1. Nick #2
We’re near my block on the Lower East Side.
There’s Maddie, my neighbor, her huge Mary Poppins bag on her shoulder, an enormous parka that looks like it’s completely swallowing her tall frame, black yoga pants, and black sneakers. I’d recognize her anywhere—even now, with her back to me and her hood completely up.
“You can let me off here,” I say. “Get home safely, guys. And great job.”
“But we’re still a few blocks away from your apartment. Are you sure?” Sayo asks. “You’re carrying two guitars.”
Mr. Muscle stops the van.
“I need to walk off the concert. And that woman. And Maddie’s there.” I push open the door and grab my two cases.
“Oh, Maddie,” Sayo says. And the way she says it…
No. Definitely don’t think I want to probe into that.
I run to catch up with Maddie, a guitar case in each hand.
“Maddie,” I yell.
She swings around as if she’s going to hit me with her bag. I duck. Note to self: Do not surprise Maddie from behind.
“Oh, it’s you.” She pushes down her hood. Her hair is up, but brown wisps escape everywhere. She must have been thinking a lot.
“Let me guess, you were out late covering another story, unless it was a really hot date?” I ask, sure that’s going to rile her up.
“Maybe I did have a hot date,” Maddie huffs.
“So hot you came home alone?” I step a bit closer. “Someday, we have to discuss your definition of hot. But you do look electrified.” At least her hair does.
“Ha-ha. I have a lead on a story that could really make my career. I’m interviewing another source tomorrow.” She hefts her bag up onto her shoulder. It’s huge, and Maddie swears it carries all the essentials.
We stroll down the street, her jumbo bag and my guitar case putting a healthy distance between us, yet we’re in step.
We skirt around a couple hustling home hand-in-hand.
A warm yellow light spills out from an apartment above us, its curtains still open, and it looks cozy inside.
I can feel myself relaxing. I glance at Maddie, but she’s pulled her hood back up.
I bet she’s worrying her lip. She does that when she’s thinking about a story angle.
We turn the corner onto Orchard Street, where we live.
The glowing, round, colorful paper balloons that hang from the bare branches of the tree in front of the Sticky Rice restaurant always cheer me up.
Two delivery bikes, outfitted for a cold winter with gloves encasing the handlebars, are locked together by the tree.
As we pass, I see they’re actually separately locked to a pole.
Not together. It depends on the angle viewed.
I have to believe that on closer inspection, the truth will reveal itself with that doctored video of me with the YouTube star wannabe.
Similarly, an outsider might think that Maddie and I are close friends by the way we interact, but we’ve been neighbors for several years and casual friends—friends who hang out when we run into each other in the neighborhood.
At least, I like to think that. Maddie might have a different opinion because of how annoying she finds my late-night playing.
I should soundproof my living room wall, but how is she in her thirties and going to bed at ten p.m.?
We walk single file between a tree enclosure and a restaurant’s plastic winter vestibule, which butts into the sidewalk, hindering the cold air from sweeping into the dining room. The sidewalk widens, and we return to strolling side by side.
“How was your concert?” Maddie asks.
“Brilliant.” I smile. If only I could capture in words that wave of energy that seems to vibrate between us on stage and our fans, pulsing back and forth. I tilt my head. How to describe it, to explain that euphoric feeling, tickles at the corner of my mind.
“Sorry I missed it.” Maddie switches her bag to her other shoulder. Maddie has only attended my concerts at Craic and Laughs, her friend’s family bar. She’s never yet come to a different venue to see me.
“You don’t look sorry,” I say, gently knocking her shoulder with mine. Maddie is so fun to tease.
“I look like a sorry raccoon because you were up practicing so late last night,” Maddie says.
“No such thing as a sorry raccoon,” I say. “Raccoons are cute—but they are nocturnal, so I don’t think that’s your animal spirit. Maybe a hibernating bear?”
She flashes a quick glance at me, and there’s some hurt there. I’ve mis-stepped, but how?
“At least I’m not a bat pretending to be a human,” Maddie says.
Did I imagine that hurt look? She now looks like her usual spitfire self.
“I’m going to take that as a compliment that I’m crucial to the ecosystem,” I say.
“Indeed. You’re a natural pest controller,” she says.
I laugh. “Anyway, I’m sorry you missed it. MusEn was there, and Amira said they seemed keen on us.”
“That would be amazing,” she says. “I can look forward to your moving out soon.”
“Won’t you miss me?” I ask.
“Not as much as I miss sleep,” she says.
“Have you ever thought you put too much priority on sleep? You’re young. You should be living it up.”
“Like you? You work as hard as I do. Harder. You’re always working on another song.”
“That’s not work for me,” I say.
My phone buzzes. I read Amira’s text, but it doesn’t make sense.
“What?” I ask. “No way.”
“What?” Maddie asks.
“Some unhinged woman is claiming I’m her boyfriend, and Amira says a news outlet picked up her story.” I show her the article. “Amira is putting out a denial.”
Maddie peers at the photo on my phone. “You don’t know her? That photo looks like…”
“I know. It’s manipulated. She grabbed me, and I was asking her to release me.”
“Wow. That’s scary,” Maddie says. “I’m sure Amira will get the denial published in reputable news sources.”
We reach the front door of our apartment building.
We both love living here. For one, there’s a former speakeasy in the basement.
Maddie unlocks the door. I step forward to hold the door for her with my body.
As she passes close to me, she looks up for a second.
She has the biggest, softest brown eyes I’ve ever seen, and her cheeks are flushed from the cold.
“I need to pick up my laundry,” she says.
The building’s laundry room is in the former speakeasy.
She takes a book out of the bookcase that covers the back wall of the foyer, and the bookcase (a hidden door to the speakeasy, now laundry room) swings open.
It is still the coolest thing ever. She doesn’t look back as she disappears down the stairs, and the door shuts behind her. I go up the stairs alone.
She also barely tolerates me.
And Maddie is a reporter—like my ex. Christina did an exposé on what it’s like to date a wannabe rock star. It wasn’t pretty. So, I learned that lesson…the hard way. Don’t date a reporter.