoughts simmer to the surface. I think back to the conversation I had earlier as I sipped my white grape cocktail and made phone calls on impulse.

“Listen,” I said. “This is important. This is really important.”

“Okay, I’m listening.”

“I need you to do something for me, okay?”

“Depends on what it is.”

“You’re going to be in New York a while, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, I’m going back to school in September. But Jules is still going to be here.”

Out of the corner of my eye, Jules perked up at the mention of her name.

“All by herself,” I continued. “And you have to promise that you’re going to watch out for her. Can you please do that for me?”

“Of course.”

Even in the darkness, in my darkness beneath my eyelids, everything is spinning. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over this feeling, this nothing.

IN THE morning, I wake to the pulsating device beneath my pillow. I groan. Turning over makes me dizzy. Sitting up makes me dizzy. My throat is thick, my voice husky and ragged. Beside me, Jules sighs deep as my movements stir her from her slumber. I have an hour to get to work in SoHo.

After a shower and a change of clothes (out of hers and into mine), I drag Jules out of bed for breakfast. At less than six bucks and under half an hour, it is possibly the most satisfying meal I’ve had in New York yet. I know that there’s no one else I’d rather share it with.

“Brooklyn is beautiful,” Jules comments wistfully as she walks me to the train station.

There is a tinge of regret in her voice, perhaps because we both know the ride to suburbia is too long for either of us to come back here very often. But for now, we revel in its charms. It feels like the neighborhood is just waking up, and I am pleased by the subdued activity. I take in the sunlit awnings, the sidewalks, the quiet, and I wonder when I was last somewhere that felt as suburban, that felt as much like a home as a place could in a city.

“Brooklyn is beautiful,” I tell her in agreement.

I pause a beat and turn my head to Jules. “Let’s never come back.”

She looks me right in the eye and grins. Her skin, pale and pink, is glowing against the sun.

“Never,” she says.

I can’t remember the last time I was infatuated with someone. Well, that’s an exaggeration. I can remember, but it was months ago and it turned out disastrously. I don’t miss infatuation one bit. It’s an attachment as unhealthy as nicotine. What I do miss, however, is feeling sparks. It’s been so long since I’ve met a guy who induces pre-date anxiety, first kiss bliss, and the kind of euphoria more suited to cinema than real life.

Not that immediate chemistry is something that’s happened to me often. For the most part, my post-high school relationships (largely short-term) have been spark-less and have occurred accidentally. That is, I ended up dating someone I wasn’t too keen on upon first encounter. Even my attraction to Summer Guy, a person I eventually fell in love with, was very much a gradual development. Unexciting as that is, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it. After all, romantic relationships evolve, change, and deepen as much as platonic ones and friendships are rarely immediate.

Still, there is a palpable difference when you meet someone who you instantly hit it off with. My first meetings with both Kyle (in the autumn) and Riley (in the spring) left significant impressions. I was growing discontent with all things Harvard, the people included, and they were breaths of fresh air during periods of time when I would’ve liked nothing more than to leave school. In their own ways, they were the opposites of everyone in my life, and I could’ve talked to either of them all night.

And that is the movie version of romance, the kind written about and marketed to us, the connection people crave despite the overwhelming odds against its common existence. But then again, perhaps that’s what makes it so special and sought-after. It is rare to find someone who you can forge an instant understanding with. The few times that it does happen, it sets the bar remarkably high for the future and as much as common sense testifies to its rarity, it’s what we search for.

As far as sparks go, they’ve only happened a handful of times in the past year and only with Riley was it romantic. I struck up a great rapport with Kyle, had an instant girl crush on Jules, and felt unparalleled professional chemistry with my summer employer. And I don’t know if I really want sparks of the romantic variety at all. Without them, this summer has been incredibly freeing, if only because a crush hasn’t hijacked my every waking thought. In New York, I’ve gone out on a lot of unspectacular first dates and had a lot of good but not earth-shattering hookups. The person who occupies most of my thoughts is in fact Jules. She is the only one in this city I expect phone calls from or meals with. It is nice to not have a guy to miss or pine after. When they’re around, they’re a perk. But when they’re not, I have my girl.

So I guess there is a fear that I’ll eventually meet someone with whom there is that rare spark, who I cannot push into the corner of my mind after the bill is paid or the end credits played. How worth it is it to trade complacency for the possibility of whirlwind love? When it comes to risk versus caution, I usually err on the side of the former but I’m beginning to see the benefits of playing it safe. The popular notion of love at first date is not only overrated but hardly an indication of a successful future. In fact, I sometimes wonder if instant chemistry is actually a warning sign. Riley, after all, felt like puppy love and high school all over again and look how well that turned out. Is infatuation in the beginning an indication of a nuclear ending? If so, maybe I should eschew immediate sparks for a slow burn instead.

Yesterday, my friend Jess Haralson wrote on her blog:

I was on the phone talking to my slacker, calls-in-a-blue-moon, recovering-drug-addict-dad. He remembered my birthday (which isn’t today, but soon).

I walked into Bucks County Coffee continuing our conversation. As the cashier rang up a Diet Coke, I said (with genuine feeling):

“Thank you for remembering my birthday, Dad.”

The cashier BUSTED OUT LAUGHING.

“What’s so funny?”

“You have to thank your Dad for remembering your birthday?”

I had no idea it was considered abnormal for a parent not to remember your birthday. I mean, my Dad… he loves me, God help him, but he’s not exactly the most attentive or mature parent.

Am I going crazy? Wow, perspective can fuck with your head sometimes. I guess I’d never thank my Mom just for remembering my birthday, but I would thank her if she got me a present. Hmmm.

I can relate. I can more than relate. I didn’t even realize that my own father had forgotten about my birthday until I read this. And I don’t know which is more hilariously tragic: the fact that he forgot or that I forgot he forgot.

It isn’t as if my insanely well-attended, well-lubricated party on Saturday erased the realization that Monday was my actual 20th birthday and I should be expecting some form of communication from those not in attendance. All day, I fielded text messages, calls, and emails from California and waited for a phone call from my family … by which I mean my mother. She didn’t call until 10pm EST when I was already out in Union Square. On her coast, it was only 7pm, so I suppose it was still a reasonable hour to ring in. But even if it slipped her mind, I would’ve forgiven her. She was on a trip to San Francisco then; and besides, she had already wished me a happy birthday two days before.

My father, on the other hand, didn’t even cross my mind. He and I don’t speak regularly — maybe monthly at best, and that’s during financial aid season. But we manage to see each other at least annually and I always call him on Father’s Day, which is the last time we spoke this year. It’s almost an excuse — almost. Because really, if not for a holiday, what other reason do I have for calling? I know next to nothing about what his life is like, other than the day-to-day going-ons of his job. I don’t know where in the city he lives. I don’t know if he’s happy. I don’t worry, though. I don’t worry at all. I think he is, if nothing else, fine.

And that must be what he thinks of my life as well. That I am, without him, fine and that his absence makes no difference. To some extent, this is true. I miss my mother, dearly. I don’t miss my father. I can’t remember the last time I did, or if I ever did. I don’t yearn for him though I do yearn for my mother, nor do I intensely miss San Francisco (his current residence) though it is my birthplace. What does this mean, then? That home is a concept I associate with Los Angeles and the woman I still call “mommy”? That there is little significance to the person or the place around which the first decade of my existence revolved around?

Something else disappointing. My father was in good — well, plentiful — company on Monday. There were only two guys who called if you discount my close friends. One was someone I went on a date with a week ago. The other was CeCe’s new boyfriend, someone I met at Dartmouth in June. The latter particularly really amused me. None of my ex-boyfriends bothered to remember even though my best friend’s boyfriend did (and gave me flowers at my party to boot). Even Summer Guy, who has a remarkable knack for drunk dialing me at least twice monthly, missed Monday, though he called the next day. But besides him, no one. I marvel at the men in my life and their ironic penchant for letting me down without fail. But I guess it is something I’ve gotten used to.

I want this.

On sale for $360, the price is certainly nice. But I promised myself I wouldn’t buy any more Kate Spade after the Wellesley Quinn, which was like my fifth purchase. Also, I already own a white Kate Spade and right now, it’s holding my postcard correspondence … clearly, I don’t need more purses. But still. I want.

The party Saturday night was pretty fantastic. And today, not only am I officially 20 — bye bye adolescence — but my website is also celebrating its one-year anniversary.

Also, subject line of newest email received: “If you die. Love continues. Protect your family.” Jesus. I’m not quite that old.

When midnight struck last night, I was in bed watching a Sex and the City episode with a dozing Jules by my side. It’s been a long, long weekend with a lengthy recovery to boot.

Today, activities will be low-key. Jules is getting her hair colored. I’m stopping by a gathering on the Lower East Side. We might embark on a manhunt, but really, that’s a bit ambitious considering our collective fatigue at the moment.

As Elizabeth Wurtzel wrote in Prozac Nation: “I am so tired. I am twenty and I am already exhausted.” But this is a good kind of tired, a better kind of tired than I’ve experienced in a very long time. It’s been a pretty crazy 365 days but also a definite improvement on Year 18. What could the road to 21 possibly look like after this?