“Come over tonight and I’ll show you.”
“I’m already there. What time?”
“Around ten?”
“What are you doing before?”
“Happy hour with the boys.”
“You better be ready for me.”
“Bring it, sexy.”
We kiss for a long time in the summer heat. Then I break away and rush back to class.
That night at my place, I can still feel Logan’s lips on mine. Sprawled on the couch after the pasta dinner Sadie made, watching Rosanna do the dishes, I’m anticipating what we’ll do tonight. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said Logan better be ready for me.
A crash of glass breaking against the kitchen floor startles me out of my lust haze.
“Dammit,” Rosanna says. She bends down behind the breakfast bar.
I go over to help her. Pieces of broken glass are everywhere.
“Be careful,” I say. I rummage under the sink for a dustpan. There’s no dustpan here. Where else would people keep a dustpan? Do we even have a dustpan?
“Could you give me a hand?” Rosanna huffs. There’s been this cloud of stank attitude over her since she got home. I don’t know what her deal is, but throwing a tizzy fit in my direction is not the best way to go.
“I’m trying,” I say. “Do we have a dustpan?”
Rosanna springs up off the floor, exasperated. “How can you not know if we have a dustpan?”
“Um, because if we do, I haven’t used it yet?”
Rosanna pounds over to the little utility closet outside the bathroom. She whips out a dustpan and slams the door.
“Yeah,” she says, bending down to sweep up the glass. “We have a dustpan.” The way she says it sounds like an accusation. Like I’m supposed to know everything everyone has and where it is.
“What’s with you? You’ve been hissy ever since you got home.”
“I’m not having the best day.”
“So you’re taking it out on me? I’m trying to help you.”
“By lying on the couch while I do the dishes? How is that helping?”
“You offered to do them.”
“And you couldn’t offer to help?”
“You didn’t say you needed help.”
“I don’t!”
“Then why are you mad at me?”
Rosanna sweeps up the last shards of glass. Then she brushes the glass into the garbage can and puts the dustpan away. She comes back to the kitchen, turning the water on to wash the rest of the dishes. I’m still waiting for her to answer me.
“Forget it,” she says. Rosanna stares down at the colander she’s washing. She shakes her head.
“Is this about D?” I ask. “Did something happen?”
“Other than Shayla?”
“Forget her. D is obviously crazy about you. She’s not worth thinking about.”
“How can I not think about her? She’s a problem.”
“Situations only become problems if we let them.”
“Says the girl with no problems,” Rosanna mutters, turning the water off.
“Oh, so that’s why you’re mad at me. What you said last night about how I get whatever I want. That everything comes so easily to me. Do you really believe all that?”
“Isn’t it true?”
“Of course not.” How can Rosanna think I’m so shallow?
We didn’t get off to the best start the day we met. That was my fault. But I thought I fixed things between us. I took her out to dinner, bought her those new clothes and accessories. I’ve been supportive of the whole Shayla situation. We’ve been getting along really well. Or so I thought.
Have I been wrong this whole time?
EIGHTEEN
ROSANNA
I’M OVER THE WAY DARCY acts like she can do whatever she wants and the rest of us will take care of everything.
First she just sat on the couch while I started doing the dishes. Would it have killed her to offer to help? I didn’t want to be doing the dishes any more than she did. But there I was, doing her dishes while she stretched out like a show cat whose owner caters to its every desire. Then I dropped a glass. It broke into a million pieces on the tile floor. Darcy reluctantly hauled herself off the couch, clueless about where we keep the dustpan. Maybe she’d know if she did any cleaning. But Sadie and I do all the cleaning for her.
So yeah. I’m being a bitch. I do not like myself right now. Where’s the map that shows how to get to the shiny new version of myself I’m supposed to be? Darcy wanted to know what’s wrong. There was no way I could begin to explain without bursting into tears. I’m irritated that D is spending time with Shayla. I’m irritated that Addison keeps ignoring my calls. I’m irritated that Frank isn’t doing anything about Momo. I’m irritated that my friends and family are so far away. And I’m irritated that financial anxiety is my new best friend.
“Here.” Darcy nudges herself next to me at the sink. “Let me help you.”
“Do you even know how to wash a dish?” Wow. Now I’m just being unnecessarily bitchy. Crossing the line bitchy. But the words are out there before I can stop myself from saying them.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You never wash your dishes. You always leave them in the sink.”
“That’s not true. I washed my glass out the other day.”
“Did you? Or did you leave it in the sink filled with water?”
“There was dish detergent in it. It was soaking.”
“You don’t even rinse your plates and utensils when you leave them in the sink. You leave them there with bits of food stuck all over. Do you know how annoying it is to scrub off dried food?”
“That’s not all me. I hardly ever eat here.”
“Sadie washes her dishes when she’s done. Either that or she rinses them off and washes them later. And I always wash everything right away.”
“Well, not everyone always has time to wash their dishes right away,” Darcy protests.
“How much time does it take to put your stuff in your room?”
“What stuff?”
“Seriously? Clothes, shoes, books, bags—your stuff is everywhere.”
“All of our stuff is everywhere. It’s called three people living in the same apartment.”
“Two of those people put their stuff away in their rooms. Look around.” I gesture over the breakfast bar to the living room. A jumble of Darcy’s shoes are piled by the couch. Mugs and glasses that she used are scattered on every available surface. Part of what might be a top or a skirt is peeking out from behind a couch cushion. All of it is Darcy’s.
“Last time I checked, I wasn’t living at home with my parents anymore.”
“That’s not an excuse to trash our apartment.” Darcy has no idea how hard it is to keep a three-bedroom apartment clean. How would she know? She grew up with cleaning ladies to pick up after her.
“Okay.” Darcy puts a hand up like stop right there. “This? Is not trashed. This is the cleanest apartment ever.”
Yeah. Because I do almost all the work. I’ll bet she doesn’t even know the difference between a sponge and a scouring pad.
“Would it make you feel better if I put my things away?” Darcy pouts at me as if this is all a game. Does nothing faze her?
“That would be a start.”
“Seriously?” Darcy goes into the living room and starts gathering up the mugs. “What else is wrong?” She fumbles one of the mugs, almost dropping it.
I need to get a grip. I am out of control. Fortunately Darcy is tolerating my venting. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up with an enemy for a roommate. Simmer down, Rosanna. Remember who you want to be.
“Nothing,” I say. “Sorry I’m being such a bitch.”
“No, it’s okay. I want to know what’s bothering you. Get it all out, girl!”
“You really want to know?”
Darcy drops the mugs into the sink. “Lay it on me.”
“Well . . . you know how
I divided our medicine cabinet into shelves for each of us?” The divisions were necessary. Darcy’s makeup and eyelash curler and moisturizer kept migrating over to my area. I accidentally took some of her Tylenol before I realized it wasn’t my bottle. Of course I replaced them. But that’s not the point. The point is that everyone should be entitled to a dedicated area of bathroom space in a shared medicine cabinet. So I divided our sections into areas by shelves: Darcy got the bottom shelf, Sadie was the middle, and I took the top shelf. But a mere two days later, Darcy’s lip gloss and tweezers were tossed on top of my eye shadow. The chaos erupted from there.
“Yeah?” Darcy prods.
“That lasted two days.”
“Did it?”
“The medicine cabinet is completely destroyed.”
“Okay, I don’t think we can classify a medicine cabinet as ‘completely destroyed’ just because some things are out of place.”
“It’s not some things. It’s everything.”
“Are your things still on your shelf?”
“Buried under your things. And if you keep putting your stuff on my shelf, I won’t be able to fit all of my stuff there anymore.”
She leans against the counter, pouting at me again.
“You wanted to know,” I say defensively. I start washing her mugs. If I don’t wash them, they will sit here forever.
“You do realize it’s just a medicine cabinet. It’s just stuff. What’s the big deal if some of that stuff is out of place?”
I shake my head, rinsing the first mug. She just doesn’t get it.
“What else?” Darcy asks.
“You never take your shoes off when you come home.”
“So?”
“So your shoes track dirt into the apartment.”
“That’s what the floor is for.”
“You’re saying you don’t care if the floors get dirty because you keep coming in with your shoes on?”
“The floors are going to get dirty anyway. I don’t think my shoes are tracking in that much dirt.”
“But how hard is it to take your shoes off when you come in?”
“It’s not something I think about. When I come home, I’m either racing to get ready to go out again or I want to relax. Taking my shoes off the second I walk in the door wouldn’t help me with either of those.”
“It takes two seconds.”
“So does cleaning the floor.”
Darcy’s ignorance makes me bristle all over again. Is she really that out of it? Not that she would mop or vacuum or even sweep when she spilled something on the floor. The other day she spilled sugar on the kitchen floor and didn’t even bother to attempt cleaning it up. She just left the sugar on the floor like she still had a cleaning lady to take care of it. She’s probably never had to clean a floor in her life. But that’s no excuse to be ignorant. Darcy is technically an adult. She should act like one.
“Actually,” I say, “cleaning the floor takes a while. This is a three-bedroom apartment.”
Darcy goes over to the couch. She yanks her skirt out from behind the cushion. I don’t even want to know what her skirt is doing in the living room.
“I don’t need this place to be spotless,” she says. “You’re the one who’s obsessing.”
“So I’m the one who should do all the cleaning since I’m the one who wants our home to be clean?”
“I said we should get a cleaning lady. But you guys didn’t go for it.”
“But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t help us.”
“I wanted to help by getting a cleaning lady!”
“Who we would all have to pay for! Some of us can’t afford a cleaning lady!”
We stare at each other.
Like I said. She just doesn’t get it. And no amount of explaining is going to change that.
NINETEEN
SADIE
QUIRKY NEW YORKERS WORSHIP MANHATTANHENGE. Two nights a year (one in May and one in July), the point of sunset is aligned with the Manhattan street grid such that every street running straight across from east to west perfectly frames the sunset. This year the July Manhattanhenge is happening tonight, July 12. I can’t wait to share it with Rosanna and Darcy.
I also can’t wait to tell them about Austin. I wanted to tell them everything he said after he showed up last night, but Darcy wasn’t home and Rosanna was in her room with the lights out. When I saw her this morning, Rosanna told me she wanted to give me space last night in case I brought Austin upstairs to talk. She wanted to know what happened. But I was running late and said I’d tell her and Darcy together tonight. Darcy doesn’t even know Austin showed up. Will they think I’m crazy for talking to him? Will they believe the things he said?
Would it ever be possible to trust Austin again?
“Are we there yet?” Darcy whines.
“Almost,” I reassure her. “Just two more blocks.”
“Two more blocks! We’ve already walked like sixty.”
“Um, I think you mean six.” The best Manhattanhenge viewing point is the farthest east you can get at the end of any street with an unobstructed view of the horizon. The three of us are walking to 14th Street and 1st Avenue. I’d be up for walking even farther east. Rosanna was down with that, too. She wanted to see Alphabet City (mainly because it sounded like something from Sesame Street, which she has love for). But Darcy has not been charmed by our walk, even though we’re walking the pretty way instead of the efficient way. Walking the efficient way is all about getting from Point A to Point B in the shortest amount of time. I only walk the efficient way when I’m running late. The top efficient ways of walking are 14th Street (basically a bunch of fast food places and discount stores) and 6th Avenue (too frantic and grungy). That’s why we’re walking over on 13th Street instead of 14th. I prefer to walk on quieter streets with more interesting things to look up at, even if it takes me out of my way. Surrounding yourself with beauty is worth an extra five minutes.
“Why did you wear those shoes?” Rosanna asks Darcy.
“I refuse to sacrifice style for comfort.” Darcy holds her head high, expertly maneuvering her skyscraper heels around a subway grate. “The east side can eat me.”
We finally get to the southwest corner of 14th and 1st. There are about fifteen minutes to go before sunset. A skinny older guy with gray hair, retro teashade glasses, and a T-shirt that says FIGHT ON is taking pictures with a professional camera. A couple people crossing the street notice him taking pictures and turn to look west. But we’re the only ones camped out on this corner so far. We gaze west down 14th Street. The sun looks like an orange blob suspended in a lava lamp. As we watch its apparent motion, the sun perfectly fills the gap between the rows of buildings on either side of the street, centered on the horizon. Its rays glow brilliantly, illuminating all the building glass in radiant shades of red and gold. When the streetlight turns red, I yank my girls into the middle of the street. A few other people gather in the middle of the street with us. This is the best vantage point to take pictures. Darcy snaps a few beautiful ones.
“The light’s turning green!” Rosanna yells.
We run back to the sidewalk. A bunch of people are watching the sun now. The sun dips below the horizon. We watch the sun set until its last slick curve disappears.
“And that’s why I moved here,” Rosanna says.
“That was amazing,” Darcy proclaims. She gives me an appreciative smile. “How many Manhattanhenges have you seen?”
“I try to catch one a year,” I say. “But the last few have either been too cloudy or I had plans. This is the first one I’ve seen in a while.”
Darcy stares down the long street as if she’s still watching the sunset. “If anyone needs to learn how to be present in the Now, they should watch Manhattanhenge. You can’t look away. Even after it’s over.”
We all stand together in silence. In stillness. In respect and awe of our city. Darcy and Rosanna have shared enough about their pasts during our late-night talks for me t
o feel like I know them well. Their history is palpable at this moment. The years Rosanna worked so hard to create a better life for herself, hoping that she could live here one day, her biggest dream. The years Darcy battled for her dad’s attention, only to be bested by his career, now throwing herself into a summer of excessive boy affection. I feel Rosanna’s struggle to be the best version of herself in New York. I feel Darcy’s need to be loved in New York. In this moment, we are not three girls who just met. We are one, and one with the city.
I’m treating the girls to fresh fruit drinks at Bubby’s. Ever since Austin took me to the Bubby’s in Tribeca for pie, Austin and Bubby’s have become irrevocably intertwined. But I have no problem going back to Bubby’s. I’ve decided I will not avoid places that remind me of Austin. I will not allow the places formerly known as mine that became ours to be off-limits forever. I’m determined to take back the New York City I knew before him. My first city love that will always be here for me, no matter what.
So I’m taking back Bubby’s. Maybe I’m not ready for the Tribeca Bubby’s. But it’s a start. We’re going to the Bubby’s across from the High Line. It’s all the way over on Gansevoort Street near 10th Avenue. There is no way Darcy’s walking nine avenues in those heels.
“I’m getting us a cab.” Darcy lifts her arm at an approaching cab. It races over, lurching to a halt right in front of us.
“Damn, girl,” I say. “Hail that cab.”
“Didn’t even have to hike up my skirt.”
The High Line Bubby’s is even more fabulous than the Tribeca one. This location has an old-school soda fountain. They have sodas, sundaes, shakes—anything you want. All of their ingredients are super fresh. They even make their own ice cream in-house.
“Oh my god!” Rosanna exclaims when she sees the menu at the bar. “They have watermelon juice!”
“Dude, they have all the juices,” I rave.
“You do not know how hard I’ve been craving watermelon juice. This is . . . I freaking love it here.”
Darcy peruses the scene from her perch on the high bar stool. She’s on the prowl for cute guys. Not in the desperate, obvious way I’ve seen so many girls scan the crowd for cute guys. Or the way I’ve glanced around anxiously in countless cafés and bookstores over the years, searching for my soul mate. Darcy is the one in control. She’s not waiting for a cute guy to happen to her. She’s scoping out potential guys who would be lucky enough to have her happen to them.