Till you find your own solid ground.”
My voice is rough, not beautiful, but it’s steady. I sway us gently, the way the song feels like it should move—a slow, rocking rhythm, like waves on a quiet shore.
“So close your eyes, little sailor, don’t fear,
The tide knows the way back home.
The faeries are near, your path they will clear,
You’re never as lost as you’ve known.”
And then I hear it. The faint, soft sound of snoring.
I look down. Emma’s mouth is slightly open, her cheeks still flushed and streaked with dried tears, her hair a mess of tangles and honey.
But she’s asleep.
Finally, blissfully asleep.
I let out a long, shaky breath and press a kiss to the top of her head.
“Sweet dreams, Em,” I whisper.
Chapter 24
ANNIE
“At some point, Annie, you’re going to have to let go of me.”
“Never,” I mumble into Cori’s shoulder, tightening my grip. “I’ve decided to become a permanent attachment.”
She laughs, but her arms squeeze back just as hard. Downstairs, the familiar squeak-and-thud of the building’s front door signals another trip. Marcus and Brett are loading the last of Cori’s boxes into her parents’ forest-green Volvo station wagon. I’d caught Marcus earlier, wiping fiercely at his eyes when he thought no one was looking, pretending to have allergies in December.
Cori pulls back slightly, her hands resting on my upper arms. “Annie, look at me. It’s a thirty-minute train ride. You can be at my parents’ house before a pizza even gets delivered. And you have my parents’ number, you have the pager.”
“It won’t be the same,” I say, and my voice cracks on the last word. Damn it. I was trying to be cool.
“I know,” she whispers, her eyes softening as she strokes a stray hair away from my face. “But you better come. I’m serious. I’ll be up at 3 AM with a newborn, losing my mind. I’ll need someone to talk to about things other than diaper rash and latching techniques.”
“I’ll bring tacos,” I promise.
“Good,” she says, her expression turning mock-serious. “And keeping Marcus in check? That’s your full-time job now.”
I manage a wobbly smile. “That’s a lot of responsibility for one person.”
I hate this. I hate this seismic shift, especially now, two weeks before Christmas with lights strung over dirty slush and the whole city feeling brittle and bright. New York in winter is a beautiful, punishing lie. It sparkles with fresh snow, then turns that snow into gray, shin-deep soup by noon. It offers cozy, steamy cafe windows, but the walk to get there freezes your lungs. It’s magic and misery, all bundled together, and Cori has been my buffer against the misery half.
I place my hand on the curve of her stomach. “Hey in there,” I say, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to raise hell. Practice your roundhouse kicks. Demand pickles at 2 AM. Give your mom heartburn with your impeccable taste in spicy food. Be a glorious, noisy, wonderful handful.”
Cori laughs, a real one this time.
Logically, I know she’s not moving to Siberia. It’s Queens. But logic has nothing to do with the ache in my chest, or how I’d felt this morning standing in the doorway of her now-empty room. The walls, once covered in her sketches and postcards, were just…beige. There was a ghostly outline of where her dresser had been. The floorboards, finally visible, seemed too wide and lonely. It wasn’t just a room. It was the place where we’d spent nights eating lo mein straight from the container, arguing over whether Ross and Rachel were on a break. It was where we’d piled into her bed during thunderstorms, talking until our voices were hoarse. It was the launching pad for our trips to Lucky’s, and the home base for our daily chats with Ernie on the stoop.
I’d miss the daily rhythm of her: thethump-thump-thumpof her pointe shoes on the floor as she did barre exercises in the living room, the sweet scent of her green-apple conditioner in the shower, the way she had an organized system for everything in this apartment. I’d miss her quiet, unshakable steadiness. How she’d hand me a cup of tea without asking when I looked stressed.
Cori is the first person in a long, long time—since Eileen—who has felt like a true best friend. Not a networking opportunity, not a character in the story of Annemarie Collier, Socialite. Just Annie’s friend. Her moving out feels like the end of the first, most vital chapter of myreallife. The chapter where I learned how to be a person. Seeing her stuff loaded into that station wagon feels like losing a limb
“Hey,” Cori says, tilting my chin up so I’m looking at her. “I promise you’re not getting rid of me that easily, okay? I’m going to be calling you to complain about my parents hovering. And you’re going to come visit and help me set up the nursery. And when this baby comes, you’re going to be Aunt Annie, which means diaper duty and babysitting and all the gross stuff.”
