by Emma Slate
The poultry shops of my neighborhood in Chinatown were now closed, but in the morning, they would be open with plucked, golden roasted ducks hanging in the windows. Tourists liked to gape and gawk at the whole, featherless birds. I hardly noticed anymore.
Chinatown was shrinking. One day it would disappear altogether, converted into high-rise condos. But for now, I thanked the stars I was able to live in a charming, rent-controlled, one-bedroom apartment above my shop.
It was just past ten on a Wednesday night, but the streets were alive and frenetic. They said Manhattan was the city that never slept, and I believed it. It was never silent. Someone or something was always coming or going.
My favorite bar was a small intimate place called The White Dove. I had a long-standing friendship with the middle-aged bouncer. We’d met two years prior when I moved to the city, and had hit it off immediately.
“Didn’t think you were going to make it tonight,” Gerry said with a wink.
“Don’t I always show up?”
Gerry was a big man, six feet three of solid muscle. And despite his dark hair, which was threaded with gray, and the deep smile lines etched around the corners of his mouth, he projected a sense of youth. A youthful spirit, anyway.
He waited.
I nodded.
Then he wrapped me in a tight bear hug. I hugged him back. He was one of the few people I allowed to touch me.
“How are you doing, Stella? Holding up okay?”
I frowned. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He stared like he hoped he could see into the heart of me. “Never mind then.” He waved me toward the door. “Good crowd tonight.”
I moved past him, and his hand reached out to gently graze my arm. “You know you can talk to me, doll. If you ever need to.”
My smile was flirty and full of deflection. “Thanks. I’m good.”
He sighed and then turned his back on me, facing the street.
The room was warm with bodies. Pockets of people occupied the tables; some were friends, while others were clearly on dates. I took my favorite seat at the bar where I had the perfect vantage point to survey the room. My back pressed against the exposed brick while I waited for Ryan to stop talking with the woman at the end of the bar.
“Hey, darlin’,” he greeted as he sauntered over to me. He was a total Southern gentleman; a born flirt, Nashville born and raised. I wondered how this city hadn’t chewed him up and spit him out. Must’ve had something to do with the devilish smirk on his lips and the mop of dark hair just waiting for a woman’s fingers.
“You just gonna sit there, or are you gonna give me some sugar?” he teased.
I leaned over the bar and brushed my lips across his clean-shaven cheek.
“Not even a peck on the lips.” His sigh was melodramatic. “And to think I thought I was finally wearing you down.”
“Not in this lifetime, Ryan,” I said with a rueful smile, taking the sting out of my rejection.
“Why not?” He rested his forearms on the bar and leaned forward. “What’s wrong with me?”
I laughed. “You know there’s nothing wrong with you. Not even a little bit.”
“Then why won’t you date me?”
“I don’t think you’re interested in dating anyone.”
“Hmm. You may be right. Too many gorgeous women in the city to tie myself to just one.” He slid a coaster in front of me. “What are you drinking?”
“Are you working on a new cocktail?”
“I might be.”
“Need another opinion on it?”
He grinned and tapped two knuckles on the polished wooden bar. “One Dark Prince coming up.”
“Dark Prince?” I smiled. “Really? What’s in it? Blueberry moonshine?”
“Is that a dig at my roots?”
“Maybe.”
Ryan reached for some fresh mint and threw it into a glass. “See, this is why you need to date me. You keep me in line.”
“That’s not my job. That’s your mother’s job.”
“Ouch. You’re brutal. I like that in a woman.”
“What’s in this Dark Prince cocktail of yours?”
“Mint, honey, whiskey, and iced tea.”
I laughed. “Southern boy.”
Ryan shook the martini shaker and then poured the cocktail into a frosted martini glass. He set it in front of me. “I’ll wait. I want to see your eyes close in rapture when you taste perfection.”
I cocked an eyebrow but reached for the glass. I brought it to my lips and took a sip. “Good.”
His mouth dropped open. “Good? It’s fantastic.”
“Maybe.”
“Say it, Stella. Tell me how fantastic it is.”
“You need your ego stroked, do you?”
He groaned. “You’re killing me.”
“The Dark Prince is fantastic.”
Ryan turned away from me to face the room. “Did you hear that?” Heads swiveled to him. He pointed in my direction. “Stella—the lady who will not go on a date with me—thinks my cocktail is fantastic!”
I tried to burrow into the brick wall, wanting to make myself as small as possible. I hid my face behind the curtain of my black hair, glaring at Ryan.
Most people were unconcerned and ignored the vocal bartender. Thank goodness for blasé New Yorkers.
When Ryan looked back to me, his grin was wide and self-satisfying.
I pointed my half-empty martini glass at him. “You owe me another drink.”
I was nursing my second Dark Prince when she walked into the bar. The woman was slight, and even in the dim lighting I could see her pallor. Defeat was written in the hunch of her shoulders; in the way she cast her eyes down when she moved.
She was the type of woman who never ventured out alone, preferring to be insulated with friends or a boyfriend. She didn’t think too highly of herself and thought she got whatever she deserved.
Broken.
I identified her instantly, without having to know anything personal about her.
“Two shots of Patron,” I said to Ryan who was in the process of washing rocks glasses by hand.
“Which one?” he asked.
“The blonde who just sat down in the corner.” She was staring at the wooden table like it might give her answers.
Ryan poured two shots and set them in front of me. “How do you do it?”
He asked me this every time.
I shrugged. “You’re a bartender, aren’t you? Don’t you recognize the downtrodden and needy?”
“I can’t do what you do.” His eyes were on the blonde. “What do you see that I don’t?”
“In all the time you’ve known me, when have I answered these types of questions?”
“You’ve always just answered my questions with a question.”
My mouth twitched in humor. “Send another two shots in ten minutes?”
“You got it.”
He reached out as if to take my hand but stopped himself. I’d made it very clear early on that I didn’t like to be touched.
I grasped the two shot glasses and walked over to the blonde in the corner. She didn’t even glance up. Either she didn’t hear me or she didn’t care.
“You look like you could use this,” I said, placing a shot glass in front of her. She finally peered at me. Her eyes were glassy like she was about to cry. No. She had been crying. Her blotchy skin and the bags under eyes attested to that fact.
“Are you hitting on me?” she blurted out.
I grinned. “No.”
She nodded thoughtfully but didn’t reach for her shot of tequila.
“It’s Patron,” I said. “Silver. I always drink Patron when I’ve had a shitty day. I thought maybe it would help.”
“Why?” I knew she was a New Yorker through and through. They were always hesitant when someone did something nice for them. Nice came with strings attached.
“A few years ago,” I began, “I was having the worst day of my life. Not even an
exaggeration. A kind stranger bought me a shot of tequila and let me talk. Sometimes talking to strangers is the best remedy, you know? You’ll never see me again. What do you have to lose?”
“Are you sure you’re not hitting on me?”
“You’re not my type,” I assured her with a friendly smile.
She took the shot glass, looked at it for a moment, and then threw it back. She wheezed and pounded her chest.
I should’ve probably brought her a lime. But limes were for amateurs.
“Well, don’t stand there hovering,” she groused when she was finally able to speak again. At least the tequila was putting a little fire in her voice and flush in her cheeks.
I took a seat and easily shot the Patron.
“What did he do?” I asked.
Her head snapped up and her eyes narrowed. “He who?”
“He, the guy who hurt you.”
“How did you—”
“I was a psych major,” I lied. “I’m good at reading people.”
“I wish I was good at reading people. Then maybe this wouldn’t keep happening to me.”
“It’s not a crime to want to see the best in people.”
She shook her head. “I’m the casualty. Always. They treat me like I’m…disposable.”
I felt a pang in my chest. It was like my heart was cracking open, bleeding empathy. I caught my breath. A moment later, the lightheadedness passed.
I sensed a deep feeling of unworthiness.
“You let them,” I said softly.
“Let them what?”
“Let them treat you as though you’re disposable. You have to stop seeing yourself that way.”
She glared at me. “You think it’s that easy?”
“Who said anything about easy?”
Ryan arrived at the table with two more shots. I sent him a grateful look and then turned my attention back to the woman.
I pushed a shot in front of her.
She didn’t even cringe this time as she shot it. “Are you married?”
“No.”
“In a relationship?”
I smiled. “No.”
“Why are you grinning?”
“Because you’re trying to turn this conversation around on me. We’re not here to talk about me.”
“I feel like I should be paying you an hourly rate,” she muttered. “This is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me in a bar.”
“Seriously? The weirdest thing is a stranger bought you a drink and offered to listen to you talk about your issues?”
“Well. Yeah.”
“Isn’t this cheaper than therapy?”
It was her turn to grin.
“Let me ask you a question. What do you want out of life? I mean really want out of it?”
She pursed her lips in thought. Even though she knew exactly what she wanted, she was afraid to say it.
“It’s not too late, you know,” I said quietly. I traced the rim of my shot glass still filled with tequila. “You just have to know what you want. Know what you deserve.”
The feeling of her unworthiness was slowly ebbing, but it wasn’t gone completely. I couldn’t erase it entirely—that was up to her. But I could nudge it in the right direction.
“Your life doesn’t have to unfold here in this city. Your life doesn’t have to be one wrong choice after another just to prove a point.”
Her mouth dropped open. When she finally recovered, she reached for her purse. “I think I have somewhere to be.” She slid out of her seat. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She took a few steps and then turned around. “You don’t even know my name.”
“And you don’t know mine,” I pointed out.
“You knew my story… How?”
I smiled. “You don’t have to know that, either. Be well. It will turn out all right in the end.”
Chapter 2
I eased the burdens of three more people before dawn.
A middle-aged man who was grieving the loss of his wife. A troubled young college kid who was dealing drugs but wanted out. A woman in her sixties who yearned to travel now that she had an empty nest but was too afraid to go alone.
As I walked home to my apartment in Chinatown, I thought about the first time I realized I was different.
Third grade.
I’d caught my teacher crying in the women’s bathroom during lunch. I detected the faintest trace of her feelings in a way that told me more about her than even she could say, and I quietly listened as she unburdened herself. Her mother had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, and my teacher had been deeply conflicted about it.
The feelings of others grew more intense over time and I began to seek them out. Not all of them wanted to be helped. Not all burdens wanted to be eased. Not all emotions wanted to be released. So I picked and chose and did what I could for them, and for myself.
When I was sixteen, I tried to be a normal kid. Cheerleader. Class president. I shoved my gift down, burying it for as long as I could.
Down. Down. Down.
But it was only a matter of time before I unraveled. I couldn’t erect a large enough wall to keep the emotions of others at bay. It grew to be too much and eventually, the barrier came crashing down. I talked to voices that no one else could hear. In art class, I painted death and gore when I was feeling through my classmates’ hormone riddled angst.
I had a nervous breakdown.
I was diagnosed with schizophrenia. And I was medicated. I took pills. My parents watched me with careful eyes. Afraid for me. Afraid for themselves. I went to therapy. None of that cured me. The only thing that helped was opening myself up to my gift and helping other people.
I left the house at eighteen and traveled the world. I spoke the universal language of emotion and learned how to control my gift, so it did not control me. I learned other languages at a frightening rate. A few days in a new place and I spoke the language like someone who’d been born to it. It was as unique a gift as my extreme empathy, but I didn’t question it.
As I turned down my street, orange and pink dusted the sky. The butcheries and poultry shops were just starting to open for the day. Salted fish, exotic fruits, and signs in Chinese greeted me from windows.
I traipsed up to the second floor to my apartment and unlocked the front door. Though I could hear the foot traffic and the occasional call of vendors, the double-paned glass did a good job of blocking most of it out.
It was lonely—the apartment. Maybe it was time for a pet. But something low maintenance; like a fish.
I headed to the bedroom, stripping off my black dress as I went. I turned on the shower, and while I waited for the water to steam, I stood in front of the mirror and examined myself, something I did every morning. I wanted to see if I looked any different, but I never did. Same shoulder-length, glossy black curls, same green eyes the color of moss in a New England forest.
For someone who didn’t sleep regularly, I didn’t look at all tired. No bags under the eyes, no pale cheeks. I’d never been sick a day in my life. Not even a late spring cold.
I shimmied out of my bra and panties and pulled my hair into a messy top bun before I hopped into the shower. I had about seven minutes before the hot water went cold. After washing the city off me, I climbed out. I slid into a robe and put the teakettle on to boil.
The buzzer rang while I was fixing my tea. Grabbing the mug, I went to the buzzer and let Herron up. I sat down on the couch and put my feet up on the coffee table. The dark red polish on my toenails was chipped, but I didn’t care.
Herron pushed open the front door and then closed it with her backside, a paper bag in one hand, a to-go cup of coffee in the other. Her white button-down was pressed, and her black pencil skirt had just enough of a slit to be feminine. She’d pulled her wheat-blond hair into a bouncy ponytail. Only Herron could pull off the effortlessly sexy look.
“Those are amazing!” I exclaimed, gesturing to her silver, fine-gli
tter Jimmy Choos.
She grinned. “I know, right?” Herron set the paper bag on the coffee table and then did a fancy twirl.
I didn’t pay Herron enough to be able to afford such luxuries. Then again, she technically didn’t have to work for me at all. Herron had married a Wall Street trader two years out of Brown and things were going well for them.
“Ugh, if we weren’t friends, I’d claw out your eyes and then steal those things right off you.”
Herron sat down in the scarred, battle-worn leather recliner. “They’re a size eight and they’d never fit your hobbit-sized feet.”
I grinned. “Safe for another day.”
“Then I live to shop another day.” Herron laughed. “I got you an everything bagel with bacon, egg, and cheese.”
“You’re a Godsend. Thank you.” I reached into the paper bag and pulled out the foil-wrapped bagel. “It’s still warm. How?”
“I made good time.”
I paused with the sandwich halfway to my mouth. “You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You took the subway?” I gasped in mock horror. “You?”
“Don’t tell Blaze. He’d have a coronary.” She lifted her coffee to her perfectly painted nude lips, her three carat Harry Winston glinting in the morning light.
“Your secret is safe with me,” I assured her.
We were silent as I ate my sandwich. I washed it down with the rest of my tepid tea. I stood, crumpling the foil. “Let me change real fast and then we’ll open up.”
I headed to the bedroom as Herron called out, “What time did you get in?”
“Dawn-ish.”
“How many?”
“Four.”
“A good haul.”
“Not bad. I’ve done better.”
Herron snorted. “The night we met, I was number what? Seven?”
“Eight,” I reminded her. “I would’ve done more but you were quite needy.”
She snorted again.
I’d met Herron soon after I moved to the city. She’d just miscarried for the third time. Though time had passed and she was still childless, she no longer carried the burden of her infertility.
She was the only person who had remained with any sort of consistency in my life. Normally, I wouldn’t have allowed such a thing. I was not a lifetime friend. I was a one-night friend. A lighthouse in the darkness, and the grieving were the lost ships trying to find their way home. Once I helped them to port, I disappeared.
