Chapter 19 #2
Marcus reaches over and gives my ankle a squeeze, his hand warm and surprisingly steady. “For what it’s worth, I think Leo’s crazy about you. Like, genuinely crazy. Like, he’d probably fight a bear for you if one wandered into Central Park.”
“There are no bears in Manhattan.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“The point is—” He pauses, chewing thoughtfully. “The point is what he has with you, it’s definitely not something you throw away for an ex who walked out eight months ago.”
I want to believe him. I want it so badly my chest aches with it. There’s one taco left in the foil bag, its wrapper crinkled and shiny. Cori and Marcus both lunge for it at the same time, their hands colliding in a clumsy tangle of fingers and sauce.
“Let go, you vulture!” Cori hisses, her knuckles white.
“You’ve had four already!”
“I am literally constructing a human spine, Marcus! I’m eating for two!”
“That’s not how it works—”
Cori wrenches it free with a triumphant grunt and clutches it to her chest like a Super Bowl trophy. Marcus slumps back against the couch, defeated, his flannel shirt riding up at the hem.
“Fine,” he sighs, the very picture of martyred nobility. “I concede. For the nourishment of my future niece.”
Cori takes an obscenely large bite. “It could be your nephew.”
“It’s a girl.”
“For now, it’s a bean. A genderless, wonderful bean.”
“A girl bean,” Marcus insists, pointing a stern finger. “With excellent taste and a deep appreciation for her uncle.”
Cori has refused to find out the gender, claiming the surprise during labor will be “exhilarating,” which is a word I usually reserve for roller coasters, not tearing your body apart.
I have my money on a boy. Marcus is so convinced it’s a girl he’s already started a “Diaper Debt” ledger for the loser of the bet.
“Speaking of parents,” Cori says, licking guacamole from her thumb. Her eyes, suddenly too-perceptive, land on me. “Yours. Yours have been calling. A lot. Like, ‘is the FBI involved?’ a lot. When are you going to call them back, Annie?”
I lean my head back against the couch cushions, watching the ceiling fan spin. “I’m busy. I have a very demanding job involving goldfish crackers and sidewalk chalk.”
“I heard a voicemail from your mom this morning,” Marcus adds, picking a piece of stray cilantro off his shirt. “She threatened to get on a private jet and drag you back home herself. Which, frankly? Iconic behavior. Very dynasty-like of her.”
“She’s not joking,” I mutter, a cold spike of dread hitting my stomach.
“So call her back. End the silent treatment once and for all.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
I pick at the edge of my thumbnail, staring at the frayed carpet instead of their faces. If I could tell Leo the truth and he still looked at me the same way, maybe I can do this too.
“Alright, so my dad is Graham Collier and I basically pulled a Runaway Bride at my own wedding because I realized I was marrying a human mannequin, and now I’ve brought shame upon a family name that is apparently more fragile than fine china.
They want to drag me back to California to marry someone who can restore our reputation, but I finally feel like a person here and I have a hot boss who I could possibly be in love with and I have bangs! ”
I run out of oxygen. I wait for the gasps. I wait for the sound of them realizing they’ve been living with a socialite fugitive.
Cori and Marcus stare at me.
Then they burst out laughing—deep, full-bellied, shoulder-shaking laughter.
I blink, my heart still hammering against my ribs. “What? Why are you laughing? This is my tragedy!”
“Annie,” Marcus gasps, wiping his eyes. “None of this is news. We know.”
My entire world tilts. “You…what? There’s no way you knew! How did you know?”
“Honey, come on,” Cori says gently.
“How? There’s no way. I was so careful!”
Marcus gives me a look that is purely patronizing.
“You think I don’t run background checks before I let someone move in here?
I’m a gay man in the nineties, Annie. I have survival instincts.
I’m not about to house a felon or a cult leader or some shit.
We found out, like, three days after you got here. ”
“Your face was also on the cover of half the newspapers for weeks,” Cori adds gently.
“I got a new wardrobe! I cut my hair!” I screech, grabbing a fistful of my now-shorn locks. “I got bangs!”
“Yeah, about that,” Marcus says, composing himself with theatrical effort. “Bangs aren’t exactly a foolproof disguise, sweetie. It’s hair. It’s not like you’re in the fucking witness protection program.”
They both start howling with laughter again.
I can’t help it. I start to laugh with them. “I thought I looked completely different!”
“It was a haircut,” Cori says, her lips still twitching with laughter. “You still look like you, just with bangs.”
I stare at them, mouth open. “And you…never said anything?”
“We figured you’d tell us when you were ready,” Cori says with a shrug. “Or you wouldn’t. Your rich-person drama is your business, Annie. As long as you paid the rent and didn’t burn the apartment down, we didn’t care.”
Marcus adds. “I was kind of enjoying the mystery. I had a side-bet with myself that you were actually in the mob somehow.”
“But nobody’s approached me,” I say, waving my hand at the empty space in front of us like it proves my point. “No paparazzi lurking. No photographers snapping pictures while I buy milk. It had to be at least a halfway decent disguise!”
“Annie,” Cori says, her voice taking on that patient tone she usually saves for explaining to me why I shouldn’t eat three-day-old takeout. “This is Manhattan.”
“So?”
“So,” Marcus interjects, “this city is populated by people who have seen it all and are currently too busy trying to find a rent-controlled apartment to care about a runaway socialite. Celebrities aren’t that special here. They’re just…around. They’re like pigeons.”
“I saw Matthew Broderick at that deli on 78th last month,” Cori says, tucking her damp hair behind her ear. “Nobody even glanced his way. He just ordered his bagel and left.”
“I spotted Robert De Niro getting coffee once,” Marcus adds, wiping his hands on his napkin.
“Black, no sugar. Nobody mobbed him. He grabbed it and vanished into the crowd. In New York, being famous is like having a weird hat or haircut. People might notice it, but they aren’t going to stop their commute to talk to you about it. ”
“I saw that girl from Ed Wood at a vintage shop on St. Marks just yesterday,” Cori says, snapping her fingers as she tries to pull the name from the air. “The one who was Johnny Depp’s girlfriend in the movie. What’s her name again?”
“Sarah Jessica Parker,” Marcus supplies without missing a beat.
“Yes! Her! Why does she go by all three? She couldn’t just be Sarah? She has to be Sarah Jessica?”
“Maybe there was already a Sarah Parker in Hollywood somewhere,” I offer, half-distracted, still processing.
“Still weird,” Cori says. “But God, she has fantastic hair. Like, bouncy, sentient hair.”
“Amazing hair,” Marcus agrees, leaning back on his elbows.
I stare at them, the absurdity sinking in. “So you’re saying I’ve been hiding from…nothing?”
“Pretty much,” Marcus says with a shrug.
“So nobody knows that I’m Graham Collier’s daughter?”
“Oh, people might know,” he says. “But they don’t care enough to act on it. You’re not exactly A-list, Annie. No offense. Your dad is, but not you.”
“None taken…I think?”
“You’re, like, A-list adjacent. Which in New York means you might get noticed at a ball or something, but on the subway? Everyone’s too busy avoiding eye contact with the guy talking to himself to care about you.”
“And you guys—you’re not mad?” I sputter. “I lied!”
“You didn’t really lie,” Cori reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You just kept some things private. We’ve all got shit we don’t talk about.”
“Exactly. Everyone’s got secrets.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Maybe both. “So you’ve known this whole time that I’m—”
“A trust-fund runaway who ditched her wedding? Yeah.” Marcus grins. “But you’re also crying into your tacos and spiraling over a neuroscientist. So you’re just like the rest of us.”
“But with worse bangs,” Cori adds.
“My bangs are fine!” I insist, my hands fluttering to my forehead like startled birds.
“They’re a little tragic, babe,” Marcus says. “While it was a valiant effort, they’re still a cry for help.”
“You told me they looked cute! You said they were French and chic!”
“I said they were brave! There’s a difference!”
I throw a couch pillow at him, but I’m cracking open, spilling out, finally free of the secret’s terrible weight. “You really don’t care? About any of it?”
“Annie.” Cori pulls me into a hug, her warmth smelling like taco seasoning and home. “We don’t care about the money or the name or the life you left behind. We care about the you who is here.”
“The you who is currently dating a very hot, very brainy Greek man,” Marcus adds.
Cori sighs. “Can you stop?”
“Never.”
I wipe my eyes, smiling despite the mess of my life. “I love you guys.”
“We know,” Marcus says, reaching for the empty taco bag just in case. “We’re very lovable. It’s a burden, really.”
The realization lands softly, like the last leaf of autumn: this is the first time I’ve ever had my people.
A tribe that isn’t inherited or assigned or strategically networked over chilled gazpacho.
These two idiots sitting on the floor with me, dissecting my sex life and weaponizing tacos—they’re mine.
And the terrifying, beautiful part is that they chose me—not because of a donor list or a connection to a board of directors—but because of who I am when I’m actually, well, me.
Which is convenient, because at this rate, “me” is about all I’ve got left to offer.