“I said they werebrave!There’s a difference!”
I throw a couch pillow at him, but I’m cracking open, spilling out, finally free of the secret’s terrible weight. “You really don’t care? About any of it?”
“Annie.” Cori pulls me into a hug, her warmth smelling like taco seasoning and home. “We don’t care about the money or the name or the life you left behind. We care about the you who is here.”
“The you who is currently dating a very hot, very brainy Greek man,” Marcus adds.
Cori sighs. “Can you stop?”
“Never.”
I wipe my eyes, smiling despite the mess of my life. “I love you guys.”
“We know,” Marcus says, reaching for the empty taco bag just in case. “We’re very lovable. It’s a burden, really.”
The realization lands softly, like the last leaf of autumn: this is the first time I’ve ever had mypeople.A tribe that isn’t inherited or assigned or strategically networked over chilled gazpacho. These two idiots sitting on the floor with me, dissecting my sex life and weaponizing tacos—they’re mine. And the terrifying, beautiful part is that they chose me—not because of a donor list or a connection to a board of directors—but because of who I am when I’m actually, well, me.
Which is convenient, because at this rate, “me” is about all I’ve got left to offer.
I was supposed to finally get access to my multi-million dollar trust fund this year, six months after turning twenty-five—that was the arrangement my father set up. A test of maturity, he called it. A way to make sure I was “responsible enough” to handle that kind of money. The first installment was supposed to hit my account right after Christmas, but after leaving Daniel at the altar and effectively lighting the family reputation on fire—I’m fairly certain my father is currently paying a team of lawyers to find a loophole the size of California.
So, there’s a very real possibility I am actually poor. Not“bohemian-chic-I-can-always-go-home”poor. But“counting-pennies-to-pay-for-my-detergent-at-the-Laundromat”poor.
And yet, as I look at the water stain on the ceiling that has gradually come to resemble Winston Churchill, a strange, solid peace settles in my chest. If I have to be poor, let it be here. In this apartment that smells perpetually of burnt toast or the questionable meat from the cart on Broadway we probably should stop trusting, with the radiator that sings show tunes in the winter. Let my tribe be this one.
Theseare my people.
Not the whispering phantoms of the gala circuit. Not Daniel’s friends, who viewed me as the acceptable, decorative finale to his collection. But sweet, sweet Marcus, who makes jokes about my tragic bangs and my tragic-er love life, even though he would fiercely protect me from anyone or anything. And Cori, who shares her pickles and her love with equal generosity, whose hand on my hair feels more like home than any house I’ve ever lived in.
“Okay,” I say, swiping the back of my hand under my nose. It’s not a graceful sound. “Alright. I’m done crying.”
“Praise be,” Marcus says, dropping his plastic fork. “My sympathy reserves are a finite resource. I was down to the dregs.”
“You havenosympathy reserves, Marky Mark.”
“I have a thimbleful. And you just drank it all up.”
Cori’s hand finds mine, her thumb smoothing over my knuckles. “You’re okay, though?”
“Yeah,” I say. And for a fractured, beautiful second, I am.
I’m not, of course. The fear about Leo is a live wire in my sternum. The future is a cliff edge shrouded in fog. But here, in this overpriced, undersized box, I feel something I can’t really name. It’s like…harbor. A safe haven. A temporary anchorage in a wild sea. The sense that if I wreck myself, these two will be on the shore, ready and waiting to pick me back up.
“So,” Cori prompts, her head tilting. “The Leo problem. What’re you going to do about it?”
“I’m open to ideas. I was considering writing my feelings in a haiku and slipping it under his door.”
“Bold,” Marcus nods. “Or you could, and this is radical, use your words. Like a grown woman.”
“Your faith in me is touching.”
And right then, someone knocks on the door. Not the friendly knock of a neighbor. This is percussive. Authoritative. A sound that owns the wood it strikes.
We go still, a diorama of guilt.
“Is there any chance that’s pizza?” Marcus whispers, though we didn’t order any.
“At ten PM on a Thursday?” Cori whispers back.
