Chapter 21 The Gritty Sandwiches of New York City #2
Obviously, Bulan fit in as terribly in New York as I’d thought he would. But he decided to leave his life in Salem to join me here, and I can’t think of a good reason he would’ve jumped ship, unless he’d grown unhappy. And not just regular unhappy, but deeply unhappy.
Miserable, even.
He would’ve written a longer note if he’d really planned to leave for good, though.
Right? This life may not be up to par with his usual sense of adventure, but I’m not in a suburb—yet.
New York has plenty of weird people in it; I’ve seen them on the streets, in the patchwork fabric of the city’s throngs.
Can’t we talk this out? Give it another go?
I fight back waves of disappointment when Bulan isn’t back by the evening.
Or the next.
On the Friday night before Thanksgiving week—more than a week after Bulan left to hang out with the crows, who are more fun and interesting than me—I’m packing away my exam notes when Jane knocks on the door to my room.
She’s pulled on a pair of polished derbies instead of her typical sneakers.
This is a sign she’s going somewhere cool.
But not too cool. In New York, this is a critical distinction.
“I’m heading out,” she says predictably.
“Where to?”
“Drinks with Erin and some of the others in our class,” says Jane. “Sammy, you should come!”
Yes. YES. My whole being sings at the idea of it.
At the thought of noise, of energy, of people.
Friendship. Friendship with work people.
The opportunity to meet a fellow accountant who’ll help me achieve my dream of suburban bliss, and make me forget Hanry—who I really maintain should have checked in on me by now.
I slam my laptop shut.
“Let me get ready,” I say.
As I dress, I prod Jane for details about the party.
She doesn’t say much except that we’re going to an apartment, rather than a bar.
Apparently, some of our coworkers are trying to go FIRE, meaning that they’re on a stringent, money-saving early-retirement plan.
I’d probably be doing that too, if I weren’t throwing my money into paying back Grandma’s debts in order to cover house-selling legal fees.
Anyway, the party at Erin’s apartment is just a few blocks away.
Which is fine—I wouldn’t want to go somewhere too fancy or noteworthy, anyway.
It turns out that Erin’s apartment is fancy in its own way.
It has epic skyline views. Sure, it’s a crowded studio of about the same size as Grandma Rose’s living room, including the kitchenette and bathroom, and it’s clearly not meant to host the thirty twentysomethings who have gathered in it.
Not to mention all the booze. The ample quantities of booze.
In the corner, there’s a kegger; somewhat paradoxically, the counter has been commandeered by a spectacle of bottled wine.
Pretty much everyone seems to be arriving with a bottle in their right hand, then replacing said bottle with poured wine in a stemless cup.
A few embarrassing people hold their cups in their left hands. Obviously, I am not among them.
In the dense throng, I lose track of Jane almost immediately.
Part of this is because the room’s female contingent have unanimously decided to wear black halter tops and light-blue-washed, wide-legged cargo pants, and I can’t tell anyone apart from behind.
The nonbinary and male percentages are all wearing a blend of patterned dress shirts and slacks and starter-pack beer guts.
The effect would make even a Where’s Waldo? tournament-winner quail.
“—it’s a simple formula,” I overhear a guy near me saying. “D times A equals X divided by one hundred. D for dependability, A for amiability.”
“Oh, gotcha,” says his not-athletic-looking friend. “So the more dependable and amiable—”
“—the higher the likability quotient, yeah. I suspect you need at least an eighty percent to make partner.”
“That explains so much!”
Okay, I’m not jumping into that conversation. But I should jump into someone’s. Whose? And how? I twitch, anxious with the need to do something. I start arranging pillows on the couch, neatening them up before I remember I’m the guest and not the person throwing the party.
“Is this the wrong apartment?” I ask Jane once I find her. “You didn’t bring me to a meet-up for math majors, did you?”
“No, no.” She screws up her face. “Didn’t you see the nice wine? This party is classy.”
It may be classy, kind of, but also, it’s…
Well, I’m sure someone here will be more interested in friendship than in deconstructing it into a formula.
Determined to try harder, I weave through my colleagues over to the wine-laden counter.
A few people stand there, chatting. I wait for one to separate from the herd so I can pick them off like an injured wildebeest. To keep myself occupied, I down a glass of chardonnay.
The next thing I know, I find myself rearranging the wine bottles by region and varietal, repurposing two emptied cheese boards to use as a stage.
I find and refold some paper napkins. Having nailed a much classier, if slightly boho-chic aesthetic, I perch on the edge of the wet counter and wait to be complimented.
It takes a while, so I pull out my phone and reread texts from Hanry.
I scroll through them, all of them, until stopping at the last one Hanry ever sent, on the day of Sidney and Brett’s were-human wedding.
Let me know when you get home safe.
I didn’t answer.
But I should’ve! My fingertip hovers over the speech window.
Should I text Hanry? If I did, what would I say?
Obviously I could mention that I returned safely to New York.
But now the floodgates open. What else could I say?
How about: I miss your not-quite-bearded face?
I think you’re fun? Work parties aren’t as great as everyone says?
I know we decided to break up, but isn’t this like, a little too broken-up, actually?
Sure, we’re worlds apart and it’s probably irreconcilable, but what if, I don’t know, what if maybe—
Before I can press send and deliver my stream-of-consciousness novel, someone bumps into my side. Their arm flails, and fizzy beer spills over my shoulder and down into my bra.
“Whoa, sorry!” laughs the nonathletic guy from before. “I didn’t see you!”
I pluck at my shirt. “I’m sticky!”
“Sorry!”
“Do you need a Tide Pen?” asks the guy’s companion. Both of them are equipped with central-casting face. I feel almost too bored to look between them.
“Tide Pens only help with stains,” I snap. “What I need is a hair dryer. Do you have one of those?”
“Uh, no,” says the guy with skinny, useless spaghetti arms. Both of them walk off. Fine. Good riddance. Why ask if you’re not going to be helpful? I pull an emergency Kleenex from my crossbody bag, grumbling.
“You need me to grab a towel from the bathroom or anything?” asks someone else with a drink. I take a better look at him: a brunette with a nice outfit. Not the kind to stand out in a crowd. His Afro temple fade is immaculate. In a way, it’s perfect.
“Hey,” I say. “No thanks.”
He replies with a chin nod. Which is subtle. This interaction is getting better every moment. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“No,” I say, sipping from my stemless abomination of a cup. “I just started at EFG, in the tech audits group. We haven’t met.”
“That’s because I’ve been on-site at MicroOrange,” he says.
And then it strikes me. This is my enemy.
“Oh, cool. You must be Desmond,” I say.
The alleged Desmond gives me the briefest once-over.
“You don’t look like an auditor,” he says.
I jerk so hard, some of my white wine sloshes across my fingers.
“I don’t? How come?”
“I don’t know. A vibe, I guess.” Taking a calm sip, Desmond asks me what Netflix shows I’m watching. Yikes. Since the start of October, I’ve watched nothing but old romantic dramas set at least two hundred years ago. As for social media, I average easily three hundred wedding TikToks a day.
Not quite despairing, I down another gulp of chardonnay and say, “The popular ones.”
“I love the popular ones.”
Wait. Is he… is he flirting? I think so. It sounds like flirting. But why don’t I feel anything? Probably because Desmond tried to get me fired. Does that make this negging?
A touch on my shoulder causes me to turn around.
“Hey,” says Jane, unaware that she’s interrupting a possible moment. “I was heading outside to smoke. Wanna join?”
Huh. I wouldn’t have guessed that from Jane.
A spark of interest, finally, flames to life inside my dulled and bored-sick brain.
Better still: smoking seems like a normal thing to do, and Classic New York.
Saying goodbye to Desmond—then once I’ve turned away, stuffing a couple cocktail napkins into my bra—I step outside after her.
On the shallow balcony, a bone-chilling gust drives straight through my wet shirt. I shiver, detecting snowflakes.
Of course the sky is dueling the apartment for the prize of cold-hearted unfriendliness.
How rude of you, New York Sky.
“—on the weekend,” Jane is saying. I wonder how long she’s been talking and why I wasn’t listening. I mean, she never really says anything interesting, but she’s my roommate. And the only friend I have at this party. And potentially in this entire city.
“Uh-huh,” I say, trying for politeness. “I hear you.”
“Yeah? So we can start tomorrow. What do you think?”
What do I think?
I tip my head back, aware of the elevator jazz and voices trickling out behind us.
The buildings surrounding me; the hundreds of them.
They stay bright whether it’s daytime or nighttime or fall or winter.
This whole city’s bloated with rooms full of people who don’t care about me—and who I don’t care about either.
“Does it get better than this?” I ask. “Or is life always this predictable? And lame?”