I stare at them, mouth open. “And you…never said anything?”
“We figured you’d tell us when you were ready,” Cori says with a shrug. “Or you wouldn’t. Your rich-person drama is your business, Annie. As long as you paid the rent and didn’t burn the apartment down, we didn’t care.”
Marcus adds. “I was kind of enjoying the mystery. I had a side-bet with myself that you were actually in the mob somehow.”
“But nobody’s approached me,” I say, waving my hand at the empty space in front of us like it proves my point. “No paparazzi lurking. No photographers snapping pictures while I buy milk. It had to be at least a halfway decent disguise!”
“Annie,” Cori says, her voice taking on that patient tone she usually saves for explaining to me why I shouldn’t eat three-day-old takeout. “This is Manhattan.”
“So?”
“So,” Marcus interjects, “this city is populated by people who have seen it all and are currently too busy trying to find a rent-controlled apartment to care about a runaway socialite. Celebrities aren’t that special here. They’re just…around. They’re like pigeons.”
“I saw Matthew Broderick at that deli on 78th last month,” Cori says, tucking her damp hair behind her ear. “Nobody even glanced his way. He just ordered his bagel and left.”
“I spotted Robert De Niro getting coffee once,” Marcus adds, wiping his hands on his napkin. “Black, no sugar. Nobody mobbed him. He grabbed it and vanished into the crowd. In New York, being famous is like having a weird hat or haircut. People might notice it, but they aren’t going to stop their commute to talk to you about it.”
“I saw that girl fromEd Woodat a vintage shop on St. Marks just yesterday,” Cori says, snapping her fingers as she tries to pull the name from the air. “The one who was Johnny Depp’s girlfriend in the movie. What’s her name again?”
“Sarah Jessica Parker,” Marcus supplies without missing a beat.
“Yes! Her! Why does she go by all three? She couldn’t just be Sarah? She has to be Sarah Jessica?”
“Maybe there was already a Sarah Parker in Hollywood somewhere,” I offer, half-distracted, still processing.
“Still weird,” Cori says. “But God, she has fantastic hair. Like, bouncy, sentient hair.”
“Amazing hair,” Marcus agrees, leaning back on his elbows.
I stare at them, the absurdity sinking in. “So you’re saying I’ve been hiding from…nothing?”
“Pretty much,” Marcus says with a shrug.
“So nobody knows that I’m Graham Collier’s daughter?”
“Oh, people mightknow,” he says. “But they don’t care enough to act on it. You’re not exactly A-list, Annie. No offense. Your dad is, but not you.”
“None taken…I think?”
“You’re, like, A-list adjacent. Which in New York means you might get noticed at a ball or something, but on the subway? Everyone’s too busy avoiding eye contact with the guy talking to himself to care about you.”
“And you guys—you’re not mad?” I sputter. “I lied!”
“You didn’t reallylie,” Cori reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You just kept some things private. We’ve all got shit we don’t talk about.”
“Exactly. Everyone’s got secrets.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Maybe both. “So you’ve known this whole time that I’m—”
“A trust-fund runaway who ditched her wedding? Yeah.” Marcus grins. “But you’re also crying into your tacos and spiraling over a neuroscientist. So you’re just like the rest of us.”
“But with worse bangs,” Cori adds.
“My bangs are fine!” I insist, my hands fluttering to my forehead like startled birds.
“They’re a little tragic, babe,” Marcus says. “While it was a valiant effort, they’re still a cry for help.”
“You told me they looked cute! You said they were French and chic!”
