Scarlett
Thursday night, Regan and I haul the last box up the narrow staircase. I’m sweating through my shirt and questioning all my life choices, including the one where I fought to live in a prewar walkup.
Regan closes the door with her hip and looks around. “Wow. These shoeboxes really exist.”
The place is a clean, furnished shoebox with a fresh coat of bright paint. But still a shoebox.
I don’t rub it in that I haven’t slept properly in weeks since taking possession of her sofa. That some nights I had to share it with her cat.
The kitchen table rocks under the weight of my backpack, and I cringe that the off-balance table is where I’ll be doing my schoolwork since there’s no desk. At least there’s a bookshelf.
“Looks like they gave you a brand-new mattress.” Regan points to the corner where a plastic-wrapped twin bed sits under one window.
“I think that’s code now.” I look out the window over the sink.
A sliver of the East River is visible if I lean at exactly a forty-five-degree angle. It might not be much, but it’s mine. And no one can throw me out. Or make me move out.
Regan drops the box labeled BOOKS onto the floor near the bookshelf. “You know,” she says, planting her hands on her hips. “I’m proud of you.”
“For letting my professor, a.k.a. my hookup, use his credit card so I can live in this squalor and not blackmailing him for my silence with a luxury condo onthe Upper West Side?”
“Wow.” She stares agog. “It sounds like you’ve given that some thought, but no. I meant for leaving Pierce the minute he showed his true colors. For choosing yourself. For choosing your dream.”
My eyes burn at my friend’s words. “Regan, you’re going to make me cry.”
“And for that we need a pizza and wine.” She takes out her phone and finds a good place that delivers both.
I begin to unpack, delaying the weight that will fall on me for making that brave decision she mentioned. For leaving a comfortable home with a secure future, albeit with a terrible man, to face the unknown.
I stuff my boring clothes into the one shabby dresser while Regan lines up my textbooks and a few second-hand romance novels on the bookcase.
She pauses to look out the living room window as a siren wails somewhere below. “You’re really close to the UN Plaza,” she says.
“My father said there’s some mafia war going on.” As I say this, I think of Dr. O’Rourke and the rumors about him and his brother being mafia. Irish mafia, I presume, by their last name.
I imagine the face he’d make if he saw this place. I’m sure he’s lived in luxury his whole life, if he really is mafia. I bet he never had to sleep in a place like this.
“You’ll be fine.” Regan waves me off. “They don’t go after innocents. Keep your head down and mind your own business.”
“Right.” I think about that. “I’ll make sure not to look anyone who appears to be Irish mafia in the eye.”
Err, too late. I think.
“Well, if a man in a tailored suit with an accent asks you out?—”
“I’m not dating,” I cut her off. “Finishing med schoolis my one and only focus.”
“Right.” Regan gives me a look. “Because you’re totally over the hot professor who gave you your best orgasm and, for some reason, keeps helping you.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Of course, I am. I was never…into him.”
Lie.
My heart does this pathetic flutter, remembering how Dr. O’Rourke looked yesterday. Cool and controlled in front of the class, but every muscle tightened when he saw me.
“I get the feeling he might have felt something for me after that night.”
“Maybe that’s why he got the hell out of there,” Regan suggests. “Some men can’t handle intense and sudden feelings.”