Chapter 24
ANNIE
“At some point, Annie, you’re going to have to let go of me.”
“Never,” I mumble into Cori’s shoulder, tightening my grip. “I’ve decided to become a permanent attachment.”
She laughs, but her arms squeeze back just as hard.
Downstairs, the familiar squeak-and-thud of the building’s front door signals another trip.
Marcus and Brett are loading the last of Cori’s boxes into her parents’ forest-green Volvo station wagon.
I’d caught Marcus earlier, wiping fiercely at his eyes when he thought no one was looking, pretending to have allergies in December.
Cori pulls back slightly, her hands resting on my upper arms. “Annie, look at me. It’s a thirty-minute train ride. You can be at my parents’ house before a pizza even gets delivered. And you have my parents’ number, you have the pager.”
“It won’t be the same,” I say, and my voice cracks on the last word. Damn it. I was trying to be cool.
“I know,” she whispers, her eyes softening as she strokes a stray hair away from my face. “But you better come. I’m serious. I’ll be up at 3 AM with a newborn, losing my mind. I’ll need someone to talk to about things other than diaper rash and latching techniques.”
“I’ll bring tacos,” I promise.
“Good,” she says, her expression turning mock-serious. “And keeping Marcus in check? That’s your full-time job now.”
I manage a wobbly smile. “That’s a lot of responsibility for one person.”
I hate this. I hate this seismic shift, especially now, two weeks before Christmas with lights strung over dirty slush and the whole city feeling brittle and bright.
New York in winter is a beautiful, punishing lie.
It sparkles with fresh snow, then turns that snow into gray, shin-deep soup by noon.
It offers cozy, steamy cafe windows, but the walk to get there freezes your lungs.
It’s magic and misery, all bundled together, and Cori has been my buffer against the misery half.
I place my hand on the curve of her stomach.
“Hey in there,” I say, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to raise hell. Practice your roundhouse kicks. Demand pickles at 2 AM. Give your mom heartburn with your impeccable taste in spicy food. Be a glorious, noisy, wonderful handful.”
Cori laughs, a real one this time.
Logically, I know she’s not moving to Siberia.
It’s Queens. But logic has nothing to do with the ache in my chest, or how I’d felt this morning standing in the doorway of her now-empty room.
The walls, once covered in her sketches and postcards, were just…
beige. There was a ghostly outline of where her dresser had been.
The floorboards, finally visible, seemed too wide and lonely.
It wasn’t just a room. It was the place where we’d spent nights eating lo mein straight from the container, arguing over whether Ross and Rachel were on a break.
It was where we’d piled into her bed during thunderstorms, talking until our voices were hoarse.
It was the launching pad for our trips to Lucky’s, and the home base for our daily chats with Ernie on the stoop.
I’d miss the daily rhythm of her: the thump-thump-thump of her pointe shoes on the floor as she did barre exercises in the living room, the sweet scent of her green-apple conditioner in the shower, the way she had an organized system for everything in this apartment.
I’d miss her quiet, unshakable steadiness.
How she’d hand me a cup of tea without asking when I looked stressed.
Cori is the first person in a long, long time—since Eileen—who has felt like a true best friend.
Not a networking opportunity, not a character in the story of Annemarie Collier, Socialite.
Just Annie’s friend. Her moving out feels like the end of the first, most vital chapter of my real life.
The chapter where I learned how to be a person.
Seeing her stuff loaded into that station wagon feels like losing a limb
“Hey,” Cori says, tilting my chin up so I’m looking at her.
“I promise you’re not getting rid of me that easily, okay?
I’m going to be calling you to complain about my parents hovering.
And you’re going to come visit and help me set up the nursery.
And when this baby comes, you’re going to be Aunt Annie, which means diaper duty and babysitting and all the gross stuff. ”
I laugh through my tears. “Lucky me.”
“Very lucky.” She pulls me into another hug. “I love you, you know that?”
“I love you, too.”
“Even though you’re an ex-rich girl slumming it in the East Village?”
“Even though you’re a knocked-up ballerina moving back in with her parents?”
“Wow. Low blow.”
“Too soon?”
“Way too soon.”
We’re both laughing now, even as we’re crying, holding onto each other in this empty space that used to be hers, too.
“Okay,” Cori sighs, giving me one last, bone-crushing hug. “The parental units are probably double-parked and having a coronary. I gotta go.”
I nod, finally letting my arms drop. “Go. Build a nest. Grow a giant baby.”
She hefts her duffel bag onto her shoulder, gives the empty room one last look, and then smiles at me—a little sad, a lot hopeful. “I will. See you soon, Annie.”
“See you soon, Cor,” I echo.
I turn and watch her from the window, my forehead pressed against the cold glass.
Down on the slushy curb, Cori looks impossibly small as she approaches the boxy station wagon.
Marcus is a mess—visibly crying now, his shoulders shaking under his heavy coat.
He pulls her into a hug that looks like it might never end, and she reaches up to press a kiss to his cheek.
She gives Brett a squeeze next, and then she turns.
She looks up, searching the brick facade until she finds me.
She waves a gloved hand and blows a kiss that I can almost feel against the glass.
I blow one back, my vision blurring as the tears finally spill over.
I’m going to miss that girl—someone I’ve grown to love with a fierce, quiet intensity in such a short window of time.
The car pulls away, tires crunching over the grey Manhattan ice, and Marcus just sinks onto the curb, burying his face in his hands.
Brett sits right beside him, a hand rubbing his back.
I wish Leo were here. He’d given me the day off, knowing the “Great Migration” would leave a hole in my chest, but he’s teaching today and Emma is with his parents.
I’m standing in the kitchen, staring into the fridge at a half-empty carton of orange juice, when a timid, sharp knock sounds at the door.
I sigh, dragging my sleeve across my eyes. I am not in the mood for a neighborly chat or a delivery man. I pull the door open, the “Go Away” already forming on my tongue, but it dies in my throat.
“Mom?” I gasp.
She’s standing in the hallway like a mirage from another planet.
She looks flawless, of course—dressed for the New York chill in a camel-colored wool coat.
Her dark hair is perfectly coiffed under a silk scarf, her makeup untouched by the humidity or the wind.
The scent of her perfume drifts in, immediately colonizing the familiar smells of coffee and Cori’s leftover vanilla candle.
I’m painfully aware of my own state, in a green and navy plaid sweater over a white turtleneck and blue jeans. At least my hair is presentable—Cori’s last gift, a neat French braid trailing over my shoulder. I’d watched her hands in the mirror, a fleeting, intricate dance I still couldn’t fathom.
My mother’s eyes, sharp as ever, sweep over me. “Have you been crying?”
I stutter, my hands flying to my face. “I—sorry, what are you doing here?”
She raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow, her gaze flickering to the peeling paint on the doorframe. “Is that your way of saying I can come inside, or are we conducting our business in the hallway?”
I step back silently. She moves past me, her eyes doing a slow, methodical sweep of the living room. It lands on the mismatched sofa, the thrift store lamp, the faint watermark on the ceiling. Her expression isn’t outright horror like last time, but there’s still a flicker of disbelief in her eyes.
“I know it’s not California,” I say, my voice trailing off as I lean against the wall and cross my arms. “But…”
She doesn’t answer. She wanders over to the fridge, her manicured finger pointing to a polaroid tucked under a magnet. It’s the one of me, Leo, and Emma at the park. “That’s the man from the Carlyle.”
“Leo,” I clarify, nodding.
“Your boyfriend?” The question is flat, devoid of her usual judgement. Which is stranger, somehow.
I nod. My mind is a static buzz. She’s here. In my apartment. She saw me crying. Why is she here?
She makes a soft, noncommittal sound in her throat. “He’s very handsome.”
“I know.”
Her finger slides to Emma’s grin. “And who is this?”
“Leo’s daughter.”
My mother smiles—just a ghost of a thing, brief and gone before I can catch it. “She seems…lively.”
A surprised laugh punches out of me. “You have no idea. They’re…they’re the best thing that’s happened to me.”
She stays there for a moment, still looking at the picture, her back to me. “So why were you crying?”
The question is so blunt that I’m momentarily stunned. I wave a hand dismissively. “My best friend just moved out. It’s been a long morning, but I’ll be fine.”
She finally turns from the fridge, her gaze travelling over the books stacked on the floor, Cori’s abandoned succulent on the windowsill, Leo’s sweater on the back of my chair. Her arms are still crossed, but her voice, when it comes, is almost quiet. “You’re building a life here.”
It isn’t a question. It’s an observation, stripped bare. She says it the way someone might note that the sky is grey.
“I am,” I whisper.