I laugh through my tears. “Lucky me.”
“Very lucky.” She pulls me into another hug. “I love you, you know that?”
“I love you, too.”
“Even though you’re an ex-rich girl slumming it in the East Village?”
“Even though you’re a knocked-up ballerina moving back in with her parents?”
“Wow. Low blow.”
“Too soon?”
“Way too soon.”
We’re both laughing now, even as we’re crying, holding onto each other in this empty space that used to be hers, too.
“Okay,” Cori sighs, giving me one last, bone-crushing hug. “The parental units are probably double-parked and having a coronary. I gotta go.”
I nod, finally letting my arms drop. “Go. Build a nest. Grow a giant baby.”
She hefts her duffel bag onto her shoulder, gives the empty room one last look, and then smiles at me—a little sad, a lot hopeful. “I will. See you soon, Annie.”
“See you soon, Cor,” I echo.
I turn and watch her from the window, my forehead pressed against the cold glass. Down on the slushy curb, Cori looks impossibly small as she approaches the boxy station wagon. Marcus is a mess—visibly crying now, his shoulders shaking under his heavy coat. He pulls her into a hug that looks like it might never end, and she reaches up to press a kiss to his cheek. She gives Brett a squeeze next, and then she turns.
She looks up, searching the brick facade until she finds me. She waves a gloved hand and blows a kiss that I can almost feel against the glass. I blow one back, my vision blurring as the tears finally spill over. I’m going to miss that girl—someone I’ve grown to love with a fierce, quiet intensity in such a short window of time. The car pulls away, tires crunching over the grey Manhattan ice, and Marcus just sinks onto the curb, burying his face in his hands. Brett sits right beside him, a hand rubbing his back.
I wish Leo were here. He’d given me the day off, knowing the “Great Migration” would leave a hole in my chest, but he’s teaching today and Emma is with his parents. I’m standing in the kitchen, staring into the fridge at a half-empty carton of orange juice, when a timid, sharp knock sounds at the door.
I sigh, dragging my sleeve across my eyes. I am not in the mood for a neighborly chat or a delivery man. I pull the dooropen, the “Go Away” already forming on my tongue, but it dies in my throat.
“Mom?” I gasp.
She’s standing in the hallway like a mirage from another planet. She looks flawless, of course—dressed for the New York chill in a camel-colored wool coat. Her dark hair is perfectly coiffed under a silk scarf, her makeup untouched by the humidity or the wind. The scent of her perfume drifts in, immediately colonizing the familiar smells of coffee and Cori’s leftover vanilla candle.
I’m painfully aware of my own state, in a green and navy plaid sweater over a white turtleneck and blue jeans. At least my hair is presentable—Cori’s last gift, a neat French braid trailing over my shoulder. I’d watched her hands in the mirror, a fleeting, intricate dance I still couldn’t fathom.
My mother’s eyes, sharp as ever, sweep over me. “Have you been crying?”
I stutter, my hands flying to my face. “I—sorry, what are you doing here?”
She raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow, her gaze flickering to the peeling paint on the doorframe. “Is that your way of saying I can come inside, or are we conducting our business in the hallway?”
I step back silently. She moves past me, her eyes doing a slow, methodical sweep of the living room. It lands on the mismatched sofa, the thrift store lamp, the faint watermark on the ceiling. Her expression isn’t outright horror like last time, but there’s still a flicker of disbelief in her eyes.
“I know it’s not California,” I say, my voice trailing off as I lean against the wall and cross my arms. “But…”
She doesn’t answer. She wanders over to the fridge, her manicured finger pointing to a polaroid tucked under a magnet.It’s the one of me, Leo, and Emma at the park. “That’s the man from the Carlyle.”
“Leo,” I clarify, nodding.
“Your boyfriend?” The question is flat, devoid of her usual judgement. Which is stranger, somehow.
I nod. My mind is a static buzz. She’s here. In my apartment. She saw me crying.Why is she here?
She makes a soft, noncommittal sound in her throat. “He’s very handsome.”
