Chapter 2
People see New York City as this glamorous place that drips glitter and gold and opens its doors to anyone who is courageous enough to chase after their dreams, like something out of a pop song.
But the only thing that covers this concrete jungle most of the time is smog, and an odor of pee or old pizza always permeates the air.
Not even the doors to the subway will stay open for you, even if you jam your arm through.
Which is something I just did, and a rush of pain rattles my bone as I pull it out.
I wait for the doors to open politely for me again, throwing a pleading look at the subway conductor, but they close the rest of the way, and the train car trudges along.
The conductor stares at me with complete emptiness in his eyes as the train rolls out of the station.
I massage my muscle as I wait for the next one on the G line to arrive.
I switch my bag of groceries off my sore arm to give it a quick break.
The items shift in the bag—vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup, whipped cream, and sprinkles: the ultimate sundae ingredients.
My stomach growls at the thought of the creamy chocolatey goodness.
The next train finally arrives, and I step onto it along with the rest of the commuter crowd. It’s already full, so I have to stand, and I grab one of the poles to keep my balance steady. I forgot my headphones at home today, so my only soundtrack is the chatter of people around me.
My gaze sweeps along the length of the train car, taking in my surroundings.
A woman in a sharp business suit furiously types on her phone using only one hand, her other hand holding on to a pole to maintain her stance.
A teenager with his headphones over his ears blasts a K-pop song, the sound loud enough for the few of us around him to hear.
He’s listening to ATEEZ, though, so I personally don’t mind.
A man sits in one of the seats with a stroller in front of him, but a closer glimpse reveals a tiny pug nestled inside instead of a child.
Unconsciously, I tuck all these little details away in my head.
I often use the things I pick up from my environment as little quirks for characters.
It’s something writers do: use the world around us as inspiration for our work.
It helps to lend the fictional situations we write a layer of reality, so the story is unfamiliar but comfortable at the same time.
I get off at my stop and walk the ten minutes to my home.
I live in Sunset Park, which is a cute little neighborhood with a spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline, though you can see it best from the actual Sunset Park.
The rows of apartments on this street all look the same: redbrick, two three-paned white windows at the top and bottom, white doors with an oval-shaped window in the center.
I tentatively walk up the wobbly crusty eggshell-white steps that Emily and I have been begging our landlord to fix for months and unlock the front door.
When I step in, kicking my heels off, I’m immediately hit with the heavenly scent of nasi lemak.
Ooh—nasi lemak means Emily’s had another fight with her boyfriend and is in desperate need of hot comfort food.
It’s also one of her best dishes, so she knows she’ll never be disappointed with the end result.
The fresh smell of green pandan leaves fills the apartment, and I follow it to the kitchen.
I love our little apartment. We got it at an outrageously low price (our theory is someone was murdered here, but we had an imam come in and bless the place before we moved in, and aside from a few things going missing here and there, it’s fine).
All the walls are white, with the exception of the two bedrooms: mine is baby pink, while Emily’s is soft green.
Painting them was something Emily and I did when we moved in to liven the place up and make it feel like ours.
The living room and the dining room occupy the same space.
We have a small round brown table with four black chairs surrounding it if we have guests, but for the most part we eat our meals on the long gray couch pushed up against the wall.
Across from the couch is a long black coffee table, and our TV hangs off the wall in front of the couch.
Another brown table rests in front of the long window, with a few plants and photos on top of it.
In the middle of the kitchen, Emily puts the finishing touches on our dinner.
She’s in a pair of sweatpants and a yellow T-shirt, which means she had time to come home and change out of her scrubs before she started cooking.
We usually eat dinner at different times—my long hours and Emily’s NICU nurse schedule means sometimes we go days without seeing each other—but whenever we can share a meal, Emily is the one who cooks.
Because I’m such a terrible cook, my dinners typically consist of takeout or stuff from the freezer, so I’m happy to let her make the food while I take care of the apartment in other ways—like cleaning the kitchen when she’s done and watering her plants, which she forgets to do all the time.
She peers over her shoulder when she hears me walk in, and relief relaxes the scrunched lines around her hazel eyes. “Thank God you’re home,” she says. She blows a strand of her silky black hair out of her face. “I need to rant. Did you bring the goods?”
I hold up the bag with our treasure inside. “The perfect after- dinner K-drama binge snack.” I head over to the freezer and stick the ice cream in there but leave the rest of the groceries on the counter for easy access.
“Good, because after the day I’ve had, I need something sweet.
” She scoops warm rice into two bowls, drizzles a brown sauce on it, then tops it off with a sprinkle of peanuts and fried anchovies.
Finally, she places a hard-boiled egg into each bowl, and sets a few slices of fresh cucumber next to them.
She grabs one bowl and places it in front of me along with a pair of chopsticks.
“Here you go. Let’s move to the couch and take a bite before we unload the bullshit that happened to us today. ”
I giggle but accept the bowl and head toward our well-worn couch.
I don’t even bother changing first; I’m too emotionally spent from today.
I do, however, take off my coffee-stained sweater.
I’m wearing a tank top underneath, though, so I’m not totally bare.
We both collapse on the couch at the same time.
I use my chopsticks to pick up a chunk of rice and stuff it into my mouth, letting the mixture of flavors melt on my tongue.
Emily is Malaysian, and one of her favorite things to do is share cuisine from her culture.
It’s how we first became friends, actually.
We met in university when we roomed together at CUNY–Brooklyn.
It was the first time I’d been away from home (even if I was only moving from Queens), and Emily’s kindness was the only reason I made it through first year.
When she noticed I was having a hard time transitioning to dorm life, she started offering me some of her home-cooked food.
She even got to a point where she cooked meals just for me that she knew I liked.
She’s a very warm, open person, the kind of girl who’s friends with anyone she meets.
At the end of our first year when we had to move out of student housing, I assumed I’d have to find a place on my own.
When I mentioned to Emily that we’d be moving out soon, her response was, “Okay, where are we gonna live next?” and I knew then I’d have her for life.
We both take a minute to fill our stomachs with warm food. Emily is already halfway through her bowl before she speaks again. “Did you ask Colin about the law school thing?”
“I did,” I confirm, the fried anchovies suddenly turning extra salty in my mouth. “No dice. He dodged my questions about it.”
“Ugh, that sucks.” She pouts. “What did he say?”
“Nothing really. As soon as I mentioned the money, he shut down.” I stab my egg harder than necessary, then bite into it. “But I can’t afford it on my own.”
Emily expertly picks up a single roasted peanut with her chopsticks. “Think you could ask your parents for help?”
“No.” The answer is swift and sure. “My parents are happily enjoying the retired life and I am not going to burden them. If I want to advance my career, I have to do it on my own.” I push the half-eaten hard-boiled egg around my bowl. “And I got another rejection on my book today.”
This time, Emily snaps her head up. “What? No!” she protests, as if she were the one who got the rejection and not me.
Emily reads everything I write, regardless of what stage it’s at in the writing process.
Outlines, first drafts, final drafts—she’s always up for it.
“I don’t get it. That draft was so good when I read it.
Besides, Arsal owns an inn. How much hotter could a guy be? ”
“I don’t know!” My shoulders slump. “Maybe I should give up. People clearly aren’t connecting to it, and it’s not as splashy as some other books out there.”
“Now, there will be no talk of that,” Emily says, accentuating each word by pointing her finger at me.
“You have to let that stuff roll off your back. There’s an agent out there just waiting to snap you up.
Maybe it’s even one who’s requested but hasn’t had the time to read yet.
Besides, who says a book has to have a huge concept to be good? ”
“I don’t know,” I start. I run a nail along one of the chopsticks. “Maybe the problem is not enough is happening in the book. A lot of rejections I’ve been getting from agents is they don’t think it’s a very… thrilling story.”