Chapter 1 #3
Marcus shakes his head at her but his hostility has thawed, replaced by a genuine curiosity. “You’re not from here, are you?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“A little bit,” Cori says, still laughing a bit as she leans her elbows on the counter. “Where are you from, Annie Collier?”
“California.”
“California!” Cori’s eyes practically sparkle. “Like, Baywatch? LA? Do you have a surfboard? Are you secretly a mermaid?”
“Near there, yeah. And sadly, no tail.”
Marcus, who has resumed his position as a brooding column against the counter, studies me. “That’s a hell of a trek. What brings a West Coast girl all the way to the gritty heart of New York City?”
I hesitate. I can’t exactly say, Well, Marcus, I just dumped my fiancé and as it turns out, I’m currently hiding from the tabloids and my family and my entire life.
Something tells me that’s not a very appropriate icebreaker.
So I go with the next best truth, the one that doesn’t make me sound like a fugitive.
“I just needed a change,” I say, and even to my ears, it sounds like a line from a bad coming-of-age movie. “California felt…small.”
“Small,” Marcus repeats, his voice dry enough to cause a brush fire. “Right. Because when I think of the literal third-largest state in the union, I think ‘claustrophobic.’”
“I just wanted to try something new,” I say, trying to play it cool even though my heart is gradually picking up speed. “New city, new people. Fresh start all around.”
Cori nods, reaching out to pat my hand. “Well, you picked the perfect spot. New York’s basically the capital of fresh starts. Everyone here is running from something or toward something else.”
“Are you guys from here?” I ask, pivoting the conversation with the grace of a gazelle escaping a predator.
“Born and raised,” Cori says proudly. “Queens. We grew up in the same neighborhood. Been stuck with this guy since the seventh grade.”
“She followed me around like a lost puppy,” Marcus chimes in.
“In your dreams, Silva,” Cori swats him. “He was the weird kid who sat in the back of the cafeteria drawing skulls and shit in a notebook. I felt a moral obligation to save him from himself.”
“You did not,” Marcus retorts. “You thought I was mysterious and cool.”
“You were not cool,” Cori laughs. “You had that ugly bowl cut and glasses that took up half your face.”
“I was extremely cool,” Marcus insists, but there’s a grin tugging at his lips now.
Watching them is like watching a tennis match where the ball is made of pure affection. I miss that sort of connection, the kind where you don’t always have to explain yourself.
“I have to admit,” I say, cutting through their bickering, “I’m a little terrified. I don’t know much about New York. I’ve never even been on a subway before.”
The bickering stops dead. They both stare at me as if I’ve just confessed I believe the moon is made of cheese.
“Wait—you’ve never been on the subway?” Cori’s voice is an octave higher.
“Never.”
“Oh, honey.” She exchanges a look with Marcus that says we have a live one. “Okay, we’ll teach you. Lesson Number One is about tokens. They’re a dollar twenty-five. Buy them, guard them with your life, and for the love of all that is holy, do not fumble at the turnstile.”
“Don’t load up on a ton at once,” Marcus adds. “Just grab what you need for the day, maybe a little extra in case you lose one. Keep them in your pocket or a little coin purse. You’ll burn through them fast.”
“And there are rules,” Cori says, leaning in closer. “Unspoken New York rules that separate the locals from the tourists.”
I pull out a bar stool, ready for my Master’s in Urban Survival. “Like what? Lay it on me.”
“Okay,” Cori starts counting off on her fingers.
“On the platform, stand back from the edge unless you want to end up as tomorrow’s headline.
No eye contact unless you’re up for chit-chat, which, trust me, you’re not.
When the train pulls in, let people off first or you’ll get shoved around like a pinball.
One seat per butt, no spreading out. If it’s packed and you’ve got a bag, put it on your lap or the floor. Not the seat next to you.”
“Move to the middle of the car,” Marcus jumps in. “Don’t hog the doors. And please, for everyone’s sanity, don’t stop at the top of the stairs to check your map. Step aside or get trampled.”
“Learn to master The Sigh,” Cori adds, leaning in. “If someone is being a ‘space-hog’ or playing music too loud, you don’t confront them. You just sigh heavily. It’s the New York way of saying ‘I hate everything you’re doing’ without catching an attitude.”
“The Sigh is a weapon,” Marcus agrees. “Practice it.”
“And walk fast,” Cori says. “Even if you’re lost, just fake it until you make it. Tourists meander and gawk. Don’t be that person blocking the sidewalk. People actually have places to be, and you’ll get cussed out.”
I nod, mentally rehearsing. Walk fast. Don’t stop on the sidewalk. Eyes down. Sigh like a pro. “Okay. I think I can do that.”
“And never eat on the subway,” Marcus says firmly.
“You can eat,” Cori counters. “But nothing smelly or messy. Like, no egg salad or drippy ice cream cones.”
“As I said, just don’t eat on the subway,” Marcus repeats, shooting her a look.
“You’re gonna crush it,” Cori grins, giving me a thumbs-up.
Marcus watches me for a second, his scowl returning, but it’s less ‘angry’ and more ‘confused.’ “You’ve really never been on a bus? A train? Any sort of public transit?”
“Not really. I had drivers,” I admit, the word feeling heavy and ridiculous in this kitchen, and I mentally kick myself for saying that out loud. So much for a low profile.
“Drivers? Plural?” Marcus echoes, brows shooting up.
“Yeah,” I wince a little.
“Jesus Christ.” He whistles low. “What did you do for work? Run a small country?”
My heart does a nervous tap-dance. “Uh, not me. I lived with my parents and they work in film. My dad directs, my mom used to act. It was just…a perk that came with their jobs.”
Marcus nods slowly, as if a puzzle piece has clicked into place. “Film in L.A. That tracks.”
“Yep.” I silently prayed to God and the universe he wouldn’t ask any more questions.
“Well,” Cori says, jumping up. “Ready to see your Royal Suite?
I nod my head emphatically. “Please.”
She grabs my duffel, and Marcus wordlessly lifts my suitcase.
I follow them down the narrow hall, the walls dinged like they’ve seen some fights, posters of bands I vaguely recognize tacked up haphazardly.
We pass a bathroom that’s basically another closet with plumbing.
There’s a tiny sink, a lace shower curtain that’s seen better days, and a mirror spotted with age.
Cori stops at the last door on the right and nudges it open. “Ta-da! Behold, your kingdom.”
I step in. The room’s even tinier than I imagined.
Like, ‘if I stretch my arms I can touch both walls’ tiny.
There’s a twin bed shoved against the wall with a metal frame and a thin mattress.
The corner dresser is scratched up with one drawer handle missing.
My window overlooks the alley, the glass foggy with grime and dust. And there’s no closet—just a tension rod in the corner with wire hangers dangling like sad skeletons.
The walls are as bare as a blank page and there’s the same worn hardwood floor from the living room. One single bulb dangles overhead, harsh and unforgiving.
“I know it’s not much,” Cori says, a hint of apology in her voice. “But it’s all yours to jazz up if you want.”
I turn to her, my throat tight with gratitude. “It’s perfect. Seriously.”
Marcus sets my suitcase down by the bed. “Rent’s due on the first of the month. Two fifty. Also, we split utilities three ways. It usually comes out to about thirty bucks each.”
I nod. “Alright.”
“House rules,” he continues. “Clean up after yourself in the kitchen. Don’t leave dishes in the sink overnight.
If you finish something off, add it to the grocery list on the fridge.
We take turns buying stuff. We each get thirty minutes in the bathroom in the morning and that’s it, so don’t linger. ”
“Okay.”
“And if you’re bringing company home,” Marcus adds. “Do us all a favor and give us a heads-up. Put a sock on the doorknob or something.”
I feel my cheeks flush a deep scarlet. “I, uh, won’t be bringing anyone over.”
“Sure, California. We’ll see.”
Cori elbows him sharply. “Ignore him. He thinks he’s living in a Woody Allen film. He’s the slut of the household.”
“I’m not a slut,” Marcus fires back. “I’m a collector of experiences!”
“You are totally a slut, Marcus,” Cori deadpans. Then she turns back to me. “Well, we’ll let you unpack. Holler if you need anything, though. We’re usually around.”
“Thanks,” I say with a faint smile. “Seriously. For taking me in last-minute. I was starting to think I’d end up crashing on a park bench or something.”
Cori waves it off. “No worries, California. The room needed filling, and you needed a room. Win-win.”
They head out, the door clicking shut, and suddenly it’s just me.
I sit down on the creaky, lumpy mattress. The room is hot, the city outside is screaming, and I am currently living in a space smaller than my mother’s shoe closet.
I smile so wide it genuinely strains my cheeks.
All of this is mine. For the first time ever, in twenty-five years, something is truly, undeniably, messily mine.