“That’s Gertrude,” I told her, because you don’t tell a kid you don’t know the name of a witch. “She’s flying to New Jersey to see her sister, Margaret. She has three cats—Midnight, Shadow and the one on the back is named Steve.”
“Why Steve?” Emma asked, her eyes dinner-plate wide.
“Because Steve is a very stubborn cat and he refuses to answer to anything mystical.”
I told her Gertrude and Glinda the Good Witch were college roommates but they had a massive falling out over a borrowed cauldron that Glinda never returned. Emma believed every word of it. She’s been asking me about Gertrude’s travel itinerary ever since, and the truth is, I’m starting to get a little worried about whether Gertrude made it to Jersey in this wind, too.
I shift an inch—just an inch—trying not to disturb the person currently latched onto my spine. I turn over with a painstaking caution, and there she is. Cori.
Her red hair is a wild, copper catastrophe across my pillow, like a silk fire. She has more freckles than anyone I’ve ever met; they’re scattered across the bridge of her nose, dancing over her cheekbones, climbing up toward her hairline, and even dusting her eyelids like ginger-snap crumbs. Her eyes are doing that half-mast thing, where she’s technically conscious but still weighing the pros and cons of actually joining the land of the living.
For the last few weeks, this has been our thing. She’ll stumble in late from a grueling ballet rehearsal or a night at the bar, and instead of disappearing into her own room down the hall, she’ll crawl into mine. In this city, you quickly realize that the only thing better than being alone is being together.
She used to be Marcus’s human space heater, but he finally had to issue a formal eviction notice. Cori doesn’t just run warm; she’s an actual, functioning furnace. He told me he was waking up every morning feeling like a poached egg. It’s worked out as a massive win for me, though. I have that thin, pathetic California blood that doesn’t seem to want to acclimate to New York winters. Even now, with Cori radiating heat like a small sun against my ribs, I’m still shivering under three layers of wool.
But then my brain catches up to what my eyes are actually seeing.
Something is wrong.
Her face isn’t its usual porcelain-and-sunlight; it’s blotchy, uneven patches of red blooming across her cheeks. Her eyes are puffy, the skin around the edges swollen and tight. The tip of her nose is a bright pink that only comes from hours of friction with a cheap tissue.
I sit up fast, the motion jarring and frantic. The blankets fall away, and the freezing room-air rushes in to slap me in the face. “Cori? Hey, what’s wrong? What happened?”
She goes to say something, her mouth opening, but the words don’t stand a chance. Her face crumples. It’s like watching a building collapse in slow motion. She starts sobbing again—these jagged, gasping sounds that shake her entire frame.
I pull her in, wrapping my arms around her until she’s tucked under my chin. “Hey, hey. Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”
She just shakes her head against my shoulder, her breath coming in hot, wet hiccups. My mind starts racing, flipping through the Rolodex of potential disasters. It’s definitely not a guy. Cori treats men like the subway—she’s always saying there’s another one coming in five minutes, and she’s usually right. She hasn’t even been seeing anyone lately; she’s been too busy being a professional athlete.
Ballet, then. It has to be ballet. I’m already mentally sharpening a knife for this girl Kelly she mentioned—the one who’s been making passive-aggressive jabs about Cori’s technique in rehearsal. I’ve never even met Kelly, but in my head, she’s a cartoon villain with perfect slicked back ballet buns and a heart of ice. I’m halfway through a mental speech where I tell Kelly where she can shove her pointe shoes when Cori’s voice cracks the air. “I’m pregnant.”
The world stops. I’m pretty sure the radiator even stops clanking for a second in shock. My jaw drops so far it probably hits the floorboards.
“With a…with ababy?” I blurt out.
Cori lets out a strangled, wet laugh through her tears. “Well I fucking hope so, Annie. I don’t think I’m carrying a litter of golden retrievers.”
I press the heel of my hand into my forehead, my brain trying to process a million variables at once. “But—wait. How? When?How?”
“I think you know the mechanics, babe.” She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “Do you remember that night at Lucky’s a few weeks ago?”
I close my eyes and I can see it. Lucky’s has become our sanctuary—the three of us, me, Cori, and Marcus, crowded into a booth that’s permanently sticky. I love the way this city feels after midnight. It doesn’t sleep; it just gets louder, more honest. I love the bodega at 2:00 AM, packed with people buying lottery tickets and cigarettes like it’s mid-day. I love the way the cabs swarm like yellow bees and the street vendors that sell pretzels are still glowing under their umbrellas past midnight, waiting for the bar crowd to stumble out looking for carbs to soak up the gin. My favorite is Sal’s. His pretzels smell like heaven and taste like salt-blocks. I love the smell of the city—garbage andexpensive perfume and exhaust—all swirling together into this frantic, beautiful mess.
It’s nothing like the “nights out” back in California. There, the evenings were performances. They were dinners at the country club with my parents’ friends—all stiff cocktail attire, conversations that tasted like hundred-dollar wine, and debates over golf handicaps that made me want to fall asleep into my salad. Everything was gated. Everything ended at eleven, followed by the quiet, expensive hum of a Mercedes gliding down a manicured driveway.
Here, the night doesn’t end; it just evolves. Nobody cares who your father is or if your shoes match your belt. Manhattan has its own honest, jagged pulse, and for the first time in my life, I’m actually part of the heartbeat.
“The first time we took you to Lucky’s,” Cori says, her voice sounding like it’s been dragged over gravel.
I nod. “Yeah?”
“Do you remember me…with that guy? In the bathroom?”
I feel the air leave my lungs in a rush. “Cori! I thought you were the patron saint of birth control!”
“I know! I am!” She sits up, the movement dragging the duvet away and letting a fresh, biting chill into our little pocket of warmth. She shoves her hair back, her shoulders hunching up toward her ears. “It was a fluke. A five-minute lapse in judgment.” She looks at me, her eyes wet and searching. “I didn’t think anything would actually stick! That’s a cautionary tale you hear in high school health class, Annie. It’s not supposed to be my life.”
“And yet,” I whisper. The word feels heavy, like it’s made of lead.
