Claire
Chapter Seventeen
With Sam gone, the room was silent once again. I lay my head against the pillow slowly as the medication began to numb the edges of the pain. The only thing that my mind seemed to be stuck on was how all of this started a mere eight days ago…
Ever since things officially ended with Alex, I’d spent too many nights curled up alone in my apartment.
Most nights, I stayed on the phone with Sarah, listening as she juggled between calling Alex every name in the book, making dinner, giving baths, and warning her kids not to repeat the bad words about “former Uncle Alex.” She ranted for what felt like hours, calling him every name in the book, especially considering everything going on with our parents.
I wished I could trade just a sliver more of my sadness for her righteous anger.
My relationship with Sarah had its strains, especially when it came to our parents, but I always knew I could call her and she would come to my defense.
That’s just Sarah—my feisty, ride-or-die little sister.
I could murder someone in cold blood, and she would find a way to make me the victim and help me hide the body.
And then she’d probably take me for a stroll around Target with Starbucks in hand.
I grabbed my tote bag from the filing cabinet beside my desk and stepped out of my small office nestled within the expansive co-working space.
Conveniently located on 42nd Street between Second and Third, it was an easy commute from my apartment on the Upper East Side.
Four days a week, I enjoyed the comfort of working from home.
I could take breaks on my fire escape with an iced coffee in hand and watch the neighborhood below as I caught my breath between Zoom calls.
From that vantage point, I’d observe in silence as people strolled past, usually with a fluffy dog or overpriced stroller, or both.
Still, company policy demanded at least one obligatory day per week spent in the office, a requirement that seemed increasingly absurd, especially now.
The office itself was nothing more than a modest rental with a flexible month-to-month lease, a metaphorical checkbox masquerading as strategy.
And yet, despite being the only employee based in New York City, my physical presence was inexplicably deemed essential to maintaining our competitive edge in Manhattan and the surrounding boroughs.
No one ever explained how that math worked.
Especially considering no one seemed to notice that I hadn’t been in the office for a month.
If that isn’t proof that the policy is useless, I didn’t know what is.
As I looked through the frosted glass walls separating the office suites, I scanned the neighboring cubicles for signs of life.
Nothing. Not even a stray jacket or the hum of an idling laptop.
Typical Monday.
The open-plan layout meant to “foster collaboration” gave me a clear view of the empty expanse beyond my personal glass cube. Rows upon rows of carbon-copy, humanless glass cubes stared back at me, their polished surfaces reflecting the minimal light coming through the windows.
As I made my way through the empty corridor, I glanced at the communal areas, lifeless with the scent of stale coffee wafting through the air.
Once in the elevator, the real age of the building showed in its gold-hued mirror walls and chipped art deco tile floor.
My reflection stared back at me as the doors slid shut, an echo of effort wasted on a day no one would see me.
Today’s outfit feels entirely miscast.
A white, short-sleeved summer dress with delicate lace trim around the neckline and hem just past my knees, something meant for strolling through a seaside town in New England, not trudging through Midtown on a Monday.
My dark brown hair waved gently as it approached my collarbones, giving it that perfect beachy look.
However, I had the delicate pale skin of a woman who doesn’t spend her summers sunning or doing anything remotely beachy.
Even if I did have the time, or the money, or even friends to go to the beach with, I would only burn under the harsh rays.
I would return to NYC as a ruby-red lobster, complete with peeling regrets.
Exiting the elevator and making my way through the once-grand lobby, I pushed through the heavy glass doors to emerge onto 42nd Street.
The sounds of the city hit me like a cymbal crash deep into my core—sharp, relentless, and vibrating straight through my chest. Stepping into Midtown after a morning of complete silence was practically an assault on my eardrums.
And then came the air.
Hot and thick with humidity, it wrapped around me like a damp blanket and clung to my skin.
It carried the familiar scents of a New York City summer: car exhaust from the passing droves of yellow cabs, smoke from hot dog carts and spices from gyros vendors, and the sharp, steamy scent of concrete baking under the sun.
No matter how long I live here, New York City still finds a way to shock me.
Constantly lurching back and forth between overstimulating noise and crowds, to complete silence and isolation, feels like trying to shower in my aging apartment.
The water is either scalding hot or ice-cold—never just right.
That is New York City in a nutshell: always too much or never enough.
I’m forever adjusting the knob, chasing a middle ground that doesn’t seem to exist.
Now I’m deep into adulthood, barely scraping by financially in a city that demands everything, and my social circle consists of my parents, my sister, and a few dogs in the neighborhood that I know by name. I couldn’t name their owners even if I tried.
I walked leisurely, savoring the brief respite from my office’s artificial environment.
The shock to my senses I experienced when I left the office had subsided for now, replaced by the steady pulse of the city.
Despite the heat, the humidity, and overstimulation, it was nice to feel the life of the city after hours in the lifeless office.
Midtown might be relentless, but at least it wasn’t empty.
Turning the corner onto Third Avenue, I continued my stroll, heading north for two blocks.
The cityscape around me softened as the towering office buildings of 42nd Street gave way to humbler, more charming storefronts and small eateries smashed between old Irish pubs and fluorescently lit bodegas.
Nestled between a quaint bookstore and a small café serving the suited masses was Chipotle.
The familiar logo was a welcome sight, like a beacon calling me home.
I pushed open the door as the blast of frigid air conditioning met me with resistance.
As soon as the temperature shock faded, I was greeted by the familiar aroma of grilling meat, cilantro, and warmed tortillas.
As I waited in line to order my tacos, chips, guac, and a fountain Coke, I scrolled aimlessly through my personal email.
Sales promos. An invite to my boss’ baby sprinkle next month in Boston. And then, the email.
There it was: the message I’d been dreading. The one I had mentally prepared for all week. My landlord.
With a resigned sigh, I opened the attachment, bracing for the inevitable. And there it was, cold and matter of fact. Another $275 tacked onto my monthly rent. Just like that.
No promotion. No raise. No mercy. Just another slap from the ever-punishing reality of renting in New York City. It was a bitter pill, sure, but hardly a surprise. This city has a way of kicking you when you’re already down and then sending a follow-up invoice for the privilege.
Having called the city home for the past three years since my post-COVID return from Long Island, I understood the harsh realities of urban living all too well.
Like many New Yorkers, I initially fled to the suburbs in search of lower rent and better living conditions when COVID hit.
Then two years later, I found myself renting a two-bedroom on the Upper East Side days before Alex’s business school graduation—a kind of “congrats, let’s live together! ” surprise.
I thought that if I had my own space, Alex would eventually move in with me. Considering we had already been together for four years at that point, it wasn’t an unrealistic idea.
Spoiler: he never moved in.
I guess I only had myself to blame for that frighteningly stupid level of optimism.
The young woman called, “What can I get for you?” snapping me out of my daze of distressed thoughts. Steam filled the space between our faces as I told her my order and watched her begin to work from station to station like a choreographed dance.
As I watched my food being prepared, I couldn’t help but entertain thoughts of alternative living arrangements.
Maybe it was time to explore other neighborhoods or even consider having roommates again—a small sacrifice for a semblance of financial stability in the concrete jungle I call home.
My mind wandered deeper down a hole of anxiety as I questioned if I even wanted to stay in Manhattan.
But I had to, right?
Work made me work from the office one day a week. Maybe I could commute in from Long Island, New Jersey, or Westchester? Maybe I should just find a new job and say goodbye to the city?
Anxiety started to bubble in my throat as my breath hastened. I approached the cashier just in time, pulling me back to reality before I started to spiral.
Lunch in hand, I stepped back out onto the street and returned to the heat’s oppressive embrace.
As I rounded the corner back to Third Avenue—doing my best to maneuver around groups of slow-walking tourists—my phone started to ring.
I shuffled my food and drink, trying to dig around in my tote bag for my iPhone, finally managing to answer just before the last ring.