Zelda
November 30th
The dream came as it always did, in slices of memory. Shifting visions that jumped through time quickly, dragging me toward one moment.
Where’s your sister?
The yellow tile of the supermarket floor. Shelves of soup, rows of cans with blue, red and brown labels.
My mother’s voice again, the question that would haunt us for six months until the police told us exactly where she was…
Where’s your sister?
My fourteen-year-old eyes saw Rosemary at the end of the next aisle over.
The man leading my little sister away by the hand.
Her look back over her shoulder.
Her little face, uncertain and nervous.
And my helpless stare back.
Always in the dream, I was helpless.
I tried to call out but my voice was gone. I tried to move, but my legs were lead. It wasn’t until they were outside, rounding a corner, out of sight, that I was freed from the invisible, paralyzing bonds.
I tore after them, as I had in real life.
Screams ripped out of my throat, like they had ten years ago.
And in the dream, like then, I was too late.
The van screeched away and I was too slow or scared (or young, everyone tried to tell me) to stop it.
Rosemary was gone.
I woke with a cry tearing out of my throat, my body drenched in sweat. I blinked at my surroundings, gasping for breath, my eyes wide.
The hostel! My mind was screaming, as if to preserve itself. You’re in the hostel in New York, not there! Not in that day!
A great sob strangled my gasps until I swallowed it down and gulped air. And as I always did when this nightmare gripped me, I calmed myself by reimagining the outcome. I sketched it out in my mind’s eye, in jagged black and white.
I was strong, not a small fourteen-year old girl. I had a baseball bat. Or a knife. Or a gun. My sister looked over her shoulder. Uncertain at first, then her face morphed to relief. Because I was there. I tapped her abductor’s shoulder, the asshole who’d conned a little girl to come with him. When he turned, it was his face that twisted with uncertainty. And then fear.
And then pain.
Ten years’ worth of pain. Mine. My father’s. And especially my mother’s.
I closed my eyes and breathed through it, like how they tell women who are in labor to do. Breathe through the pain. Wait until it unclenches its claws and lets go. Relax into the relief. Try not to dwell on the next wave coming. Knowing it’s coming.
I closed my eyes and breathed that hot fire of my rage away. When the memories subsided, I tossed off the covers and moved to the window. I filled my gaze with the city. Grey hard edges, stark vertical lines even the sun couldn’t soften. New York was mean. Cold and indifferent. It didn’t have the familiarity of Philadelphia, or the remote security of Vegas. This city rising up outside my window didn’t care if I lived or died, stayed or went, succeeded or failed.
Come at me, it whispered. Or go back. It’s all the same to me.
But not to me. My graphic novel was for my mother. I wanted—I needed the world to witness my mother’s rage. I hadn’t saved my sister. My art was the only thing I could do for her.
“I’m not leaving,” I said quietly, the words floating in a bubble above my head, precisely inked in black and white.
Something inside me clicked into place, and I turned my focus to how to make this impossible situation a reality.
If I used my Vegas rent money and the bus fare I’d planned to get back, I had $400 to put toward a place to live, and $300 to live off until I got a job. I opened my laptop and searched for rental listings for people needing a roommate.
I called a few places that sounded halfway decent and was told my $400 deposit wasn’t going to cut it. Not even close. The not-so-decent places were eager to take my money but set off every instinctual alarm I had. Others weren’t so bad but the apartments were at the far edges of Queens or the Bronx. They may as well have been on the moon. The day’s hours slid away as I searched.
At around one p.m. it occurred to me I hadn’t eaten anything and regretted giving last night’s leftovers away.
To Beckett.
The only person I knew in the city.
You don’t know him, I told myself. You know nothing about him.
But that wasn’t exactly true, I realized. I knew a lot of things about him. He was okay to talk to. He was a smartass and kind of cold-shoulder-y, but so was I. I didn’t feel itchy or uncomfortable in his presence. He didn’t ring my instinctual alarms. He gave money to homeless people when he was short himself. He worked two jobs, one of which required him to get up at the crack of dawn five days a week to bike around Manhattan. He kept leftover Italian food for a friend, and took strange women a borough away from where he lived, to make sure they got home safely.
He’s a decent guy, I thought. And he was short on rent.
I grabbed the garbage bag full of my stuff, my portfolio and laptop, and headed downstairs. The manager was there, behind his glass wall. I returned the key and checked out, praying I wouldn’t be back that night.
I had some time to kill, so I bought a gyro and a lemonade off of a street vendor, and spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the city, trying to familiarize myself with the subway, the buses, the different landmarks. But if this crazy-ass plan worked, Manhattan wouldn’t be the borough I’d need to know.
I shivered in my pea coat as the sun began to drop and thick gray clouds settled over the city. A cold wind whistled and rain—almost sleet—began to fall. I ducked into a Starbucks, stretching a cup of coffee over the hours and wondering if I were crazy. Wondering if my plan, like my graphic novel, was doomed for rejection.
At twenty to seven, I stepped back onto the street. I turned into the cold wind that sliced my face like little knives, and started making my way back to Giovanni’s.
The little bistro was dead. The storm must be keeping people at home. Last night, Beckett told me he needed good tips from this shift to make his rent. I’d done enough waitressing in high school to know it wasn’t going to happen. The wait staff wasn’t going to make eighty bucks, never mind the busser.
But I can fix that.
I scanned the dimness for him, a tangle of nerves twisting in my gut. At the bar, the manager was talking to the bartender. They both smiled politely as I approached.
“Hi,” I said, hurriedly tucking the garbage bag between my legs and the bar. “Is Beckett working tonight?”
Please say yes. Please say yes. Please—
“He sure is,” the manager said. “He comes on at seven. Normally it’s five but I had a feeling it was going to be quiet tonight. You a friend of his?”
“Sort of,” I said, easing a sigh of relief. “I don’t want to get him in trouble or anything. Just wanted to talk when he had a break.”
The manager smiled brightly. “Beckett’s never been late to work. I can give him a few minutes with a sort of friend.”
I smiled faintly and the manager went to greet a couple who had braved the storm to come inside.
The bartender, a middle aged man with graying hair, and a tie and vest over his white shirt jerked his chin at me. He looked like an extra in a Sinatra film. All old world grace and charm. “Get you something, miss?”
“Just a Coke, please.”
The same waitress who’d waited on me the night before—big hair, big hoop earrings—sidled up to the bar.
“Christ, it’s dead as a tomb in here,” she said. “Three vodka martinis, Vince. Two for my customers and one for me to make this shift worthwhile.” She shot me a wink.
“Nice try, Darlene,” Vince muttered, setting the soda in front of me. While he poured vodka—for two—into a shaker, I turned to the waitress.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” she said. “I got nothing but time.”
“Have you worked with Beckett long?”
A smile broke over her face instantly. “About a year, every Friday and Saturday night. It’s torture.”
“Torture?”
She cocked a fist on her hip and leaned on the bar. “Have you seen him? He’s a beautiful specimen of masculine hotness, and I’ve been trying to take him home with me forever. I have to settle for him being my best friend.”
I smiled into my Coke. “I was wondering more about his character.”
Darlene stared at me blankly.
“I mean, what’s he like?” I said.
“Girl, he’s the best. A truly good guy, and God knows there’s not enough of those. At least not in my vicinity.”
Vince set two perfect martinis on Darlene’s tray. “You’re breaking my heart, Dar.”
She snorted. “You’ve been married since before I was born, old man.” She jerked her thumb at me. “She’s asking about our Becks. Tell her, Vince.”
“He’d give you the shirt off his back even if it was the only one he had.”
Encouraging, I thought, trying not to let my hopes fly too high.
“What’s with all the questions, anyway?” Darlene asked, her friendly demeanor turning suspicious. “He’s not in trouble, is he?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” No plausible white lies came to me, so I shrugged and said with a grin, “I guess I’m trying to go home with him too.”
“Ha! Thatta girl,” Darlene said with a salacious wink. She hefted her tray, and leaned in to me. “Good luck, honey. I’ll be cheering for you. Or being really freakin’ jealous, one of the two.”
I sipped my soda and stuffed my face with the free bread Vince set before me, and waited for Beckett. He showed up at exactly six-fifty and hit the floor at seven on the dot. He went right to work, tub in hand, bending his tall form over a table to clear away the remnants of someone’s dinner.
I steeled myself and slipped off my stool to approach him.
“Hey,” I said.
Beckett glanced over his shoulder once. Then twice. The dark blue of his eyes lit up for a moment. Then he frowned and went back to work.
“What are you doing here? Is the ziti that hard to resist?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“I just came on. I won’t have a break until nine.”
“Yeah, but it’s dead in here,” I said. “And it’s important.”
Beckett finished the table and straightened up. He hesitated, glancing at the manager, who was chatting with Vince behind the bar.
“Give me a sec,” Beckett said. He jerked his chin toward a table for two in the back corner. “I’ll meet you there.”
I nodded and took a seat. The candle flickered in its cup. Darlene came by and removed the second place-setting. She was recommending the pasta fagioli soup when Beckett slid into the chair opposite.
“Hey, Dar,” he said, his smile and tone both casual and affectionate.
“Hello, dar-ling,” she cooed at him before sidling off and shooting me a knowing smile.
“I only have five minutes,” he said.
“I ordered soup,” I blurted.
Beckett’s dark brows—darker than his blonde hair—furrowed. “Congratulations?”
I shook my head, the heat rising in my face. “I meant, I didn’t know if you wanted anything too. I could order you something?”
His frown deepened. “I’m working. In theory. Why are you still in the city? I thought you had to go back to Vegas.”
“I did. I was going to. But I don’t want to.”
I took a sip from my soda as my mouth had gone dry. Beckett was looking at me like I was an alien life form, and a hostile one at that. This is never going to work, I thought and then wondered if I wanted it to. Maybe he was an asshole. Maybe Darlene and Vince were wrong. Maybe my own first impressions of him were off. I had a pretty good track record following my gut instincts when it came to people, but maybe this time they’d failed me like every other part of this disastrous trip.
But louder than any impression of Beckett, instincts told me that I needed to stay in NYC. There was nothing left for me in Vegas and Philly was too painful. My graphic novel was good. It could sell. I just needed the time to fix it. The surety of that conviction calmed my nerves.
I folded my hands on the table and leaned in. “I have a proposition for you.”
Beckett leaned back. “Okay.”
“I want to be your roommate.”
His eyes flared wide, and I saw his Adam’s apple bob above the collar of his dress shirt.
“You want to be roommates,” he said, his voice strangely low.
“Nothing permanent or long-term,” I said. “You won’t be stuck with me for a year or anything. A month or two at the most, until I get settled. Then I’m out of your hair forever.”
He stared at me for a long minute, blinked and then gave a short, disbelieving snort of laughter. “You want to be my roommate,” he said again.
“Yes.”
“In my four-hundred square foot studio.”
“Well, yes…”
“You won’t have any privacy. I won’t have any privacy.”
“I’ll do my best to stay out of your way.”
Beckett was silent for a moment, his eyes full of thoughts. Then he said, “Sorry to disappoint but I don’t want or need a roommate.”
“But you need the money, right?”
He crossed his arms over his chest “Well, shit, I’m so thrilled I told you that personal stuff last night so you could use it against me tonight.”
“I’m more desperate than you are, trust me,” I said. “My shitty situation got a hell of a lot worse since last we spoke. My idiotic roommates in Vegas rented my room out from under me.” I reached under the table for the trash bag. “Behold. The sum-total of my worldly belongings.”
Beckett’s eyes darted to the bag and I saw the softening again, for half a second, and then gone. I tucked the bag back between my feet.
“I’m not saying this to pressure you,” I continued. “I’m saying we’re both screwed, right? We can help each other out. This is how.”
Beckett drummed his fingers on the table, then he shook his head as if shaking off an unwanted thought.
“You don’t know me,” he said in a quiet voice. “At all.”
“I know some. I asked about you—”
“You asked about me?” His voice raised as he leaned over the table. “Who?”
I leaned back. “Vince. And Darlene.”
Right on cue, Darlene came back with my soup. “Here you are, hon.”
“She ask you about me?” Beckett said to her.
“She sure did.” Darlene reached to pinch his cheek. “I told her you were the perfect specimen of masculine hotness.”
I inwardly groaned as Beckett’s face went red. “No,” I said, heat rising to my own cheeks in embarrassment. “Tell him the other thing you said.”
Darlene heaved a sigh. “Oh. Right. I said you were one of the truly good men left in the world. One of the best.” She leaned toward me conspiratorially. “He tries to keep it a secret but he’s super bad at it.”
She winked at Beckett, who stared at her as she retreated.
I tried to hide a smile behind a sip of soda. “It’s not the same as a background check, but Vince said the same thing. More or less.”
“Uh huh.” Beckett leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression flat. “And what else did your background check turn up? Please, enlighten me.”
I sighed and pushed my drink away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry into your life. But I’m a girl, you’re a guy…” I shrugged. “The stakes are higher for girls in strange cities, okay?”
“And what about the stakes for me? Who do I call for references before I let a total stranger live in my space? Maybe your idiotic roommates in Vegas?”
“You’re right,” I said. “No, you’re totally right. Do you have a pen?”
He blinked and then huffed a short laugh. “A pen? Sure, why not?” He fished around in his busser half-apron and fished out a ballpoint.
I dragged a cocktail napkin toward me and wrote down a name and number, slid it back across the table.
Beckett picked up the napkin. “Theo Fletcher.”
“My old boss at the tattoo shop I worked at in Vegas. He can vouch for me.”
Beckett watched me for a minute then tossed the napkin down and rubbed his eyes. “Look, Zelda, I’m sorry shit fell apart for you here, but living with me… It’s not the solution.”
I clenched my hands into fists under the table. “It’s the only solution I have, and it helps both of us. You told me to try again, remember?”
“When?”
“Last night. I said I’d tried and failed, and you said, try again. So here I am, trying again.” I leaned forward. “I can’t stay at that hostel. It’s loud and unsafe, and I need to be able to work on my novel. I need to fix it so I can try again. I know if I leave this city, I won’t come back. Not for a long time. I’m on the verge of something, I can feel it. I just need a little bit of time and you need the money.” I bit my lip. “Don’t you?”
“Forget what Darlene said, Zelda.” Beckett’s voice was heavy now. “It’s my parole officer you should’ve talked to.”
I sat back in my chair. “Your parole officer?”
Beckett took in my shock with his lips pressed together in a tight smile of resigned bitterness. He rose from the table. “Nice talking to you. I gotta get back—”
“Wait,” I cried. “Just…wait. Please.”
Beckett hesitated, then sank back down. I didn’t know what to say or how to ask the next question. He tapped his fingers on the table as my soup grew cold between us.
Finally, he said, “Armed robbery.”
“Armed robbery,” I say. “So…you had a gun.”
“Yes,” he said, his stare cold. “I had a gun. And a mask. Like the bad guy in a movie.”
I didn’t know what to say, afraid any more questions would just make this story worse, and send me back to Vegas.
“Okay.”
“Is it?” Beckett shifted in his seat, his words dripping with sarcasm. “Is it okay that I robbed a brownstone in the Upper East Side with three other guys? And that the owners—a married couple—came home early and surprised us? And we sure as shit surprised them right back. In fact, we surprised them so badly with our guns and our masks, that the man dropped dead of a heart attack.”
My stomach plummeted and I felt all the bread I’d eaten sit in my gut like a lump of cement. “He died?”
“Sure did,” Beckett said. “We weren’t charged with murder or manslaughter, though the DA certainly tried. Mr. Johannsen had a history of high cholesterol, a previous episode of angina, yadda yadda, so we got lucky in that respect.”
The bitterness was thick and it was obvious to me that Beckett didn’t consider himself lucky by any stretch.
“So I helped rob a place, accidentally killed a man, and served two years in prison. How does that sound? Am I still ideal roommate material?”
I laughed weakly. “I’ve seen worse on Craigslist.”
Beckett stared.
“Sorry,” I said. “I make bad jokes at the worst times.”
“A joke,” Beckett said. “So nothing of what I said bothers you? My criminal record? The fact I killed a man?”
“You didn’t,” I said. “The man died, but you didn’t kill him. Not like premeditated murder. It was bad timing. You didn’t intend—”
“It doesn’t matter what I intended,” Beckett said. “It’s what happened. The man is dead and if we hadn’t been there to steal from him, he wouldn’t be. End of story.”
“But you feel bad about it,” I said, like a person scrabbling over the edge of a cliff. “It’s not like—”
Beckett’s stare turned icy. “I feel bad about it? I feel…” His words were lost in a tangle of disbelief, and I knew I’d blown it even before he said, “This conversation is over.”
He got to his feet, and this time I didn’t call him back. I sat at the table alone, my soup untouched. Defeated.
Maybe this is for the best, I thought. Armed robbery is bad. Two years in prison is bad. He’s a total stranger; I was stupid to think this would work.
Except that Beckett didn’t seem any more or less dangerous than any stranger I’d tried to rent a room from that day. And it was obvious he regretted his crime. The pain in his eyes when he’d spoken about it was bright and glassy. I’d see that look before, in every mirror I’d ever looked into. I recognized the weight of guilt hanging around his neck, because I wore it too.
Maybe that’s why I felt safe around him instead of fearful for what he’d done.
Or maybe you’re so desperate to stay in the city, you’d throw caution down the toilet to shack up with a felon.
Maybes didn’t matter. Beckett wasn’t interested and clearly this was the universe warning me away from making yet another terrible decision.
Darlene came back with a to-go container for my soup, her mouth turned down into a pout. “No luck, either huh?” She clucked her tongue. “Such a shame. But good on you for trying.”
“Yeah, I tried,” I muttered.
Tried again. Failed again.
I glanced up at her. “Do you know about…his past?”
“You mean that he did time? Of course. He’s my best friend. And it’s sort of how we met. The boss here works with the DOC. He likes to hire parolees. Give them a fresh start.” She tucked a lock of brown hair behind her ear, shrugged while her gaze fell to her shoes. “Like me.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” Darlene slipped into the chair across from me. “I got some stuff to work out with drugs, okay? But Becks… He’s not messed up. He has a heart of gold, I promise.” She lowered her voice. “He had a bad situation, you know? Desperate. So he did something stupid but he regrets it. Every minute.”
She looked over my shoulder.
“I think we’re closing up now. The boss mentioned he might, since the storm is so bad. His wife gets nervous about the power going out.” Darlene stood and waved a hand. “Anyway. Come around again, yeah? Don’t let that big dummy push you away too.”
I wanted to tell her it was too late, but there was no point. I wasn’t going to see her again. I grabbed my portfolio, my to-go bag with the soup, and headed for the front door.
I slipped out of the bistro, head down, ready to get the last of this hopeless trip over with.
Outside, the rain was coming down in silver sheets, the drops exploding on the street. I fished in my trash bag-style luggage for my red and white fold-up umbrella.
The bistro door opened behind me, and some of the staff of Giovanni’s crowded out, hunching under hoods and opening umbrellas.
“The boss is closing early, just like I said,” Darlene shouted, holding the collar of her coat over her head. “Not like we had customers anyway.” She smiled brightly at me in the rain, and now that I was looking for it, I could see the toll drugs had taken on her. It was written across her brown eyes and seeping out, to ring them in shadows.
I wasn’t a spontaneous hugger, but I found myself throwing my arms around Darlene and giving her a squeeze.
“Oh,” she said. “Okay.” And she hugged me back.
“You take care,” I said, letting go.
“I will, thanks. You too!”
She hurried off, and it was sort of heartbreaking how happy she was that a strange girl had hugged her.
I busied myself with opening my umbrella just as Beckett emerged, his bike on his shoulder. He shot me a glance as he set it down between us, and pulled the hood of his jacket over his head.
“You’re going to get drenched,” I said dully.
“I’m good,” he replied, though I noticed he eyed the street with a sigh of resignation.
“Your station is my station, right?” I said.
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
I opened my umbrella and moved closer to him. I struggled to put the umbrella over both of us. He was so damn tall, I could hardly reach.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“God, you’re a beanstalk,” I muttered. “I’m giving my arm a cramp trying to reach you from all the way down here. Here.” I handed him the umbrella. “I’ll take the bike, you cover us.”
Beckett took the umbrella I shoved in his hands, and I didn’t miss the small smile on his lips as I took the handlebars and started walking, keeping the bike between us. He held the umbrella high, shielding us from the worst of the storm.
While the rain was driving down hard, the wind had abated. We weren’t blasted from all sides, but the sound of the water pelting my umbrella was loud and relentless. We speed-walked through the dark and empty streets to the Astor Station. Beckett handed me back my umbrella and carried his bike down the stairs.
A handful of sodden people waited for trains on two sides, their umbrellas or coats making puddles all around them.
“Thanks for the cover,” Beckett said.
“No problem,” I said. “So…see you. Or not, I guess.”
“Yeah,” he said heavily. “See you.”
We parted at the bottom of the stairs, me to the inbound platform, him to the outbound on the other side of the tracks. I watched from my side as Beckett walked his bike to wait for his train that was just now screeching into the station. The train stopped, obscuring him from view. Cutting him off from me.
So that’s it then.
My legs felt strangely hollow and I started toward a round cement bench on my side to sit and wait for the train that would take me back to the hostel, to Vegas, to the life I had instead of the life I wanted.
The Brooklyn-bound train on the other side pulled out of the station.
Beckett was still there.
My breath jumped in my throat and I froze, unable to do anything but watch him take his bike and come around to my platform. He sat down beside me on the circular bench, bicycle resting against his knees, sort of half-turned away from me.
After a moment, he said, “The gun wasn’t loaded.”
“Okay,” I said.
“My buddy gave it me before the break-in. I told him I didn’t need or want it, but he said it was for insurance. To scare anyone off who tried to stop us.” His eyes grew heavy with memories. “It worked.”
“Okay.”
“Loaded or not, it’s considered armed robbery,” he continued, and then met my eye unflinching. “I never wanted to hurt anyone. I never would.”
I didn’t know what to say so I said the truth. “I believe you.”
Beckett’s expression lightened a little. “What I did… It was a stupid fucking thing to do.”
I nodded. “Yeah, well, I dropped everything and came twenty-five hundred miles to a strange city with no back-up plan.”
Beckett smirked. “Not quite the same league.”
I couldn’t save my sister.
“No,” I said. “But we’ve all made mistakes, right?”
For a long moment his deep blue eyes searched mine. Finally, he nodded, but I felt as though he could see straight into my heart and agreed with what he saw there.
“They were supposed to love it,” I said, to give my pain a different source. “My graphic novel. I was so sure they would love it but they didn’t. How fucking stupid is that?”
Beckett dropped his gaze to the bike balanced against his leg. He ran a hand along the frame, and a scene sketched itself in my mind: a young boy with messy blond hair petting a beloved dog. A companion who leaned on his leg and barked with joy when he came home from school. Until Beckett was sent away.
The scene faded out of my mind, erased and replaced by the young man sitting next to me. Did anyone miss him while he was in jail? I wondered. Was anyone waiting for him when he got out? Did he have a family somewhere that he couldn’t bear to face either?
“I don’t want to sell any more of my records,” he said, pulling me from my thoughts.
“I don’t want to go back to Vegas.”
The silence between us lasted through another train’s arrival and departure.
“My place is a studio,” he said. “No walls, no bedroom. No privacy. My couch is tiny and it’s not a fold out.”
A sudden heat flooded my chest. The warmth of hope.
I kept my voice cool and casual. “I was thinking I could get an air mattress, you know? One that I could keep out of the way during the day so it wouldn’t take up space.”
“That could work.”
“And I know $400 isn’t exactly paying my fair share, but I’d get a job right away to make up the rest.”
“You won’t even have a real bed,” he said. “$400 is fair.”
“Is that half the rent? I want to pay half—”
“It’s close enough.”
I waited for him to say something more and when he didn’t, I said, “I’m quiet. I don’t play loud music unless it’s in my earphones. I’ll work at my job, work at my graphic novel and try not to bother you.”
He nodded. “The radiator hardly works no matter how many times I tell the landlord,” he said. “You’ll be cold. A lot.”
“I can handle cold.”
“Monday through Friday, I messenger for ten hours a day,” Beckett said. His fingers trailed over a stretch of yellow metal frame on his bike. “Friday and Saturday night I bus at Giovanni’s but Sunday—tomorrow—is my day off. I do whatever the hell I want on Sunday, even if that’s nothing at all. I watch football, I listen to music—on my record player, not earphones—or I sleep.”
I nodded. “I’ll keep out of your way.”
“You’ll have to meet my parole officer, Roy,” he said, meeting my eye.
I met his right back. “Okay.”
“I have to tell him my situation has changed. It’s fine so long as you don’t bring anyone over with warrants or drug problems.”
“I don’t know anyone here,” I said. “And I’m not exactly a social butterfly. Any and all stereotypes about comic book geeks you may have heard apply to me.”
Beckett gave me a dry smile. “You seem pretty ballsy for a geek.”
“Anything for the art.” I stuck out my hand. “Rossi. Zelda Rossi.”
He took my hand in his large one. It felt rough. Warm. Strong.
“Beckett Copeland.”
“Nice to meet you, Beckett Copeland.”
As we let go hands, the blinking sign on the Brooklyn-bound side announced a train about to pull in.
“I must be crazy,” he muttered. “Or you are.” He nodded at the tracks. “This is me. Or…us?”
This is us.
I went with Beckett Copeland to Brooklyn.