WE RAN TO CATCH THE SUBWAY HEADING UPTOWN to Emerson and Andrew’s apartment, and I don’t want to talk about how hard it was getting my suitcase through Grand Central. Now I’m recovering in a seat tucked against the wall. The guy sitting next to me wears Ray-Ban sunglasses, black fingerless gloves, and a leather jacket. He’s reading a book in French and doesn’t seem to care that a panting girl and her ginormous luggage are invading his personal space.
If he were a character in my novel, he’d be like Judd Nelson in The Breakfast Club, but also valedictorian of his class. Quiet and full of secrets. All the girls at his high school make fun, but secretly lust after him. One girl in particular is obsessed with his fingernails peeking out of those gloves, because they’re always clean and polished.
This is a thing I do: turn real people into characters in whatever I’m writing. I draw a sketch of them, then jot down a few details. A name and where they live, what they do, what they want. Thought Worms that spring free from nowhere or everywhere.
The people-watching is one reason why I love riding the subway in New York. Also, I’m fascinated by how it can be loud and quiet at the same time. Outside the train, it sounds like universes are colliding and shattering, but here in the car almost nobody talks.
I check my phone. There’s a recent text from Mom.
What time are you coming home from the city?
This is sticky. I answer Staying overnight at Emerson’s, will text later because that’s all the information I have for her, and also for me.
OK, she replies, and if a pair of typed letters can look pissed off, these do. I don’t blame her. I’ve been gone four months and Mom was looking forward to some mom/daughter quality time, and here’s proof that I’m awful.
She also knows what a stupid idea this is. What am I going to do in Manhattan? I have almost no spending money left. I came back from Europe with twenty-four dollars and also some random currency from different countries. Coins that don’t feel the right weight, bills in strange colors, all with faces and names I don’t recognize (except Queen Elizabeth, duh). If I’m desperate, I’ll exchange them. But right now I just like to see them in my wallet because it feels like the rest of the world is waving to me.
I open up a photo album on my phone that has twenty-seven images in it. I remember when Jamie sent me each one, and where I was, and what I sent back in response. One picture is of a tree flush with bright red leaves, a clear blue sky backdrop. Another is a shot of two tip jars at a coffeehouse where one says “Invisibility” and one says “Flight,” and the Invisibility jar was winning.
Jamie never wrote anything with these photos and I’m glad because he didn’t need to.
I want to see him so badly I feel it at the base of my throat, like heartburn but more romantic. Number Four on my list is hanging there, ripe to be checked off. Oh, what the hell. Since I’m riding a subway train in my fleece penguin pajamas and basically can’t get any more pathetic today, I find his number in my phone and start typing.
Hi it’s Kendall. Hope you had a good Christmas. I’m back in town. Want to meet up?
SEND.
Of course, it might not actually send until I’m out of the subway, but the hard part’s over.
“Kendall!” barks Emerson above the din of the train. “Did you hear me? We’re getting off at the next stop!” He taps my elbow because he’s learned this is an important step in getting and keeping my attention.
“Got it,” I say. It wouldn’t be the first time I missed a stop on public transportation. So much noise outside me, so much noise inside me, you’d think the roar would be deafening, but actually, it’s the most soothing thing I’ve felt in days.
More suitcase trauma, and then we’re on the street.
Holy crap, I’m back in a city again.
It’s grown some magic since the last time I was here. Colors and brightness, sparkle and shine. It’s amazing what electric lights and holiday window decorations will do to a generic street corner. Two blocks and two flights of steps later, we’re at the apartment.
“Welcome,” says Andrew as he opens the door and I follow them inside.
A fluffy black cat jumps down from something and rushes over.
“Louis!” says Em as he drops his bag and scoops up the cat. “Daddy and Papa are home!”
The apartment is small and cluttered, but in a way that seems carefully planned. “Nice,” I say, looking around. “It’s all really nice.”
By nice, I mean, I want it. I want all of it.
“Want to see the guest room?” asks Andrew.
He leads me to a door, flashes me a big grin, and swings it open.
It’s a closet.
With a bed stuffed inside. And clothes hanging from the rods.
“Um,” I say.
“This is the whole reason we got this apartment,” says Andrew proudly.
Emerson comes over and examines my face. “She does not look impressed.”
“If she knew anything about the types of living space available to a pair of twenty-somethings like us, she would be,” Andrew says.
“I am impressed,” I say. “You’ve been talking about living together in Manhattan since five minutes after you met and now look, you’re doing it. You’re adults.”
“Well, that remains to be seen,” says Andrew, with a look over at Emerson, who’s now burying his face in the cat’s fur. “But we do like to pretend. And on that note, I have to change and get to the office.”
I pull my suitcase into the closet. There’s enough room for it to stand there at the end of the bed, but not to open it. Eh, I’ll make it work.
After I’ve dug out some actual clothes and gotten dressed, I find Emerson sitting on the couch in the living room, the cat asleep on his lap. Andrew’s gone.
“So,” says Em as I sit down next to him. “Go ahead and check your phone again.”
“Whatever do you mean?” I ask with a smile.
“You’ve been looking at your phone every sixty seconds. Who is he?”
“How do you know he’s a he?”
Emerson laughs. “Sister, I’ve known you were straight since before I knew I was gay.”
“His name is Jamie. I met him last summer. He’s friends with Ari’s boyfriend Camden.”
“Oh, one of those Dashwood kids you told me about.” Dashwood is the alternative private school Jamie attends. “Wait. He’s not the guy who crushed your heart when he said he only liked you as a friend?”
“I wouldn’t say crushed. Trampled a bit, maybe. It’s much better now.”
There’s more to the story but I can’t even think about it without wanting to puke, and since I don’t want to puke on Emerson’s cool beige couch, I’m not going to elaborate.
“So give me the details,” says Emerson. “I need to live vicariously.”
“When I was in Paris, I got an email from him out of the blue,” I begin. “It was a photo of a man leaning out a window, with his head in his hands. The picture had this total ‘I’m sorry’ vibe. So I emailed him a photo back, one I took of a little girl holding a balloon in the Tuileries Garden. We’ve sent a bunch of pics back and forth since then.”
Emerson raises his eyebrows. “Just photos?”
“Just photos. No text. No captions.”
Emerson leans back and runs his hand along Louis’s back. “That’s pretty hot.”
Yeah, it totally was. But now I want the words, and the sentences, and the paragraphs. I want everything.
Almost on cue, my phone dings.