Chapter Thirteen
The taxi pulls up to a three-story townhouse on Washington Park, a quiet, tree-lined street in the Fort Greene neighborhood of Brooklyn.
A few residents of the block have already begun to decorate for the holidays, and I can see the glimmer of star-adorned Christmas trees and unlit menorahs through the uncurtained windows.
Giant fluorescent snowflakes hang from traffic lights overhead, welcoming us to the community.
I take a look at the cerulean-blue door and swallow hard. “I’m so sorry, but do you mind waiting a minute?” I ask the cab driver, who grunts in response.
Nico trails behind me, holding our things in one hand and an old-fashioned paper map from a tourist information stand in the other.
Navigating New York without an iPhone has proven absolutely impossible.
Of course, we asked several pedestrians if we could quickly borrow their smartphones to figure out our subway route.
Two didn’t stop walking, one told us to go to hell, and the last spat at us.
Yep. We’re definitely not in Mystic anymore.
Slowly, I make the trek up the stairs and knock three times.
No one answers.
I try one more time, a bit louder.
But I’m greeted by silence. No shuffle of footsteps on the other side of the door.
Oh well. I guess coming here was a long shot anyway.
Sighing, I turn around and prepare to tell Nico that plan B is a bust.
And then the door swings open.
A middle-aged femme with dark skin and long thick graying braids stares at me. Glasses sit on the bridge of their nose, and a fraying cardigan hangs loose past their wrists. A tiny orange cat nuzzles their ankles, scowling at me.
“Angel?” I blurt out.
They cross their arms in front of their body, pulling their sleeves over their fingertips. “Do I know you?”
“It’s Joonie.” I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear.
They blink at me, suspicious. As if I’m a ghost.
“You know. Um. StepOnMeRyke432.”
“StepOnMeRyke432 has never shown interest in meeting up with me before,” they say slowly. “How do I know it’s really you and not some catfish?”
I wince slightly at their disbelief. Not that it’s their fault, really.
The Salty Girls have organized Skype sessions in the past, but I’ve always used some flimsy excuse to bail, afraid to show them my face.
To make all of this real and accidentally ruin a good thing.
I wanted to preserve the fantasy of friendship.
But now I’m standing here, unannounced, in Angel’s doorway.
It doesn’t get much more real than that.
“Let’s see,” I reply. “I know that you’re a Pisces. Your mother’s name was Shanti, but you called her Titi. And this little devil right here”—I nudge at the feline at my feet—“is Purrtha Mason.”
There’s a glint of mischief in Angel’s eyes. But they refuse to budge. “All of that information is readily available online,” they argue.
So I go in for the kill.
“I know that your favorite chapter in the ATOSAS series is in book two, when Ryke and Merriah are finally reunited and he teaches her tail play. I know you especially like it when he uses the tips of his fin to—”
“That’s enough,” they say, cutting me off, their wide grin finally reaching their eyes. “Joonie? Is that really you, girl?”
They cross the threshold and pull me into a huge bear hug.
After a moment, my body melts into their softness and I exhale, all the anxiety of meeting my longtime friend in person dissipating.
In truth, it feels like I’ve known them my whole life.
The cotton of their T-shirt is butter soft beneath my fingertips.
I inhale their scent, a lemon-infused, fresh-out-of-the-laundry smell.
Having them in my arms feels like going through the cardboard boxes hidden away in my parents’ attic and finding an old favorite.
Familiar.
Right.
“Holy shit!” they squeal. “Come in, come in! God, I have to tell the gang. We were worried you were dead in a ditch or some shit. You haven’t responded to our messages for almost forty-eight hours. We thought you’d eloped with the real-life Ryke!”
“Actually,” Nico says from behind me, reminding me that he’s here, “any chance you could lend us cab fare? It’s a long story, but we come to you on bended knee with empty pockets.”
“I look forward to hearing that story, and I doubt I’ll have a problem with the bended knee portion.” Angel’s eyes rake over Nico’s body, lingering on his toned torso and taut behind before landing on his face. “And who might you be, handsome?”
Before Nico can answer, Angel sniffs me and makes a face.
“Oh, honey. You need a shower more than MMCs need to stop ripping their girls’ panties off—I mean, honestly, do they think lingerie grows on trees?
Let me take care of this taxi. Why don’t you two get yourselves set up in the guest room?
Freshen up, settle in, take your time. You’re staying here tonight.
Then you can tell me everything over dinner.
Any dietary restrictions? Please don’t say nuts. ”
“You’re nuts.” I laugh, feeling truly safe for the first time since leaving home. “That would be great. Thanks, Angel.”
Nico nods. “You’re a lifesaver. Can we help in any way?”
“Sure,” they say. “By getting out of my sight and staying there until seven p.m. Wait, is that just dirt under your nails? Because it kind of looks like blood.”
Three and a half hours later, Nico and I make our way downstairs, showered and changed.
My normally straightened-to-perfection tresses are damp and curly, painstakingly combed down my back and tucked behind my ears.
I’m wearing an oversize sweatshirt that says PROPERTY OF THE PRINCE OF ATLANTIA and soft, worn-in jeans.
For someone who’s used to performing 24-7, I look and feel oddly like myself.
Angel’s house is filled with completely random objects.
There appears to be no common theme to their eclectic decor except for the fact that everything here caught Angel’s eye.
There are deer antlers above the grand fireplace in the living room next to a vintage DRINK GUINNESS poster and one of those wooden plaques with a fish that comes to life and sings for you at the press of a button.
The runner going up the wooden stairway is a red plaid, but the rugs in each room are colorful woven designs that remind me of the Persian carpets my parents had in my childhood home.
Gaudy gold-framed oil portraits of Purrtha Mason hang all over the walls, and there’s a room where every object is painted slime green and an old grandfather clock that plays Dolly Parton on the hour.
But the pièce de résistance is the tiny library, which features Angel’s massive collection of books on spiral-shaped bookshelves that look like the ancient carvings of the old mer language from A Tale of Salt Water the top of his head comes to my shoulders. “I can’t believe I’m finally hugging you.”
I peer down at the gel coating his hair. “Kalli?” I ask.
The stunning blond vixen chortles. “That would be me,” she says. “That’s Roya.”
He pulls back his head and gives me a bashful grin. “Roy A., actually. And please don’t ask me what the A stands for. But you probably know us best as MERderMe71 and SoManyQueefs.”
A snort of laughter sounds from where Nico is leaning against the doorway.
I just grin.
Truthfully? This isn’t how I pictured them at all.
It’s somehow better.
“Wait, so many queefs? Is that a riff on how Ryke always says, so many questions?”
Slowly, all of my friends turn to look at Nico.
“Who the fuck are you?” Kalli asks. Quite rudely, I might add.
“This is Nico,” I explain. “Remember, I told you he was driving me into the city?”
“Your brother’s best friend!” Roy cries. “Wait, but don’t we hate him?”
A twinge of hurt passes over Nico’s features.
Angel catches it and waves everyone toward the table. “Come now, children. Take your seats. I hope you like French mustard chicken and mashed potatoes, because that’s what I’m serving tonight.”
We all settle into our seats and pass around the home-cooked dishes they have brought out. Once all of our plates are full and our mouths are watering, Angel takes their seat at the head of the table.
“Holy Furnace, bless this meal for human, mer, and maecena,” they say.