Chapter Six
Sunshine pours from my window and casts a streaky shadow across my floor, revealing the true disaster state of my living quarters. Seeing it in the light is a sobering experience. I’ve always been a messy person, unable to keep a clean house, but when I moved in with Sonya I knew I’d have to confine my mess to my room and not let it spill out into the kitchen. Maintaining order in the shared living spaces has worsened the chaos behind my closed doors.
I stretch in bed, waking my body up. I’ve been grinding my teeth all night, so I give my jaw a quick massage before rolling over to check my phone. No messages. I half expected a text from Henry. He has my number from our initial date, and I assumed he’d use it by now. So far, though, he’s proving me right. He was never serious about being friends, and I was never serious about finding my passion. And I do feel stupid. There’s not a chance in hell that I’ll text him. That’s for damn sure.
My feet ache from NYAC last night, and my knees crack when I get out of bed.
The hinges squeak as I open the door and head to the bathroom. I stop when I see someone sitting on the couch. She’s in head-to-toe black, with a messy pixie cut as if someone just ran their hands through it.
Jamie.
“Morning.” She stands to greet me. I’d forgotten that Sonya had her over last night. “I made coffee,” she says. “Want some?”
She lifts my favorite clay mug to her lips and I try to keep from scowling. She made coffee in my French press. She’s drinking out of my mug.
I remind myself that I do like Jamie, even though she’s always catching me at the worst moments. She’s got a calming aura about her, and her rocker chick vibe balances out Sonya’s type-A senior class president personality.
“No, thanks,” I say, even though it smells delicious and the dull pain behind my eyes would be cured with one single sip.
“Sonya told me you had a date the other night,” she says. She is far too awake for this hour.
“Yeah.” I yawn, padding across the room. “I’m sorry, Jamie. I’m not really up yet.”
“Oh.” She shrinks back. “Sorry.”
I shut the bathroom door behind me, brush my teeth, and splash water on my face.
When I make my way back to my room, Jamie has vacated the couch. I feel bad for scaring her off, but I’m nursing a two-day hangover and I cannot be social right now.
I sit down on my unmade bed and open my laptop to my calendar.
Friday, May 29th: 11:00am–5pm Desk Attendant at The New York Public Library, Celeste Bartos Forum. Dress code: Business casual.
I check my phone. 10:27.
Shit.
I forgot I was working today. I had to walk out the door ten minutes ago if I was going to make it to Bryant Park in time.
What the hell does business casual look like? I dig through the piles of dirty clothes on my floor looking for anything that might work. I check the train times as I pull on a pair of black high-waisted jeans. Is denim business casual? I don’t have time to second-guess.
I’m a mess, yes, but I’m never late. The perfect time to arrive at an event or job is four minutes before the start time. That way you’re not disrespectful by being late, and you don’t have to commit to more than five minutes of awkward small talk with the neurotic early comers. It’s always my plan to be exactly four minutes early, no more, no less.
I dart to the station and hop on the first train that approaches, barely checking to make sure it’s the right one. This is what happens when you let people catch you off guard. I let Henry distract me and now I’m late to a shift. I stayed out too late, talked too much, and let that weird night get the better of me. Also, why hasn’t he texted? And why am I thinking about that when there are clearly more pressing issues at hand? I have very few things keeping me going in New York, and even though it’s soul-sucking and there’s no upward mobility, this job is one of those things. Losing it would be the final sign that I’m truly not meant to be here.
When I finally make it to Bryant Park, I hike the subway steps and cross the street to the closest building New York City’s got to a Parthenon: the New York Public Library. I take one millisecond to pause and look at it—to admire the odd sense of time travel I feel in its presence—the grandiose arches above the doors, slate-gray pillars holding them up, the intricate statues carved into the building’s face. This city is so fast, so industrial, that I sometimes forget that there’s also history here. This building feels out of place, a relic, but I feel a sudden rush as I start to ascend the marble stairs toward its gaping maw. The library isn’t out of place—no, it will outstay everyone and everything here. It’s everything new and shiny that are merely tourists camping out in New York’s stoic, unchanging facade.
Me , I think. I’m the out-of-place one.
I catch my breath and dash up the marble steps, feeling like the carved lion statues on either side of me are judging me as my thighs and lungs burn. Now…where the heck is the Bartos Forum?
I spot a map on the far side of the gigantic stone atrium and shuffle over, footsteps echoing in the massive room. I’ve worked a few jobs here, but there are so many tiny nooks and crannies of the library that I could never memorize every single one. I pull out my phone, praying that no one from my temp agency has called to scold me for being late, and I open my email assignment for details.
Enter the library at 42nd Street.
I used the wrong entrance. How about next time you actually read the email, Bennet?
I rush out the door and clomp down the stairs onto the busy sidewalk, rounding the corner to Forty-Second Street, where I finally spot the correct entrance. I suck in a breath of air and shove my way inside, hoping one of my supervisors isn’t on site today to notice my tardiness.
I spot Sal, another temp I work with often, behind a small table. There’s an empty chair next to him for me.
“I’m so sorry. I slept in,” I bluster at him.
“It’s okay, sweetheart, they didn’t even notice.” Sal’s complexion is similar to an eggplant. It makes me worry about his cholesterol. He’s wearing an ill-fitted white button-up that’s yellowing a bit around the seams. His hairline is damp and balding, but his features bear the faint whisper of someone who used to be handsome. Sal’s the kind of guy who could never lie to you. He’s also the kind of guy who gives you his full life story in a single six-hour shift—and I’ve had many six-hour shifts with him. He wears his emotions on his big expressive face, always close to the surface. He’s the only person who can call me sweetheart without making me want to rip his throat out. It’s a paternal sweetheart , not a creepy one.
I’ve seen him around the other temping venues, but the library is turning into his home base. He knows all the ins and outs, and where to get free coffee. Valuable information for an employee who never stays at one place long enough to get comfortable.
“What’s the event?” I ask as I slide into the chair. The air in here is musty, but in a good way. It smells of old pages and dust and real marble.
“Some corporate thing. They got a stage set up in there and a brunch buffet. You should peek inside before they get started. It’s real nice.”
“Oh,” I say, craning my neck to see inside the forum. “Okay. I’ll be quick.”
I sneak through the entrance to a flurry of caterers and event planners making final touches on an absolutely breathtaking room.
The domed ceiling stretches over my head like the top of a wire birdcage. It’s dark inside, but not in a sullen way—in the same way that a planetarium is dark. Maybe it reminds me of a planetarium because the ceiling is lit up in cerulean blue and electric violet, deep and vibrant as a faraway galaxy. There’s a stage toward the front of the room, with two large screens on either side. Seats are set up auditorium-style, with a few grazing tables in the back for those who are eating breakfast or drinking brunch cocktails.
I can’t help the bewildered look that must be plastered on my face when I return to our rinky-dink desk in the lobby. It’s not even a desk. It’s a folding table.
“Told ya,” Sal says, scratching his chin. “Fancy.”
I shake my head, feeling the immeasurable distance between me, sitting here , and those people in there . “Wow,” I say. “A whole different galaxy.”
“We’ll have more fun out here,” he says, smiling.
Probably not, but I smile back at him anyway. “What do we do?” I ask.
“When they come to the desk, we hand them a name tag and a folder and tell them to head inside.” His voice is low and robust, colored by years of barking drills at high school football players.
“That’s it?”
“We gotta check their name off on this clipboard too, but that’s easy.”
“What time does it start?”
“Any minute.”
“Great.” I tuck my hair behind my ears, but it pops back out immediately. I take a deep breath and try to enjoy the calm before people start checking in.
I glance over at Sal, who’s staring at his phone with laser focus.
I suddenly remember that he’s expecting his first grandchild—a fact he told me the last time we worked together. I swivel toward him. “Texting your daughter?”
“Oh.” His face brightens. “Yeah.”
“How’s she doing?”
“They got her on bed rest until the little guy comes. Something about her blood pressure. But Mary and me are so excited.”
“It’s a boy?” If the kid looks anything like Sal, he’ll be a little chubby eggplant baby.
“A boy,” he says, beaming. “I can’t believe I’m gonna be a grandpa. You wait and see, sweetheart, it goes fast. Soon you’ll be doing what I’m doing.”
I am doing what you’re doing , I think to myself.
The first businessman approaches our desk, bringing me back to the task at hand. Sal greets him, gives him a lanyard, and sends him to the room. Person after person comes to our desk, each dressed sharply, each outshining the last with confidence and poise. These people are my age, yet they seem to be in on something that I don’t understand. How did they get that way? What am I missing?
It’s like my grief has tethered me to myself, the walls of sadness like shrink-wrap surrounding all sides of me until I can barely breathe. Any movement I make, any step forward or back, is too painful. The smaller and smaller my world becomes, the more daunting it is to try to move out of the hurt. I feel close to Sam in my grief. It’s the only thing I have left of him.
If Andy were here, she’d be inside that room—hell, she’d probably end up as a keynote speaker. She’s always been that way—audacious, fiery, spirited—partially because of her privileged upbringing, and partially because it’s just her nature to be like that. I’ve never seen her waver—not even since Sam died. She’s still Andy, still finding ways to be happy.
I blink as I hand a girl in a perfectly tailored suit a name tag and check her off the list. She disappears into the beautiful conference room, red hair flowing down her back. Reminds me of Andy.
I’m an outside-of-the-room person, and I always will be—no matter if a boy with green eyes and glasses made me feel differently for one fraction of a moment over white wine and pizza. No matter if Sonya tries to convince me I’m not.
Sal and I continue the shift, and I go to the place I always go to when life starts to feel too overwhelming: autopilot.