Thiago smirks. “Ah, plans, huh? Interesting.”
“Thanks for the hat, kid. I’ll bring it back later.”
I shut the door before he can add another word, then hear him call out for Catalina to hold the lift.
Leaning back against the door, I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
Deodorant. Bit of cologne. Hoodie on. Hair refuses to behave, but at this point, I look as if I’m pretending not to care, close enough. Wallet, phone, keys. Right so.
I’ve no business feeling this nervous. It’s just a girl, just a walk, but nothing about her has ever felt simple.
I pace the room once, twice, maybe three times before forcing myself out the door. Hat in hand.
Toward Sixty-ninth and Second.
I spot her before she spots me.
She’s on the corner, head down, thumbs flying over her phone. Black sweats, black trainers, a worn Backstreet Boys tee, beige trench that catches the light each time a cab goes past. Backpack over one shoulder, black hat pulled low, hair loose and soft around her face.
And Christ above, she’s the only thing that matters on the whole street.
People swarm by, some with dogs, some with coffees, all lost in their own little worlds.
Then she looks up.
A small smile, just for me. Subtle and deadly.
“Just in time,” she says, waving me on.
I follow.
We cross with the crowd, the city humming, and she heads down the stairs into the underground. The air changes—damp, metallic, alive.
At the turnstile, she scans her phone, and the gate clicks open. She nods for me to go first. I hesitate half a heartbeat, then push through. She follows, gliding beside me like she’s done this a thousand times.
“Come on,” she says. “We’re taking the Q. It’s almost here.”
She moves as if she knows every inch of the place. I trail after, trying not to look like a tourist. It’s loud and fast and confusing as hell but thrilling all the same.
Another set of stairs, deeper still. The train roars in as we hit the platform. She grabs a pole and steps inside like she owns the car. I follow, half awe, half survival.
Toward the back where it’s quiet, she drops into a seat.
“Hat,” she says, nodding at the one in my hand.
I put it on, still catching my breath.
She stares for a moment, then bursts out laughing.
“What?”
“I said to wear a hat so you’d blend in,” she says, eyes bright. “I think a Strikers logo might do the opposite.”
I reach up, feel the raised stitching under my thumb, and groan.
“It’s all I had,” I add. “Don’t usually wear hats. Thiago lent me this one.”
She laughs, reaches up, and swaps the hat for her own. She loosens the strap, tugs it down over my hair, and tilts her head, pleased with herself.
