Chapter 3 #2
It feels like they both have their lives figured out in ways I’ve never had to figure out my own life.
They both have jobs they’re good at, passions they’re pursuing, independence they’ve earned.
Meanwhile, the only thing I’ve ever been good at is looking presentable at charity galas and making small talk with my parents’ friends.
I can coordinate an outfit and I know which fork to use at a five-course dinner.
None of that pays the rent.
I envy them a little, if I’m being honest. Not in a bitter way, but in a wistful way. They know who they are. They know what they want. I’m twenty-five and I’m just now figuring out that I don’t want the life I was supposed to have, but I have no idea what I want instead.
Cori pokes me in the side. “Something will come up. Someone’s always hiring for something in New York. That’s the whole point of living here. Opportunity.”
“Something needs to come up soon,” I say, staring at the ceiling. “Or else I’m going to end up like Ernie.”
Ernie is the homeless man who lives outside the bodega across the street.
He has a beard that’s mostly gray, wears a Knicks cap that’s seen better days, and has a little white dog named Shirley who’s possibly the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen but also the sweetest. Ernie’s convinced that the government is watching him through the streetlights, which he talks about often and at length.
He also does a truly impressive rendition of “New York, New York” if you give him a dollar, complete with choreography.
“You’re not going to end up like Ernie,” Cori says.
“I might. I’ll be the one singing show tunes for spare change.”
“You can’t sing so that’s a terrible idea.”
“I’ll learn. Like ballet.”
She laughs and shoves my shoulder. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being realistic.”
“You’re being dramatic and realistic, which is an awful combination.” She shifts on the bed so she’s facing me. “Look, you’ve been in this room for, like, three hours staring at that newspaper. You need to get out. Come to Lucky’s with me and Marcus and Brett tonight.”
I blink at her. “Three hours? There’s no way it’s been three hours.”
She points at my nightstand, where my alarm clock sits—another thrift store find, digital with red numbers that are slightly too bright. It reads 5:47 PM.
“Holy shit,” I say. “How is it almost six?”
“Because you’ve been lying here having an existential crisis, that’s how.” She stands up and walks over to my makeshift closet.
“Come on. You’re coming out with us.”
“I didn’t say yes.”
“You didn’t say no, either.” She starts flipping through my clothes, pulling things out.
“Where are we going again?”
“Lucky’s. It’s on Avenue B, just a couple blocks over. Dive bar, cheap beer, good music. You’ll like it.”
The idea of going out makes something flutter in my chest. Partly excitement—I’ve barely left the apartment except to job hunt and buy groceries—and partly anxiety.
Going to a bar means people. Crowds. What if someone recognizes me?
What if there’s someone there who’s seen my face in the tabloids, who knows I’m the girl who ran away from her wedding?
But also, I’ve been in New York for two weeks and I’ve barely done anything. I came here to start over, to have a life that’s actually mine, and that doesn’t happen if I stay locked in my room staring at job listings.
Cori pulls out a black slip dress and my leather jacket. “This. With your Docs.”
“Maybe. But I haven’t said yes yet.”
“You’re going to say yes. I can tell.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because you’re already thinking about what you’re going to wear, which means you’re mentally committed.” She grins. “I’ll do your hair. The half-up thing with the little clips. It’ll look cute.”
“Cori—”
“Marcus!” she yells toward the door. “Annie’s coming out with us!”
“I literally did not agree to that!”
“You’re agreeing right now! I’m watching it happen.”
I sit up, trying to look stern, which is hard to do when you’re in your underwear and covered in sweat. “You’re very pushy.”
“I prefer ‘persuasive.’” She tosses the dress at me. “Come on. Get dressed. We’re leaving in an hour.”
“An hour? That’s not enough time—”
“It’s plenty of time. You’re not going to the Oscars, you’re going to a dive bar in the East Village. Low stakes. High reward.” She’s already heading for the door. “And if you try to back out, I’m sending Marcus in here to drag you out, and trust me, you don’t want that. He will absolutely do it.”
“This feels coercive!”
“It’s not coercion, it’s called friendship!” She blows me a kiss from the doorway. “Wear the dress. You’ll look so hot in it!”
I’m sitting on my bed holding a slip dress and wondering how I just got steamrolled into going to a bar. But also, I’m smiling.
Marcus pops his head in about thirty seconds later. “You’re going.”
I glare at him. “Cori already strong-armed me. You don’t need to gang up.”
“Just making sure you got the message,” He leans against the doorframe. “Brett’s meeting us there, by the way. Fair warning, he’s going to try to psychoanalyze you within the first ten minutes. It’s what he does.”
“Is he a therapist?”
“No, he just thinks he is.” Marcus grins. “But he’s harmless. And he makes a mean martini.”
“Noted.”
He eyes the dress in my hands. “Good choice, by the way. I was going to recommend that one.”
“Of course you were.”
“Wear it with the jacket. Very ‘I’m mysterious and possibly dangerous but in a fun, romantic way.’”
“Is that what we’re going for?”
“It’s what you should always be going for, babe.” He taps the doorframe twice. “Hurry up. We’re leaving in forty-five minutes. Don’t make me come back for you.”
“Cori said I had an hour!”
“You wasted fifteen minutes arguing. Clock’s ticking, Collier.”
He disappears before I can throw something at him.
I sit there for a second, holding the dress, and feel something bloom in my chest. Something unfamiliar and a little bit fragile and good.
I don’t think I’ve ever had friends like this.
Growing up, the people around me weren’t really friends.
They were connections. Alliances. Girls whose parents knew my parents, who wanted invitations to the right parties, who saw me as a stepping stone to something better.
I learned early how to spot the ones who wanted to be friends with Annemarie Collier, daughter of Graham and Elaine, and not with the actual person underneath all that.
It made me careful. Made me keep people at arm’s length because it was easier than getting close to someone who’d eventually use me for something.
Even at Stanford, most of my friendships felt transactional in ways I didn’t want to admit. Vanessa was real, but she was the exception. Everyone else wanted something, even if they didn’t necessarily say it out loud.
Cori and Marcus don’t want anything from me. They don’t know who my family is. They don’t care that I’m running from something. They just like having me around, and I like being around them, and that’s it. That’s the whole thing.
It’s only been two weeks, but they’re the closest thing to real friends I’ve had in a long time. Maybe ever, if I don’t count Vanessa.
And that realization sits in my chest—a little sad, a little hopeful, but mostly just grateful.
I stand up and look at the dress in my hands.
Tonight, I’m going to a bar with my friends.
My actual friends.
I start getting dressed.