Zelda
December 2nd
I woke the next morning to Beckett softly closing the bathroom door. I blinked sleepily at my phone. 5:02 a.m.
God, how does he do it?
The sound of the shower running came on a few seconds later, and I sat up, looking to the window over the desk for signs of rain, but it was too dark to tell. I grabbed my phone again and checked the temp.
“Thirty-one degrees?” I whistled low in my teeth. “Holy shit.”
The thought of Beckett riding around Manhattan in that cold for ten hours gave me a shiver. I tossed off the big blue blanket and padded into the kitchen.
“Curse you,” I muttered at the radiator, and made coffee in the small pot, then hurried back to the relative warmth of my air mattress.
I was dozing when I heard the bathroom door open and footsteps go past me on the floor to the kitchen.
“What’s this?” Beckett asked from the other side of the counter.
“The coffee fairy came while you showered,” I mumbled.
“Oh, really?”
“Sshhh. I’m sleeping.”
I felt Beckett’s gaze on me and I pushed up to sitting, brushed the hair out of my eyes. “What’s that look for?”
“You good for today? You know where to go to get what you need?”
“I’m good, I promise,” I said. “And you’re going to be late for work.”
“We should probably exchange cell phone numbers.” He sipped his coffee. “In case of emergencies.”
“Right.” I grabbed my phone and we exchanged digits.
“702 area code?” he said with a dry smile. “Better change it. You’re a New Yorker now.”
“That remains to be seen. If I crash and burn—again—it’s back to Vegas for me.”
Beckett nodded, but said nothing. He drained his mug. “Thanks again for this.”
“Yep.”
From back under my blanket, I watched him pull on his weather-proof jacket, and his messenger bag that crossed his chest. He wore tight-fitting pants too that accentuated the lean muscle of his body, but didn’t look nearly warm enough.
He does this for a living. He’s used to it.
This was followed by another thought,
Who asks him if he’s going to be okay?
“Are you going to be okay?” I blurted, my words bypassing the checkpoint I usually had in place between thoughts and words. He gave me a strange look, somewhere between perplexed and touched. “I mean, it’s really cold out there,” I added. “Does all that gear keep you warm?”
Beckett smiled softly. “I’m fine, thanks. I’m used to it.”
“Oh sure. I figured as much…”
An awkward silence fell. I retreated back into the blanket; Beckett’s expression closed up like shutters.
“Key’s on the kitchen counter,” he said, walking his bike through the door.
“Thanks. I’ll make a copy.”
“Right. See you tonight.”
“Have a good one.”
“You too.”
The door closed, mercifully ending the stilted, roommate chit-chat.
Hey, this is what you want, right? No distractions. No sweet smiles from beautiful men.
Still, there was no harm in Beckett and me becoming friends, especially since we were living together. I didn’t make friends easily. There was too much I didn’t want to talk about. I kept people at arm’s length with sarcasm and stupid jokes. My relationships with guys were casually friendly or casually sexual. No digging beneath the surface.
It was how I survived the ten years since Rosemary disappeared.
But you’re here to work, so get to it.
I vowed then and there to get a night job. I worked best on my graphic novel at night, but I could stay out of Beckett’s way better if I worked the night shift as a server. Maybe drawing during the day would give me the perspective I needed to see the changes BlackStar Publishing wanted.
But you offered to make him dinner.
“I still can, we just won’t eat it together,” I said into the empty apartment, then rubbed my eyes. “I’m losing it. Focus, Rossi.”
I showered and changed into my last clean pair of black leggings, an oversized white pullover and my boots. I was putting my makeup on in the bathroom, when I heard a key turn in the front door’s lock.
“You forget something?” I called.
No answer, but footsteps crossed the apartment, and a second later I heard the refrigerator opening. I cracked the bathroom door.
“Beckett? Hello?”
Still no answer, but the rummaging in the kitchen continued. A cabinet door squeaked. The tinny rattle of the utensil drawer being opened and shut.
I peeked out of the bathroom and into the kitchen area. A skinny woman stood at the counter with her back to me. Brown hair, tight jeans and a black sweater, earbuds in her ears. She sang under her breath and danced—and not badly—while spooning cottage cheese—my cottage cheese—straight out of the container. When she turned sideways, I recognized her as the waitress from Giovanni’s. Darlene.
I crossed my arms and cleared my throat. “Hi.”
The woman’s eyes widened, and she nearly choked on her food. “Jesus!”
The spoon went flying and white curds erupted out of the container as she slammed it down to brace herself on the counter with both hands.
“Oh my God, you scared the crap out of me,” Darlene cried loudly, her earbuds still in. Breathing heavily, she pulled them out, recognition slowly dawning in her eyes. “You’re the chick from Giovanni’s…”
“Zelda.”
“Zelda…” She studied me, confused. “Why are you here?”
“Why am I here?”
“Wait.” Darlene’s kohl-rimmed eyes widened and a smile spread over her wide mouth. “Wait, oh my God, you didn’t. You did not!”
I blinked. “I didn’t what?”
“You? And Beckett?” She held up her hands and rotated them in circles in the air. “You know…?”
“No,” I said. “God no, nothing like that.”
I moved around the counter to join her in the kitchen. It was too small for two people, so I gave her a gentle shove out of my way so I could get a sponge. I started cleaning the cottage cheese that had splattered on the counter and the wall.
“So what is it then?” Darlene said, picking up the container and spoon to resume her snack on the other side of the counter. “What else could it be?”
“We’re just roommates for a few months. I need to work and splitting rent makes sense.”
“Ohhh,” Darlene said. “Is that why you were at Gio’s, asking about him?”
“Yeah, pretty much,” I said. I took the container away from Darlene and fixed her with a look. “It’s to make rent bearable. It makes sense.”
She sucked on the spoon, eyebrows waggling. “You said that already. And rent, schment. You’re shacking up. Sexy times are sure to follow.”
I turned to put the cottage cheese back in the fridge and let the cool air waft over my cheeks for a moment.
“There will be no sexy times,” I said, shutting the door. Firmly. “He works all day and I’m going to find an evening job. Right now, actually. So if you don’t mind…”
Darlene didn’t get the hint. “I’ll go with you. Oh my God, I thought today was going to be super boring, but we can go to the city and do girl stuff. You want to work in Manhattan, right?” She clutched my arm with a sudden thought, and her eyes widened. “Oh my god, Zel, I just had an idea. You could—”
“No way,” I said before she could finish her sentence. “I’m not working at Giovanni’s. Or any other Italian place.”
Her face fell. “Bummer. Why not? Aren’t you Italian?”
“Yeah, I am. But…”
“Oh, I get it,” Darlene said. “Once I could only afford Ramen noodles for an entire month. Couldn’t look at them afterward. You must get sick of Italian food, right?”
No, the opposite. I miss it.
“Something like that,” I said.
Darlene bounced along next to me as I gathered my bag and coat. “Whatever you want to do, do it in Manhattan. Much better money there. By the way, what do you want to do?”
I blinked at Darlene’s energy and wondered if it was natural or synthetic. I searched her eyes for signs of drugs but they looked clear, near as I could tell.
Don’t be a judgmental bitch. She’s just happy. You should try it sometime.
“I’m a tattoo artist,” I said. “But I’d rather wait tables. The money is more immediate.”
Darlene linked her bracelet-clad arm in mine. “Girl, I will hook you up.”
“I need to buy some art supplies too. And get a key made.” I raised my eyebrows at her as I locked the door. “Maybe you have a recommendation for a key-making place?”
She laughed. “You’re so funny, Zel. Becks gave me a key six months ago when I was in a bad way. To help me get away from some bad elements, you know? But that was a long time ago.” Her expression drew down as if pulled by heavy memories. “I’m clean, I swear. I don’t bring that shit around Becks. It could get him in big trouble with his PO, and I would never do anything to hurt him. Not one thing. Ever.”
She was practically on the verge of tears now and I slung my arm around her, even though she was a good six inches taller than me in her ankle boots.
“I believe you, Dar,” I said, giving her my warmest smile, one that hadn’t seen the light of day in a while. “I notice Beckett has a strong humanitarian streak running through him.”
Darlene’s own smile returned, chasing the clouds of guilt off her face in an instant. I envied her for that.
“His grandfather raised him,” she said, and we started down the hallway. “Always taught him to do right.”
“What about the robbery?”
She sighed. “A bad mistake that he’ll never forgive himself for.” She shook her head. “He only had his Gramps. No other family. And they didn’t have a lot of money. Desperation makes you do crazy things.”
I nodded, and swallowed a heavy lump that suddenly rose in my throat. “Yeah, I get that.”
“He writes letters to Mrs. J. The wife?” She waved her hand. “But I should let him tell you the story. If you can ever get him talking.” She wagged a finger in my face. “But no matter what he tells you, he’s a good man. It’s in his blood, and one stupid mistake can’t change that.”
I smiled. It felt nice to hear Beckett spoken of that way.
Because he’s a virtual stranger I have to sleep three feet from every night. That’s all.
Outside, there was no rain, but the sky was slate gray and the sidewalks silvery with puddles. The city sprawled around and above me. I was suddenly glad to have Darlene at my side. Not just a guide but a new friend. I liked her. We clicked immediately; despite the fact she seemed to be the polar opposite of me. She also seemed the type who wouldn’t take it personally if I didn’t want to talk about things. Back in Vegas, my female roommates acted as if I withheld personal shit just to spite them. Darlene, I imagined, would give me a shrug and a smile, and keep going.
I linked my arm in hers. “Shall we?”
“Yes,” she said, beaming ear to ear. “Let’s.”
I told her about my graphic novel on the train into Manhattan. We swayed side by side, holding onto the rail above us. It was an hour past the heavier commuter traffic of weekday mornings, still the car was full, its passengers huddled into dark winter coats. Graffiti, like inky tattoos, marked much of the walls.
“So first stop is art supplies?” she asked. “I know a store in SoHo you’ll love.”
“Job first,” I said. “I won’t feel good about dropping a bunch of money on art supplies until I have an income.”
“Can’t eat pens and paper,” Darlene agreed.
“I need a job, but I almost need the pen and paper more,” I said. “If I don’t get to work on my book tonight, I’m going to get… I don’t know. Restless. Itchy.”
“Like a junkie needing a fix?” She laughed at my awkward expression. “Oh my God, Zel, it’s all good. I just meant that I know what you meant.”
She faced forward, rested her cheek on her arm that held the rail above.
“Before I fell to the Dark Side, I was a dancer,” she said. “Not a bad one either, I might add. And on the days I couldn’t dance, I felt like I wanted to jump out of my skin. But in a good way. A clean way.”
The train surged underground toward Manhattan. Darlene’s large brown eyes darkened as she watched the blackness on the other side of the window. “When I started to get hooked on shit, I felt a whole different kind of restless. That addiction is dirty and gross. I miss the craving to make art. It’s exactly like a drug, isn’t it? If you go too long without doing it, it starts to eat at you.”
I nodded. “That’s exactly what it feels like.” I let a few moments pass, to separate the drug talk from her art, then gently asked, “What kind of dancing did you do?”
“All kinds—jazz, modern, ballroom and tap. But my favorites were the Brazilian dances. Samba. Carimbo. Capoeira was my favorite. Have you ever seen Capoeira? It has a martial arts aspect to it, so it’s kind of like fighting and dancing.” Her voice faded a little. “It made me feel powerful.”
“Do you ever think about getting back to it?” I asked, then shook my head. “Sorry, that’s way too personal.”
Darlene made a face. “Is it? Nah. Becks like to tease me that my life is an open book, left open to the naughty bits.”
I smiled, noticing she didn’t answer the question about returning to dance. With practiced ease, I changed the subject. “You and he are pretty close?”
“Best friends,” she said automatically, then gave me a look. “Don’t worry though. We’re not like that. I’m totally rooting for you to bone him. I just want a full report if you do.”
I coughed on nothing. “I’m not going to bone him, trust me.”
“Yeah, right.” She laughed. “You live together. It’s a cold winter. He has that shitty radiator. I give you two weeks, tops.”
“That’s a losing bet, my friend.”
“You have the most incredible eyes,” she said suddenly, peering at me intently. “Like, huge and gorgeous, and pure green.”
I moved back a little. “Thanks?”
“It hit me while we were talking earlier, and that’s how I know.”
“Know what?”
“That you and Becks are going to bone down.”
I felt heat surge to my cheeks and I swatted her arm. “Will you stop saying that?”
She shrugged as if our destiny was out of her hands. “It’s true. Your eyes are spectacular and Becks is a mushy romantic, no matter how standoffish he pretends to be.”
I smirked, refusing to let her words sink any deeper than silly gossip. “Bone down and mushy romantic aren’t exactly copacetic.”
“I know, but I’m not a writer like he is.”
“He writes?” I asked.
“Sort of. Best let him explain it.” She studied my eyes a final time, then shook her head with a laugh. “Yep. He’s a goner.”
I looked away from her scrutiny and ignored the way my stupid heart tripped over itself. “Are we there yet?”
The subway screeched to a halt, and Darlene watched out the window for the station name. “Yep. This is us. Let’s get you a jobby-job.”
Darlene guided us to the 79th Street station on the Upper West Side. We walked along Amsterdam toward 81st, where casually elegant people in casually elegant winter wear strolled. We passed an elderly lady swathed in a fur wrap, walking two little Pomeranian dogs. Darlene knelt to pet one, chatting easily with its owner. The dog leaned its ear into Darlene’s touch, but snapped at me with a yip when I tried to pet it.
“They’re so cute!” Darlene cooed as we continued on.
I snorted. “They remind me of Fizzgigg. All teeth and fur.”
She started at me blankly.
“From The Dark Crystal?” I said.
“Is that some comic book thing?”
I laughed. “No, it’s a movie. Never mind.”
“Here we are.”
She’d brought us to a small, quaint-looking place with a yellow and white striped awning. On the window, in elegant white cursive, was the name Annabelle’s.
I looked at the menu hanging in a neat frame on the door and frowned. “This is a breakfast and lunch place. I want to work nights.”
Darlene huffed. “Now you tell me.”
“I did tell you. I said I wanted an evening job.”
She bit her lip. “Oh. I missed that part. But here’s the deal; waiter jobs in Manhattan aren’t easy to come by because the tips are good, right? So unless you have a stellar resume, you’re going to need me. Do you have a stellar resume?”
“It might be a few stars short of a constellation.”
Darlene snorted. “And you’ve been working at a tattoo place. Not a restaurant.” She tugged my hand and opened the door. “Come on. The manager, Maxine, is a real bitch but the owner’s nephew is in my rehab group. She owes me one.”
Forty minutes later I came out with a job. I’d work Monday through Friday, eight a.m. to two p.m.
“You won’t be working any of the more lucrative weekend brunch shifts,” Maxine had said, peering hard at me through eyelids that labored under fake lashes and painted brows. “I have far more qualified personnel to work those shifts. However, you’re fortunate I’m shorthanded as of this morning. You will be here precisely at 7:30 am tomorrow morning to shadow Anthony. You may go now. I have customers.”
Darlene had kicked me—too hard—under the table in triumph. I had to admit I’d lucked out. The menu prices at Annabelle’s meant I could make some decent money. More than a hundred dollars per shift, easily.
“I did good, right?” Darlene said as we left the restaurant. “Maxine is going to be the boss from hell, but you can take her.”
“I’ve seen worse.” A laugh bubbled out of me, along with relief that I could buy my art supplies with a clear conscience. I hugged Darlene hard. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, beaming and walking as if she were ten feet tall.
At the art supply store in SoHo, I went a little crazy and bought fifty dollars’ worth of Sakura pens, pencils, and a pad of Corson drawing paper. I prayed the quality of my supplies would somehow translate to higher quality of work. I still had no idea what I needed to change about Mother, May I? but at least I had decent inks with which to try.
“So, can you draw people?” Darlene asked as the guy behind the register bagged up my purchases. “Like portraits?”
“I did my share as a tattoo artist,” I said.
“I always wanted to have my portrait done,” she said as we headed back into the afternoon cold. “Once, when I was a kid, my dad took me to Coney Island and a street artist drew me. I was so excited, I could hardly sit still, waiting to see what I looked like through an artist’s eye, you know?” Her smile tightened, her eyes kept straight ahead. “But when he was done, I cried and cried.”
“Why? What happened?”
“It wasn’t a real portrait. He’d done a caricature, you know? All goofy, exaggerated features, and a huge head. My freckles, which I was totally self-conscious about, were the size of quarters. It was supposed to be funny but it was kind of awful. He felt really bad and my dad got mad that I cried, but that’s not what I thought I looked like. It stuck with me for a long time.”
She glanced at me, and gave herself a shake. “God, tell me to shut up when I go off like that,” she said with a sheepish laugh.
“Never.” I gave her hand a squeeze. “I’ll draw you some time, Darlene. If you want.”
“You will? Thank you, Zel,” she said. “You’re a good friend.”
I almost made a joke that we’d only known each other for a handful of hours, but it died on my tongue.
“So are you,” I said.
Back in Brooklyn, we had a key made for me, did some more grocery shopping, then grabbed coffee at a donut shop. Around three, Darlene had to go get ready for her shift at Giovanni’s.
“I work every night but Sunday,” she said on the walk back to my place. “Marcello, the owner? He’s a lifesaver. Literally. Not many employers would hire people with a record like me and Becks.”
At my front door, she stopped and gave me a hug. “I’ll replace your cottage cheese,” she said.
“No way,” I said. “Come over any time.”
Her smile was warm as she walked backward down the street, then it turned sly. “I’ll be sure to knock next time. I’d hate to catch you and Becks in the act.”
“You won’t, trust me.”
She put her hand to her ear, mouthing What? and miming that she couldn’t hear me.
I laughed and waved her away, grateful she couldn’t see the pink in my cheeks.
Ridiculous, I thought, taking the stairs up. Sleeping with Beckett, for any reason, would only wreck our arrangement. I was better off concentrating on my work, and I excitedly set up my new art supplies. I laid out the pens in a row, turned a fresh sheet of blank paper, and opened my portfolio to look at the panels I’d already drawn.
I wasn’t arrogant enough to think it couldn’t use improving, I just had no idea where or how to start. With a critical eye, I searched for flaws, for holes in the plot, places where heart was missing.
The days’ shadows grew long over the desk as night crawled over the sky, smothering the light. It dampened all my good spirits as well. All the hopeful optimism from finding a new friend, a new job and a fresh start. I started dinner, paced the apartment, listened to music…nothing helped. When Beckett came back from work at 7:00, my sheet of paper was still completely untouched.