I waver, torn between answering and crawling into bed. I was hoping to have some alone time to finish what Aidan started, but when the knock comes again, I know that will have to wait.
“Honey, let me in. Come on.”
I open the door to find my neighbor, Eric, hovering on the doorstep. His hazel eyes sweep across me, ringed with concern as he crosses the threshold. He’s in his usual cream-colored cable-knit cardigan covering a tee, clutching a bottle of cheap wine.
“I thought I was going to have to use my key,” he chides teasingly. I gave him a spare last year, given I have a propensity to lose mine. He holds up the bottle. “Figured you could use this.”
I snort a laugh, closing the door behind him. Eric has been my neighbor since I moved into the building four years ago. Thirty-something, gay, caring and concerned, if a littletooinvested at times. And while I don’t make a habit of befriending my neighbors—this is New York, after all—in this case, it was unavoidable.
You see, Eric and I share a bathroom.
Wait, let me back up. I live in what might be the city’s tiniest apartment. It’s fourteen feet long by six feet wide, or to put it another way, 84 square feet, not including the lofted bed space overhead. Technically, the square footage makes the place illegal in New York, but by calling it a “micro suite,” my landlord gets away with it.
And while it’s got a kitchenette, room for a single armchair and ottoman, a small dresser, and a bed I can only reach by climbing a ladder, what it doesn’t have is a bathroom. That’s shared with my neighbor, and seriously, I’m lucky I got Eric. I can’t imagine what sharing a bathroom with a straight, single male in New York would be like. Gross.
But Eric is clean. Not obsessively so, or that would be its own problem, but just the right amount to make sharing a bathroom not disgusting.
Plus, he’s become a good friend.
I watch as Eric roots around in the single cupboard above my counter, looking for wineglasses, before remembering that I, of course, don’t have them. When space is at a premium, you don’t get little luxuries like that. But whenrentis as cheap as it is here, you don’t mind. It’s the only reason I haven’t had to move back in with my folks while I’ve been in college.
The low rent initially drew me to this place, but I’ve grown to love the small space. Some would think it’s too small, but it’s just right for me. I’ve made it cozy, with a shelf of plants by the window, framed prints on the walls, and a huge curved floor mirror that makes the place feel more spacious. Not to mention the blanket I made during my crochet phase, or the leftover scented candles from an experiment in candle-making a while back. There’s a lot you can do with a small space if you’re creative, and while I’m not known for having my shit together, anyone looking at my apartment could be fooled.
Of course, it helps that I have a storage unit in the basement for my discarded hobbies. And then there’s the closet by the front door that onlyjustcloses because I cram everything I can’t deal with inside; laundry, a broken lamp, stuff I meant to return months ago…
But my shame closet is the least of my concerns right now.
Eventually, Eric settles on mason jars and pours two generous glasses of wine. He hands me one, and I take a sip as I settle into the worn blue wingback armchair in front of the window to soak up the final rays of the weak afternoon sun. The best thing about my apartment is the big south-facing window that opens fully. It makes the space feel much larger and brighter, gives me all the fresh air I need, and I can people-watch on the street below. The best free entertainment a girl could ask for.
My mind flashes to Aidan, with his expensive suit and fancy watch. Yet another reason we would never work outside that restroom. Clearly, we’re from two different worlds.
“So,” Eric says, sinking onto the ottoman and placing his feet on the bottom rung of the ladder that leads to my loft, using it as a makeshift footstool. His apartment is identical, and we’re both used to the cramped quarters. “How are you feeling after… everything?”
For a split second, I think he’s asking me about what happened with Aidan in the restroom at Marco’s, and heat creeps into my cheeks before I can stop it. Eric’s eyebrows lift curiously, and I clear my throat, looking down at the wine.
He’s asking about school, of course. He texted while I waited in line for my cupcakes, asking how the first day back was going, because he knew I’d been anxious about starting the semester. When I replied with the simple line,they kicked me out, he called immediately. I spent the walk to the subway reliving the whole sorry story, including the fun addition of my new job,which is how I found myself crying into my cupcakes and getting on the wrong train.
How I found myself on my knees in that restroom, desperate to think about anything else.
“I’m… fine,” I say vaguely.
“Hmm,” Eric says, and I can feel his gaze on me as I glance nonchalantly out the window.
Well, I’m attempting nonchalance, but it doesn’t work because my brain uses this exact moment to remind me of Aidan, towering above me, clutching my hair as he growls,You look so pretty on your knees for me, Cupcake,and the heat in my face intensifies.
I inhale deeply, take a large gulp of wine, then force my gaze back to Eric. Force my mind to the conversation at hand.
“I’ve been bombing my classes for ages.” I shrug. “I should have seen this coming.”
“Right,” Eric says, clearly unconvinced. “Not gonna lie, after the way you sounded on the phone, I thought you’d be a wreck.”
I cringe, thinking of the mascara tracks down my cheeks as I sat in that bar. I only wiped them away because of Aidan.
But my tears weren’t from being kicked out of college. They were from my father’s heartless words.
You didn’t try hard enough.
They were from realizing that even when Idotry, it doesn’t help. That no matter what I do in this world, I always end up one step behind everyone.
