Chapter Two
I’ve never considered myself a particularly agile person, but I’m almost proud of how quickly I managed to haul ass out of L’italiano and book it to the subway. The only saving grace of this entire night is that I didn’t have to wait too long for an uptown train. I now sit on the B across from a woman with a sleeping child slung across her lap. I massage my temples as the train pulls away from the station, knees bouncing in my seat as I try to shake the humiliation out of my body. I glance up to the woman across from me, who quickly looks away. She pulls the sleeping toddler on her lap closer to her chest, kissing the child on the forehead. I make a mental note not to be too offended when she inevitably moves seats at the next stop—I’m sure I smell like sewage and look a bit unhinged.
I never want to be myself, but today I’d especially like to melt into this subway seat and wake up in a new body with a whole new life. But, alas. Like always, I wake up as Bennet Marie Taylor, and I wake up to the subway announcer’s garbled voice calling a stop that is definitely not mine.
I must’ve dozed off somewhere between Columbus Circle and 125th Street. My eyes are heavy and saturated, and I blink away the tears. They say you’re not a true New Yorker until you cry on the subway, but I never cared much about being considered a true New Yorker.
I stagger through the sliding doors and into the dark station, trying to get my bearings. It smells like any other station in the Bronx: stale, sweaty, and sour. I make eye contact with the butt crack of a man peeing on the tracks. My stomach churns. There are no boundaries in this city.
I scan the station to figure out where exactly I am, until I see a sign— Yankee Stadium . I’m at Yankee Stadium. It’s a relief to realize I’m not actually too far from my apartment in Harlem, and that all I have to do is catch the D going in the opposite direction and I’ll be home in a couple stops.
I pry my eyes away from the roach skittering across the station sign to check my MTA app. The next downtown train isn’t arriving for twenty-nine minutes.
Well. It seems as good a time as any to finally see what all the fuss is about over a baseball stadium. Sam’s favorite baseball stadium.
I climb up the subway steps, careful not to stagger and twist an ankle, and emerge into the cool night air. The stadium is across the street from the subway exit I chose, so I wait until I get the little walk signal, and then I cross the street. I hold my breath and stare at my feet on the pavement as I approach the sleeping giant, almost afraid that looking at it before I’m right underneath it will somehow ruin the experience. When I feel its stoic presence upon me, I stop, take a breath, and look up.
And up.
And up.
It’s dark out, but the sign is lit up so bright I have to squint. It’s huge. Bigger than I pictured it. Like a twentieth-century Colosseum where men come to fight. Although when Sam played, the game seemed more like a dance: delicate, elegant, and refined.
The Yankees were his favorite team. He used to take the train from Jersey with his dad once a summer to see them play. I imagine him, age seven, standing here, staring up at the huge monument. He’s holding his father’s hand while eating Dippin’ Dots out of an upside-down batting helmet. His rosy cheeks are smeared with sugar and dirt and his sandy blond hair is mussed by the wind. I’ve seen pictures of him at that age, all joy, growing into himself. I stand, still as a statue, looking up at the towering stadium, feeling everything and nothing at the same time. Minutes pass, though it feels like hours.
It’s colder than I’d anticipated at the end of May. I shiver as a breeze blows my hair across my face. I tuck it behind my ear as the chill delivers me back to reality. I have no idea how long I’ve been here, and I might have missed my train by now. I rush back into the underground tunnels of the city, making my train by a couple of seconds, and emerge in Harlem.
I live in a fifth-floor walk-up, and by the time I reach the top, I’m out of breath. I pray to god that Sonya is asleep so I can spare her the sound of my labored breathing and the scent of my L’italiano bathroom visit. Truthfully, Sonya has seen me far worse than this—we’ve known each other since our awkward middle school days—but living in New York has peeled me open in ways I hadn’t expected. It takes everything in me not to let my mushy, tangled insides pour out into our tiny apartment and slowly drown her. So I try my best to keep our relationship in check. Safely distant. Sonya loves it here. She found her home. She found her people. And I’m a specter of the friend she once knew, haunting her apartment and shrieking like a harpy at anyone who gets too close…even my oldest friend.
I reach down into the dark pit of my purse, rifling through gum wrappers, Sour Patch Kids dust, Band-Aids, loose change, and two pairs of sunglasses, until I loop my fingers through my key ring.
I unlock the door and say a silent prayer. Please, if there’s a god above, Sonya will be asleep.
When I push into the living room, she springs up from the couch like a bird in a cuckoo clock.
“How was it?” she asks, shuffling toward the door. I flinch. Kill me.
“I didn’t go.” I kick my shoes off and slip past her. “I wasn’t ready.”
She tilts her head, her brows wrinkling above her deeply concerned eyes. “Oh no,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I rub my forehead and cross into the kitchen to fill up a glass of water.
She follows close behind. “Want to talk about it?”
Talk about it? No. I want to forget about it forever. I shake my head. “I just need some sleep. That’s all.”
I turn to face her, her big brown eyes fixated on me. She looks at me the way one might look at an abandoned kitten left in a box on a random stoop. She’s worried about me. She’s always worried about me.
We used to be so similar back when we were sixteen, skipping science class to go to Starbucks every Wednesday afternoon until her parents caught us and dragged us back to school. She’d knit me a hat every winter, and I’d return the favor by giving her a mixtape of old songs I knew she’d like, even as CDs became increasingly obsolete. We were silly back then. I don’t know how to be silly anymore.
“I didn’t mean to trigger you or anything,” she says, shrinking.
“It’s okay,” I assure her, even though it’s not. “I’m okay,” I assure her, even though I’m not.
“Did you give any thought to what we talked about?” she asks, dodging eye contact. “I mean about—”
“Yeah,” I say, crossing my arms. I’ve been toying with the idea of moving back to Pennsylvania for the past couple of months. I moved to New York for one very specific reason—one that I’m failing at miserably. If I can’t do that one thing, what’s the point of still being here? I’m sure Sonya’s concern is well meant. But if I moved out, her girlfriend could easily move in and split her rent. She’d be fine without me. “I don’t know yet,” I tell her. “I’m still thinking.”
“Okay,” she says, shifting her weight. After a moment, she turns to walk toward her bedroom. Just when she’s finally there, she pauses, taking a moment to look me up and down. “I’m right here if you need me, Bennet. You know that, right?”
“Yeah. I know.” I nod and gulp down some water. “Good night, Sonya.” I turn my body toward the sink to refill my cup and also so that I don’t have to see her looking at me with a mix of pity, exasperation, and concern.
I let the water from the faucet flow out of the cup and over my fingers. Someone somewhere once told me that the water in the city has microscopic shrimp in it, but I don’t think I mind. Imagining little shrimp in my water glass actually makes me smile.
By the time I look up, Sonya has disappeared.
I wish I could still be the girl she remembers, the one who loved baking brownies with her and her mom. The girl who loved cheesy movies and playing laser tag and going on adventures. But that was before every atom in my body rearranged into who I am now.
I gulp down the rest of my glass of water, hoping it keeps tomorrow’s hangover at bay.
Why hadn’t I just gone to Rosencrantz & Guildenstern, made complicated cocktails, and had meaningless conversation with a guy named Henry? Why had I instead spent an entire evening punishing myself and placating my emotions with wine and pasta that I can’t afford? I don’t understand it, and if I could, I think I’d unlock the secret of life. I’d be the most powerful self-help guru on earth, and I’d make millions on a book titled You Don’t Have Anxiety, It’s Just a Made-Up Thing in Your Head That Causes You to Do Crazy Things! and I’d spend my days in a villa in Greece never worrying about anything. I’d live my life and not ask questions.
Most of my days are spent asking questions.
Why do I hide when Sonya comes into the kitchen to make coffee?
Why can’t I be nicer to her?
Why do I spend days mulling over a single text?
Why did that guy catcall me?
Why didn’t that guy catcall me?
Why can’t I go on a casual date?
Why can’t I leave my bed?
When I’m safe behind my bedroom door, I take off my shirt and shudder at the reflection in the mirror. I let Sonya rope me into wearing a stick-on bra to avoid bra strap lines, and it migrated south a couple of inches below my nipples. I peel it off and feel along the sticky part. Beads of sweat lick my thumbs. Gross.
I change into sweats as I scan my dark, messy room. Clothes cover the hardwood floor. Books that I’ll never open clutter every surface. My bed is unmade and littered with ChapSticks, makeup remover, underwear, and socks. This place is my sanctuary, my haven, and I’ve turned it into a landfill.
Before I let myself get into bed, I make a mental note of all the people I disappointed today.
Sonya.
Blond bartender.
Man with wine-stained shirt.
Sam.
Me.
Henry.
As I crawl under my comforter, I’m no longer at risk of human interaction for at least eight hours, and that thought alone is enough to put me into a deep, peaceful sleep.