But that isn’t who she is. She needs to fly, and James only needs to live. Nelle is a piece of fiction, a character who needs a purpose. He is only dependent on the breath in his lungs and the blood in his heart.
In the nightstand drawer, he digs past three poetry collections to find the photographs he tucked away for safekeeping.
The first is of him and Nelle in DC, smiling with their arms wrapped around each other.
Innocence, he calls it.
The second photograph hurts worse.
Him, Nelle, Jessie, and Lena, their heads hung back in laughter. Seeing Nelle back in New York, even in a photograph, is an arrow to the heart.
This one’s name comes clear to him, too.What could have been.
He imagines Nelle on the bed with him, her head in his lap. Soft vanilla, prickly ink, the weight and warmth of her hand in his. Her laughter bubbling up, her glares, her scrappiness, her ...
He goes to sleep thinking about everything he can never have again.
Jessie’s Christmas party is a spectacle of glitter and gold. James maneuvers through the apartment with two plastic glasses of champagne. He slidesaround the back of the couch, cuts through a game of beer pong on the island, and says hi to some rowdy friends of Jessie’s. He has barely drunk a drop, and every face he recognizes is no more than an acquaintance, so he searches for his cousin through the den of alcohol, weed, tinsel, and holiday sweaters. After scanning the apartment, he spots her out on the balcony and weasels his way through the cramped room. Jessie’s leaning against the balcony’s iron ledge, smoking with Lena, and accepts one of the plastic flutes.
“Your party’s a hit,” he says.
She blows out a plume of smoke. “Always. We were just talking about how beautiful it is out here.”
“It’s cold,” James says.
Lena’s black hair is slicked into a mass of curls. Her jaw is square, her smile wide and white, and she wears a yellow-leather trench coat over a white turtleneck and baggy jeans. Her outfit screamsfashionwhile Jessie’s light-up spangled Christmas sweater just screams.
Across the street, twinkly lights are strung from balcony to balcony. A family of pigeons makes a nest in the yellow crook of a windowsill. Snow tumbles from the sky, sticking like powdered sugar to the tops of trash cans.
“This is peak New York right here,” says a velvety voice behind James.
He turns to see a woman in a thin white cardigan perched in the balcony shadows. She leans against the brick wall, her arms crossed, red Solo cup dangling in her hand. Her gray dress rides up to reveal a freckle on her mid-thigh.She has to be freezing, he thinks.
“Lucy,” Jessie says, “This is my cousin James. He’s starting at NYU next semester.”
Lucy’s stony gaze softens. He feels the urge to put on a reality TV show, make popcorn, and take an edible with her. To spiral into an all-night-long conversation, exploring each other’s brains, considering each other’s bodies. An urge he hasn’t had since Nelle.
“I’m a student, too,” she says. “Working on my MFA.”
“At NYU?” James asks.
“Columbia.”
“Oh, so you’resmartsmart.” He laughs.Smartandpretty,he thinks.
Lucy observes him, as unreadable and dangerous as a hawk.
“So, uh ...” Everything he can think to say seems idiotic. “What’s your focus?”
Lucy tilts her cup to her lips, silver earrings dangling like tiny chandeliers. “Fiction.”
“Oh, fiction,” James says. “Cool. What made you choose that?”
She shrugs. “I like to lie.”
Jessie squints through the foggy glass door. “Oh, honey, Ben’s looking for us.” She threads her fingers through Lena’s and drags her inside. “I’ll be right back. You two stay out here.”
James lifts his hand. “Wait, Jessie—”
