About twenty minutes later, I knock on Lainey’s door, but there’s no answer. I remember her saying that she would leave the door unlocked and to just let myself in, so I test the doorknob, and sure enough, the handle turns easily, so I let myself in. “Hello?” I call out, with just my head through the door hopeful that I’d not misunderstood something.

“Hey!” Lainey calls from the direction of the bedroom. “I’ll be right out. Make yourself comfortable.”

I step carefully into her apartment and see that it’s nothing like my place. Her windows feature a commanding view of the lake. Where the furnishings in my apartment are nice, they’re also very neutral and, well, corporate-like. Lainey’s sofa is bright chartreuse flanked by a magenta sling chair and an overstuffed orange armchair. The coffee table is actually an old window and sash with the white paint all weathered and worn and a sheet of glass on top to make the surface flat. The area rug in the space is a super fluffy white piece, and I can’t imagine how she keeps it clean or doesn’t lose things in its plushness.

In the corner, I spot an easel, and next to it, a table with paints, brushes, and a glass jar of water. I step carefully to peek at the canvas on the easel wondering if she’s okay that I look at what she’s clearly working on.

What I see is startling, and it makes my mind stutter and recalculate what is on the canvas. I stare at it for a moment, or four, to figure it all out.

“It’s one in an abstract series of six,” Lainey says, startling me slightly as she joins me in the living room.

“It’s really amazing,” I say taking in what looks like a lemon, except it’s purple, on a green background

Lainey pulls five other canvases out from a ‘bookcase’ of sorts—instead of horizontal shelves, there are several vertical dividers, many holding canvases—and leans them against the wall. “I call the series ‘Off the Wall,’” she explains.

I carefully look at all six canvases and am drawn into all of them. While the fruit is exceptionally realistic looking, the colors are all wrong, or ‘off,’ yet with the collection all together, they inexplicably look right. The other fruits are a sky apple, an orange bunch of grapes, a red banana, a turquoise orange, and yellow strawberries with seeds.

“You’re an artist,” I say lamely, in awe that anyone actually has the time to have such a creative job.

She tells me about the rest of the paintings for a show she’s putting together which will be at some gallery later in the month—oddly colored faces and landscapes are already at the gallery. I can’t wait to see the show.

When our talk turns to my interests and books, I tell her about my collection of classics. When I mention Pride and Prejudice, she starts talking about some TV or movie version. I’m lost because I haven’t seen it. I have no idea who the actors are she’s talking about other than vague name recognition.

“Wait!” she says suddenly startled. “This weekend… Sunday! Season five of Making a Male Model! I can’t wait to see all the yummy men! Not that I would trade Lance for any one of them, but a girl can look, right?

“Um, I don’t watch it?” I say, worried about her response that I don’t watch the TV show.

“You’re a smart girl. It’s a total waste of time, but sooo addictive! I love watching the guys act like bitches and all their catfights and pissing contests. What are your favorite shows?”

I shake my head slowly and say, “I don’t really watch much TV these days.” I’m too ashamed to tell her that we only have three channels on our crappy TV back home, and without cable, even those three don’t come in clearly, especially after the antenna blew off the place a few years back. “But back in high school, I used to watch Gossip Girl at my friend’s house. We graduated in 2012, and she got busy with college, and we missed the last season.”

“Wait. What? You’ve not seen the last season of Gossip Girl? Do you know who Gossip Girl is?” she asks, eyes wide with disbelief. Heather and I, likely along with the rest of the world, wondered who the narrative voice of the Gossip Girl was… the omnipotent character, exposing the dirty laundry of everyone on the show all over the internet. We would be certain it was Blair in one episode only to be convinced it was Jennifer or Dan or Nate or Serena or even Chuck in the next.

I shake my head again.

“Park it,” Lainey commands me. She grabs the remote control and presses some buttons. In just about a minute, she has some ‘streaming service’ delivering the sixth season of Gossip Girl to the screen. I feel so out of touch with her fancy TV and services, but at the same time, Lainey is open and warm, and I can’t help but like her and feel comfortable. We spend the afternoon curled up on the sofa in front of her massive TV, at least twice as big as the one back home, and even bigger than the one in my apartment, eating popcorn and watching Serena van der Woodsen, Blair Waldorf, ‘Lonely Boy’ Dan Humfrey, Chuck Bass, and, my favorite, Nate Archibald as their lives unfold in New York. I’ve never binge-watched anything before and find streaming TV to be the most wonderful invention of all time. No commercials. No waiting a week for the next episode. And you can rewind the show if you miss something. I wonder if my neighbor, Mrs. Sager, had streaming TV, but I don’t really think so.

Three hours and four episodes later, our marathon is interrupted by a buzz on her house phone to the doorman downstairs. Not for the first time, I’m struck that I live in a place with a phone that has a direct line to the man who opens the door for me to where I live.

Lainey glances at her phone and seeing the time and says, “Oh! That’ll be Lance!” and leaps off the sofa. “My boyfriend,” she explains, then answers the phone and tells Benjamin to let Lance up.

“Well, this was great. Thanks so much for having me over,” I say as I head to the door. “And sharing your Netflix.”

“No! Don’t go! Stay. Some of my friends are coming over. You should meet them. We were just going to hang out and get some delivery.”

“Um. Sure. Okay. Thanks,” I manage, stunned that I’d not only met a great neighbor like Lainey today but also that she is pulling me into her fold. “I’m going to go to the bathroom quickly, first,” I say and head off to the bathroom.

Just as I’m finishing up, I hear Lainey squeal. I practically rush out of the bathroom alarmed that Lainey is in distress and that she was wrong—that it wasn’t her boyfriend.

I’m relieved to see Lainey looks as happy as can be in the arms of a tall, very muscular, very black man. The sight startles me. This must be Lance, the boyfriend, because Lainey looks so happy. But what surprises me is that he’s not white. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a mixed couple before. I knew a handful of black people in Harton, but none ‘with’ white people. Lainey cups the man’s face lovingly in her hands and kisses him tenderly, then not so tenderly.

I start to walk back into the bathroom to give the two some privacy, but a floorboard under my foot creaks announcing my presence.

Lainey looks over and grins. “Talia!” she says, grinning as she wiggles out of Lance’s arms. She grabs his hand and leads him over to me. “This is Lance Bertrand. Lance, my new neighbor, Talia Jameson.” Hearing my ‘name’ from someone else’s mouth sounds so foreign yet worldly and full of promise at the same time.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Talia,” Lance says, with a thick accent I guess to be French—having never met an actual French person, only heard on TV. He extends his hand to shake mine. I shake his hand and smile at his strong hand, yet gentle nature.

“Lance is from France,” Bingo! “and one of Chicago’s premier dancers. I’ll keep his other talents to myself!” Lainey says, looking at Lance dreamily.

“You’re from France?” I ask, hoping to hide my blush from Lainey’s overt comment.

“Oui. I came to the States three years ago from Lyon.”

“He’s a dancer with the Chicago Ballet. It’s how he has all these great muscles,” she sighs and runs her hands unabashedly over his arms and chest then across his abs.

Lance rolls his eyes, and his face breaks out into a grin showcasing his brilliant smile. “You are too much for my ego, Lainey.”

Next to arrive are Millie and Trent. I thought they were a couple at first, but they were quick to set me straight. Trent, a tall and lanky man with hair down to his shoulders in a casual way and really deep brown eyes, went to art school with Lainey, but unlike Lainey, who stuck to paint and canvas, Trent worked in mixed media combining paint, pencil, and scraps of things literally glued to the canvas, and he also “dabbles in clay,” he says.

“‘Dabbles in clay, my ass,” Lainey snorts. “See that piece up there? On the shelf to the left?” she asks me. I look and see a captivating, swirling cage-like sculpture painted a riot of bright, shiny colors.

“You made that?” I ask, impressed at the work. “It’s incredible. Like it should be in a museum or something.”

Trent clears his throat modestly and says, “Thank you.”

Next Lainey introduces me to Millie, who by contrast, has a cute, super-short haircut. Her hair is a shockingly bright blonde, or at least colored that way, and she has huge, nearly violet eyes, the kind I wished my eyes were instead of the palest of pales that stare back at me when I look in the mirror. The crazy amount of teasing I’d gotten from classmates insisting that I was soulless, not only due to my reddish hair, but my nearly see-through eyes sealed the deal. Millie’s facial expressions are very ‘actory.’ Turns out, she is not only an actress but also a dancer and singer. She’s currently starring in a performance of 42nd Street. “Again, Lainey’s exaggerating. I’m not starring. I’m just one of the chorus girls,” Millie explains.

“And understudy for Peggy… the lead,” Lainey spells out.

The ‘house phone’ rings again, and this time it’s Cara, a journalist for an Internet media company on her way up. Followed by Nina, who is in her final year at Le Cordon Bleu Culinary School. Nina had originally been in art school with Lainey and Trent but felt that her “true art calling was in actual food instead of still life,” Lainey explains dramatically.

Soon enough, everyone is sipping on craft beers that Lance brought, and I have a Diet Coke. An order is placed for some Thai food from a place Cara just wrote about for her blog. Having never eaten Thai food, I only hope I like it. Trent fires up a streaming music station through Lainey’s TV, and everyone just hangs out. I’m hearing stories about the members of this tight-knit group, and I feel very welcomed—even if I feel like I have yet to adopt ‘Talia Jameson’ as myself. I learn that I’m the youngest of the group by a couple of years, but no one seems to mind. The next close in age to me are Millie, who is twenty-six, Lance turned twenty-seven last month, and Lainey, Nina, and Cara are all twenty-eight. I am surprised to learn that Lainey is older than her boyfriend.

This get-together isn’t completely unlike the parties in Harton, except the guys and girls alike are stylishly dressed, and no one seems to stress about money, except for Nina who is nervous about spending five hundred dollars on a particular pan she needs for her final cooking project. And more interesting is that everyone is drinking, but no one is getting smashed. Every party back home, guys and girls alike were chugging beer and slamming back shots. And, of course, there was my mother. Here, everyone is just laid back and casual.

“So, Talia,” Lainey says. “Where did you say you were from again?”

Oh boy. Here it is. I take a breath, collect my thoughts and say, “I’m from a tiny town in southern Illinois. You probably never heard of it. Population 6,238,” I say. “Well, 6,237, now,” I amend with a chuckle. Thankfully, the others laugh with me. “I needed a change of scenery. I got some money from an old uncle and decided Chicago would be a great place for a fresh start.” Uncle Sam, I think wryly to myself, a half-truth Rose and I concocted. Telling people I won the lottery makes me uncomfortable, to say the least, and was a long shot that, for me, paid off. The ‘uncle’ fib sounded more reasonable and hopefully would invite fewer questions.

“Nice uncle,” Nina says.

“I thought you were here for work?” Lainey inquires. “The unit she’s in is a corporate rental,” she explains to the others.

“Nope,” I explain. “I just needed a furnished place for the time being because, well, I don’t have any furniture. And I wanted to get to know the city before deciding on a place in the wrong part of town.”

“Love it. Smart move,” Cara, the journalist, says.

“What did he do? Your uncle,” Trent asks.

“Oh, um. He was in investments of some sort,” I fib, continuing the half-truth. The government did use the lottery monies to invest in education.

“Sweet,” Trent says.

And like that, the attention is off of me as Trent dives into talking about an uncle of his. Following his story, others chime in with their family dramas, although I keep quiet not sharing much other than sympathetic comments when warranted, but no one seems to mind.

Over the next week, I spend a lot of time with Lainey and her friends.

On Friday, Lainey takes it upon herself to be my private tour guide showing me parts of the city that tour buses don’t bring you to like small art studios and bistros hidden in quiet, unexpected corners. We find flea markets and watch street performers. Friday night, Trent drags the gang, of which now I’m apparently a part of, to a sports bar to investigate a particular bartender there that he’s interested in. To my surprise—a guy. Trent didn’t fit my thoughts on what a gay man was like. Then again, I don’t think I knew any gay men back in Harton.

Saturday is a flurry of shopping, where I spend nothing, and stopping for a bite here and there. So many foods completely new to me like Asian-Latin fusion and Ethiopian. Fortunately, my stomach handled all the new flavors and spices.

On Sunday afternoon, Lainey and I take in a Chicago Ballet performance featuring Lance, to a packed house. Only Lainey knows someone and is able to get us into a pair of seats that went unclaimed at the last minute.

Monday afternoon, Nina invites Lainey, Millie, and me to her apartment as she runs a practice menu for her one part of her final exam meal to earn her Cordon Bleu diploma. The food is delicious even if I can’t pronounce most of it.

Tuesday, Lainey and Trent bring me to the gallery where Lainey’s art show is going to be held in a couple of weeks. She shows me her canvases while Trent and the gallery owner, Richard, go over the final details about how to best display the collections.

“Why is Trent talking to the manager about your art displays? I mean, why aren’t you talking to him?”

“Trent is so much better at getting people to do things, especially when the guy thinks he has a shot with Trent.”

I look over at the men, and indeed, Richard is flirting with Trent and hanging on his every word, nodding and agreeing with all of Trent’s ideas.

“I tried talking to Richard two weeks ago, and he just wasn’t getting my vision. It wouldn’t take much to do, what I’m asking, but he was trying to take the easy way out. So, I brought in the heavy.” She shrugs as if to say ‘There was simply no other way.’

There’s only a hint of ‘cheekiness’ in that movement. She’s a very cunning person. If I’d only had her confidence and whatnot years ago. I hope to learn from her.

Wednesday, Millie, who has the day off, and I go to the Natural History Museum. Coincidentally, her mother works there as a tour guide. As we’re walking around, Millie gives me behind-the-scenes stories her mother has shared with her.

“So, what’s your job again?” Millie asks.

“I need to buckle down and find something, I guess,” I tell her. “So, for now, I’m unemployed. The other day I asked about openings or volunteering at the library, but it seems kind of a long shot.” Truthfully, I’m hesitant to apply anywhere and divulge my real name, and risk the connection to my winnings, but I don’t see myself being someone who sits around all day long doing nothing. “I also want to look into going back and getting a college degree. I kinda dropped the ball after high school, and my small break is now seven years in.”

“That was my dad’s fear, that if I were to take a ‘gap year,’ I’d never go back. He wasn’t thrilled that I went to school for theatre, but I have a degree, and I’m actually a working actor, so it all worked out. What do you want to go to school for?”

“I don’t know. I love books, so I was thinking something related to libraries or an English degree, maybe be a writer?”

“You should talk to Cara! Or my brother has his English degree. He teaches high school in the burbs. If you want to talk to him about his job, just say the word. I’ll connect you two.”

“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

“And if you like law, my dad is a lawyer. For some reason, I thought you were going to say you were interested in going to law school.”

“Me? Law?” I ask, thrown by how she would come across that conclusion. Images of the sleaze-ball lawyers my brother has worked with zip through my mind, and I’m almost horrified.

“I dunno,” she says thoughtfully. “You sit back and watch things happen and are careful with what you say. And when you speak, you sound smart. Reminds me of my dad. He’s a civil rights attorney. He usually handles a lot of constitutional law cases, but lately he’s been taking up more cases where companies are violating LGBT rights.”

I think about what she says and am more than flattered. Law. Not the ambulance-and-criminal-chasing kind, but a lawyer who is trying to make a difference in the world.

“His office usually has internships over the summer. I can get you an interview if you’d like,” she adds. “Most of the positions have been filled, but sometimes people flake out in the first couple of weeks.”

“I’m really going to think about that. Thank you, Millie.”

“Not at all. It’s what friends do,” she says with a shrug and smile.