by Lexi Whitlow
“Yeah. Guy’s got a couple of junior partners, Dan and Scott, but mostly, this is all his. Harvey & Company is the best design firm in the city. Best in the country as far as I’m concerned. Everybody wants to work here, and we have our pick of clients. We turn down more work than we take.”
She’s amazed.
She looks down from the edge of the building into the bustling street below, then out at Manhattan rising like a range around her. A flock of passenger jets circle overhead, their lights making a show in the loaming sky. It’s getting late and I know Guy will be done with his meeting soon. Rush hour traffic is picking up. 10th Avenue is packed; horns honking, lanes crowded with impatient commuters trying to get out of the city.
“I should have been here all along,” Chloe says, not to me but just to the air. Her jaw clenches. Her fists roll inside the sleeves of her jacket. “I should have been here the whole time.”
She’s beautiful. And she’s angry. Her gray eyes darken in the late afternoon light. In that moment I don’t know what it is she’s angry about, but in the coming weeks and months, I’ll learn.
She came to New York to stay with her father because her mother had to go to rehab—again. Her grandmother, who she stayed with before when her mother was sent away, died a few months earlier. Chloe is used to more drama in her life than I’ve ever known, and as a result she’s resilient. She’s tough.
She’s also a pissed off and very much alone.
Guy doesn’t know what to do with her. She doesn’t know what to do with him. I watch them dance around one another cautiously. She idolizes him, a little like I do. He’s afraid of her. Afraid of losing her, too, so he doesn’t hold her too close.
We meet on Saturday mornings for brunch and then we go to museums and galleries. I show her my city, from China Town to Tribeca and Brooklyn. She wants me to take her to clubs in the Bowery. Instead I take her to all ages afternoon shows in the park and to community centers where the same bands play for free. We walk Central Park and watch the speed chess matches that look like boxing tournaments on some days. We eat lots of street food and I watch her take the city in, piece by piece, block by block.
She starts school and I only have her company for a couple hours a day during the week, but in those couple hours I put her to work on press work and tracings—the elemental parts—so she’ll start to get an understanding of how design is assembled into a whole emotive, intimate thing, assembled from its essentials.
By New Year’s, she tells me her mother is getting out of rehab and she’s going back to Richmond.
I’ve gotten used to her; the first, the only real friend close to my own age I ever had. But this, like so many other things, is out of my control. I try not to think about how much I miss her when she’s gone. She promises she’ll be back in the summer, but when she comes it’s only for a week and Guy has it all planned with just the two of them. I hardly see her. Then late August arrives with me beginning at Columbia, and my world tilts sideways into a whole new dimension.
I put Chloe to the side of my brain as I take on a life with an entirely new combination of challenges.
The world moves on. I grow up. I grow into myself, taking on the big, often cruel, ruthlessly competitive, very real world of adulthood.
Chapter 1
Chloe - Eight Years Later
Good Lord. That guy across the street is unforgivably hot.
Paul, my housemate, settles down on the stoop beside me, handing me a cup filled with iced wine cooler. We’re hanging outside because there’s no air-conditioning, drinking cold beverages under the shade of the porch is the only way to stave off the draining dog days of August.
I’ve been watching this guy move into the brick townhouse across the street. I peg him for a grad student. One with money. Judging by the nice quality furniture going into the place, the paid professional movers, and the Audi they towed in behind the van, at least. The Audi has New York plates. He came a long way just to give me a show of his shirtless, ripped torso, sweating and tanning under the southern sun.
It’s moments like these, fleeting as they are, that cause me to question my dedication to an uncomplicated, distraction-free life. A guy like that could distract me.
“You’re staring, Chloe,” Paul teases.
Paul is staring too.
“I can stare,” I say, unapologetically. “He’s easy to look at.”
“That he is.”
Paul reaches into the cooler, grabbing a handful of ice, dropping a few cubes in my cup, topping us off from the thermos between his feet. There’s beer in the cooler, but we’re saving it for later. The crappy wine coolers were on sale.
Today is a rare day that I take a moment to sit and do nothing. It’s five days before classes begin. I’m off work, all day. A rare event which I am apparently using to slow down and appreciate the scenery.
“How many hours a day do you think that guy spends in the gym?” Paul asks. “I mean it’s not like he’s huge or anything, but damn. The definition is—”
“Aesthetically pleasing.”
We both giggle, then Paul changes the subject. I’m relieved by the diversion because if he keeps going down this path, I might just blush.
“In the office this morning they were talking about the new professor,” he says. “The admins were dishing all kinds of gossip. He’s some kind of wunderkind. He’s really young, and—according to the ladies—extremely hot.”
“That’s great.” I roll my eyes. “I’m sure he’ll have a fan club by Thanksgiving.”
I couldn’t care less. I have zero time for that nonsense.
“Hey, if he’s all that, I bet he takes advantage of it. I’d take advantage of it if I was a young hot professor. Maybe he’s gay. There’s an idea.” Paul grins. “Maybe the guy over there is gay too.”
It’s a possibility. It’s the rare straight guy who’s that smoking hot, has great taste in furniture, and drives a sparkling new Audi coupe. Despite this suspicion, I still can’t take my eyes off him. Looking at his six-pack glistening in the sun, dressed in saggy jeans dipping criminally low on his narrow hips, it suggests something promising.
Mr. Torso glances in our direction. He nods, half smiling. Cocky. In perfect synchrony—practiced—Paul and I both raise and tip our cups in his direction. Mr. Torso laughs. He knows he’s got an audience and he’s playing it up. His movers pack up, finished with the job. The show is almost over.
Dammit.
Mr. Torso picks up the plastic wrapping and other debris the movers leave by the curb, then he turns and heads inside his expensive, pretty house.
“Damn,” Paul mutters. “I was hoping for an encore.”
“Wish on. He’s outta our league.” I bet he hates looking out his front door at the likes of this place staring back at him, spoiling his view of the otherwise tidy gentrification of the neighborhood.
Our place is one of four in the apartment building, and it’s a catastrophe. It’s the last one on the block that hasn’t been gutted, renovated, and flipped for a million bucks. The house has great bones, but thanks to a century of neglect by a succession of absentee owners and abuse by generations of college students, it’s literally falling to pieces. The roof has patches nailed all over it. We have buckets in our apartment on the top floor to catch the water when it rains. The floors on the lower level are rotten and sagging. The plumbing is iffy. The electric is flat out dangerous. The windows let the winter wind blow in, enough to make the curtains lift and flutter. And the place is crawling with bugs.
The upside is that 2514 Hanover Avenue, despite its decay and peeling paint, is the cheapest rent to be had this side of Section 8 housing. All nine of us occupying this place, and everyone who came before us are broke, full-financial-aid-package undergrads who really shouldn’t be here at all. We’re hard-headed; willing to put up with a great deal of filth and general discomfort to get through school and move on with climbing out of the poverty most of us were raised in.
“Uh
-oh, heads up,” Paul mutters. I look up. Mr. Torso is strolling across the street directly toward us. Sadly, he’s fully clothed.
He’s got one of those uber-confident long strides, like he’s the King of the World, about to come pay his respects to the plebes. Even his t-shirt looks Madison Avenue. Does Brooks Bothers sell t-shirts? God, I think his boots are Prada, a solid grand worth of posturing, made-to-look-like-actual-work-boots. What the hell?
“Welcome to the ‘hood,” Paul says, standing, holding out a hand to shake. “We would’ve offered to help, but it looked like your crew had it in hand.”
The guy shakes Paul’s hand, sizing us up.
Paul introduces himself, then points to me. “My roommate, Chloe.”
“I’m Hayes,” the guy replies, taking a beer I reluctantly offer from the cooler behind me. He accepts the beer, opens it with a deft pop of the cap against the crumbling brickwork, then leans against a termite nibbled porch column, settling nearer to me than seems reasonable.
Fucking hell. He’s even better looking up close and personal. His arms are like nautical rope, wrapped with sinewy muscle, perfectly defined. And his hands. He catches me checking him out and he grins. I feel a hot blush rise in my cheeks. Averting my gaze, I lift my drink and suck out another ice cube while he and Paul banter back and forth.
I see the postman turn the corner, headed in our direction, and I’m relieved because in just a moment I’ll have a good reason to relinquish my seat. After I fetch the mail I can find a spot not quite so close to the white-hot flame of intensity that is Mr. Torso and his perfect hands.
The things I’d like to let him do with those hands.
“So, you guys are students?” he asks. “I assumed so, looking at this place. This has got to be some cheap student housing. Looks like it ought to be put out of its misery—everyone’s misery.”
Paul answers in the affirmative, agreeing about the house.
“What about you?” Hayes asks, leveling his gaze on me.
I’m still sucking on an ice cube. I can either spit it out, swallow it, or try to answer with my mouth full. As I’m settling on a decision, my tongue gets ahead of me and the ice cube pop out of my mouth, dropping straight down into my shirt, between my tits.
Shit that’s cold!
Paul starts laughing. As I reach in, trying to fish the slippery thing out from under my left tit, Mr. Torso quips.
“You need some help with that?”
I locate the errant cube and pop it back in my mouth as he watches, fascination animating his face, his crystal blue eyes flashing. I swirl the thing around with my tongue a few times, then crush it between my teeth, cocking my head to the side as I do it.
“No,” I say to Mr. Torso. “Just like with everything else, if you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself.”
I leave him to ponder that as I step up to greet our postman, taking the mail from his hand with a smile.
I don’t pause to look at the mail before bounding up the steps two at a time, heading up to my apartment. I hear the guys on the porch laughing behind me as I depart. I don’t know if they’re laughing at me or with me, and I don’t care. Let them laugh. We’ll see who gets the last laugh.
I thumb through the regular assortment of junk mail and bills. What is this?
There’s an official looking letter from the City of Richmond, addressed to “Residents/Tenants.”
I open it. My eyes stop hard on the words “Condemnation Proceedings.”
What. The. Fuck?
“…Effective August 29, 20––, the city inspector has received notice that his request for domicile condemnation was approved and confirmed by order of the District Court of Henrico County. The owner has been notified by certified mail. This notice of immediate eviction is provided as a courtesy by the City Housing Authority. The property will be cleared and sealed by the city on September 4, 20—. Any personal property remaining on-site shall be deemed abandoned…”
What the ever-loving fuck?
I dial Kent, our landlord, to see what this is about. He picks up, his upbeat slumlord tone snappy and bright. “Kent Blackwell Properties, how may I help you?”
“Mr. Blackwell, this is Chloe Harvey at Hanover Avenue. I just got a letter from the city saying the house is condemned and we have to move out—like yesterday.” I hear the frantic tension in my voice.
He takes a deep breath. “Yeah, Chloe. I’ve been meaning to come over there and talk to ya’ll about that… I’m sorry… I fought it. I really did.”
“What do you mean, you fought it?”
He knew about this? He’s known about this?
He hems and haws, sounding apologetic. “...but ya’ll really do need to be out by the fourth. They’re tearing the place down. The owner decided to go ahead and pay the fine, let the city do it at their expense.”
“But where are we gonna live!?” I am not believing this.
“We’ll sweetie, I’ve got forty rental properties right around there. I’m sure I can find ya’ll some place. Things always shake out. ‘Course, I don’t have anything as economical as the Hanover Avenue house. Things are gentrifying, going upscale. But we’ll find ya’ll something. Give me a month. Maybe something over on Shockoe Hill…”
Shockoe Hill is like Baghdad. It’s scary. The police won’t even patrol over there.
I sit down on the floor in the middle of my place, the apartment I’ve occupied since the night after I graduated high school. As much as I hate it, I love it too. It’s the first place I ever really felt at home, where all my best friends are. My house mates are the closest thing to real family I have.
We have to be out on the same day classes start. We’re all so screwed.
With the letter in hand I walk downstairs. Paul is alone on the stoop. Mr. Torso has disappeared into his million-dollar townhouse across the street. I hand Paul the letter without a word, just looking at that beautiful house over there, with its brickwork, deep summer windows, stained glass, all the fancy trim and molding painted so bright.
The world isn’t a fair place. I know that. I’ve known it forever. But today the Universe feels particularly cruel. To see a guy like that—a guy who has everything, who’s so young and handsome—and he can afford to buy a fine, expensive house. I’ve got almost nothing to call my own, nothing to fall back on, and now I’m about to be homeless.
Yeah, the universe is a ruthless bitch.
Chapter 2
Hayes
This girl is taking her sweet time sipping my coffee and reading my New York Times. She’s lovely, but honestly, I’m ready for her to move on.
I look at my watch. I have one hour.
“We need to get going.” I peek out the front window. There’s a U-Haul truck parked out front. The kids across the street are loading it up with all manner of ratty futons, sprung mattresses, threadbare chairs, and box after box of god-only-knows-what-else.
Why are they moving? Paul and the girl didn’t say anything about moving a couple days ago when we met.
Right now, they look a little grim, but over the last few days I’ve noticed they all seem to be tight friends. They spend a lot of time outside—I guess because they don’t have AC. I hate to admit it, but I’m kind of envious. I never had close friends when I was in school. Hell, I’ve never had close friends at all. Ever.
“What’s your rush, sweetie?” the girl asks, coming up behind me. She slips an arm around my waist. “We should hang out, go get lunch.”
I wrap my hand around hers and move it back to her side, untangling myself from her embrace. I turn, and as kindly as I can, I say, “I have office hours. I need to get to school. I’ve got two sophomores, two juniors, and a senior scheduled for faculty adviser sessions. You really need to go home now.”
She looks put out and pouts. “I need a ride home. We left my car at the club in Shockoe.”
Shit. I forgot about that.
I schedule a Lyft for her. The car will be here in ten minutes, but I
need to go—now.
I move her along as I grab my laptop bag and keys.
“You can wait on the porch. I really have to head out.”
I should probably feel guilty for leaving her sitting by herself on my front porch, but I don’t. She was the only decent looking, sober girl in that whole place last night, and she knew exactly what she was about. She hit on me first. I just wish I’d thought to ask her if she was a student before I brought her home. It was only after we spent the night together that I learned she’s a grad student in the painting department. I expect a few awkward moments, passing in the halls, until she gets over the fact that there’s no way in hell I’m in the market for a steady girlfriend. I have enough to deal with.
I’ve had my share of awkward moments before. It comes with the territory of being me. I’m pretty sure I’m going to have more than a few ahead, some of them not nearly as entertaining this one.
I put the key in the ignition. The Audi rumbles to life, her big engine purring. I check my rear view before pulling off, just in time to see the girl from across the street headed the other way down the sidewalk. She’s hoofing it at a pretty good beat. There’s something about her that I noticed when I met her; it’s gnawing at me. She seems familiar. Or maybe she reminds me of someone else I’ve met before. I haven’t been able to nail it down. It’s bugging me.
It’s also bugging me that she’s astonishingly easy to look at. She’s stunning. She knows it too, based on the brush-off she gave me over the ice-cube incident. The girl is a ball of spitfire. She put me right in my place, which got a big laugh at my expense from her friend Paul.
Following her scathing take-down, Paul had said, “Yeah, you probably don’t wanna push those buttons with her. She’s kind of a hard ass.”
Hard ass or not, I’d like to know her better. I put the Audi in gear, take off, then pull a U-turn at the end of the block. I’m going to see if I can give her a lift to wherever she’s going in such a hurry.
