“What else have you been up to?” she’d asked.
So I told her about my investigation into online dating, making it sound like a lark. “I just hope I don’t wind up in someone’s freezer.”
Cassandra laughed. “Oh, I’ve always been curious about those dating sites. Which one are you joining?”
“I’m thinking about Cupid. Apparently a lot of people sign up for more than one at a time, so I might do a couple. Now I just need to take some better photos of myself. My corporate headshot can’t compete with all the bikini pics I keep seeing on the sites.”
“Oh, shut up, you look great.” Cassandra had laughed. Then she’d paused. “But if you really want a makeover, you’ve got to let us help! Jane and I live for this stuff. We do it for a lot of our clients.”
I hadn’t even mentioned a makeover—I was just thinking about putting on some eyeliner and a cute outfit and maybe getting a trim.
But the enthusiasm in Cassandra’s voice ignited something in me, a sense of excitement at the possibilities.
Who better to guide me through this than the gorgeous Moore sisters? I’d thought as Cassandra told me she’d try to get an appointment with a stylist she knew for Saturday.
“Even if he’s booked up, he’ll find a way to squeeze you in. And don’t worry about the price—we send him so much business that he always gives us a huge discount.”
Now, as I look at myself in the mirror—with Cassandra and Jane standing behind my shoulders, staring at me with approving smiles—I think about how I’ve felt like someone else ever since I began house-sitting in the apartment.
Maybe it’s only natural that I start looking like someone else, too.
I leave Philip a big tip, since he refuses to charge me anything. Then we head out the door and Jane links her arm through mine.
Next up is an appointment with the optometrist. After a quick eye exam and a vision test, he gives me a pair of sample contacts on the spot and tells me my order will be in next week. I’m surprised by how easy it is to put them in.
When I walk into the reception area, where Jane and Cassandra are trying on sunglasses, I feel a little naked. Maybe I didn’t only use my glasses to improve my vision; maybe they provided a shield for me to hide behind.
Cassandra lowers oversize Ray•Bans and gapes at me, while Jane gives a wolf whistle that causes the guy waiting nearby to laugh.
I blush under their scrutiny, blinking even though the lenses are so soft and thin I can’t feel them.
It’s gorgeous out, so we decide to walk the High Line and find a spot to take photos for the dating website. “Who knows, I might even try it, too,” Cassandra says, which sounds preposterous to me. I keep noticing men turning around to get a second look at both sisters as we walk down the street. All the sisters would have to do is pause on the corner and they could have a dozen dates.
Before we reach the High Line, I spot a gray cat curled up in the window of a little bookstore and my gut clenches. I pray the Moore sisters don’t notice; they might ask me about my fictional dead cat, and I don’t want to dig myself deeper into the stupid lie I created. I don’t know why I didn’t just admit I’d never seen Amanda before the day she died, but it’s too late now.
So I point across the street at a Korean barbecue restaurant. “That place looks good.”
A few seconds later, we’re past the bookstore window and I breathe easily again.
We spend a couple more hours together, buying margarita-flavored Popsicles from a pushcart vendor, and trying on hats at a kiosk.
Both sisters keep directing me to pose as they snap photos of me with their phones. “Lift your chin and smile, you little vixen!” Jane says, making me laugh.
We finish with what feels like yet another celebration in a day of them: We share a bottle of rosé and a cheese plate at an outdoor café, laughing about potential lines for my dating profile.
I poke fun at myself, feeling a little expansive from the wine. “I’m quite the catch, you know. For my headline, how about ‘Homeless, unemployed thirty-one-year-old looking for love’?”
They laugh along with me, then Cassandra puts her hand over mine. “You have to stop thinking this way, Shay. You are a catch. You’re kind and funny and smart. Any guy would be lucky to go out with you.”
Jane is nodding. My chest feels tight—full. As if it can barely contain all the emotions that are swelling in me. So I duck my chin and say thanks.
“We’ll send you the best photos later!” Cassandra says as they get into a cab and I stand on the curb, waving.
Then I head toward the subway. As I pass a restaurant with floor-to-ceiling glass walls, I catch a glimpse of my reflection. I’m walking with my spine straight and shoulders back—the way Cassandra does. My hair is sleek and shiny, bouncing against my shoulders.
I notice one other thing: A guy on the other side of the glass, sitting alone at a table, is checking me out.
* * *
The temperatures are supposed to dip next week; it’ll finally feel like fall. So I decide to swing by my apartment to grab a warmer jacket and a pair of leather boots that I like to wear with my jeans. I also want to pick up my black suit for my second interview, since I wore my gray one last time.
It’s strange climbing the stairs again after a week away. It feels like I’m coming back from a much longer absence. When I turn down the hallway and reach for the door, I hesitate. I have my key out, but maybe I should knock.
I compromise by rapping my knuckles against the door as I unlock it.
“Hello!” I call as I step in and reflexively kick off my flats, the ones I got at Zara.
Sean pokes his head around from the kitchen at the same moment I notice the bench that used to be by the door is missing.
“Hey!” He wipes his hands on a blue-striped apron I’ve never before seen. He does a double take. “Wow, you look … different.”
I touch my palms to the ends of my hair. “Yeah, I decided it was time for a change.” I point to my eyes. “I’m wearing contacts now, too.”
Jody appears, wearing a yellow-striped version of the same apron. “I love your hair!” she squeals, clapping her hands. “Where’d you get it done?”
“Cassandra and Jane took me to their place. Downtown.”
I see Jody’s eyes widen at the mention of the Moore sisters, but I don’t give her any more details.
I look down at my flats and Sean nods toward the closet. “It was getting a little cluttered, so we started keeping our shoes in there.”
“Ah.” I move toward my bedroom. Jody sure isn’t wasting any time making her mark on the place, I think. “Anyway, I just came back to grab a few things. I’m house-sitting for another week.”
I expect Sean to accompany Jody back into the kitchen, but he doesn’t. Instead, he follows me. “It’s been weird not having you around. Wanna grab a beer next week and catch up?”
Even though I’m looking forward to meeting some nice guys online, seeing Sean standing in my doorway, with that silly apron on and his gingery hair sticking up in the back again, makes my stomach flutter. I remember the stat I jotted in my Data Book when I first began to fall for Sean: Forty percent of couples start off as friends.
The odds weren’t bad, but they didn’t tip in our favor.
“Sure,” I reply. “Next week would be great.”
He smiles, but before he can say anything else, Jody calls his name from the kitchen.
“I’ll text you,” he says.
I lay a garment bag on my bed and ease my black suit into it. I pack up the rest of the things I wanted and impulsively grab my makeup palette from the bathroom.
When I step outside again, I look around at the city that seemed to be aligned against me not so long ago. Now even it appears brighter and kinder. Yellow rectangles of light spill out from the windows of nearby buildings, the bustle of traffic and people feels comfortably familiar, and I can hear happy salsa music playing in a minivan idling at the curb.
My job interview is Monday. This time, I’ll go in with confidence. Not because I’ve memorized data on the best way to make a good impression, but because I’m finally feeling it inside me.
I have other things to look forward to: Cassandra and Jane suggested we grab dinner one night next week.
Plus, there will be drinks with Sean.
I’ve suddenly got a social life.
I’m closing in on a job.
As soon as I get the photos from today, I’ll put the finishing touches on my profile for the dating sites.
My streak of bad luck has finally broken.
The only open box left in my life is to find an apartment.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CASSANDRA & JANE
AMANDA’S GHOST IS WITH them in the apartment.
Jane walks through the dusty room, her footsteps echoing. Cassandra stands with her back to the window, staring at the space that once held Amanda’s blue IKEA couch and floral curtains but now contains nothing but memories.
She can almost smell the cinnamon, vanilla, and butter that used to permeate the air. She can see Amanda flopping on the couch, putting her feet on Beth’s lap, complaining that her twelve-hour shift was going to give her bunions. And Amanda demonstrating how small the bathroom was: “I can’t even open the freaking door without it hitting the toilet!”
Cassandra shakes her head, clearing it. They need to stay focused.
“Should we stage it so it looks more appealing?” Cassandra asks. “A few pieces of furniture, maybe a coat of paint?”
Jane considers this, then shakes her head. “We can’t make it seem too good to be true.”
“How’s this for the ad: ‘Cozy studio in sought-after Murray Hill. Close to subway, restaurants, and retail shops.’”
“One more line.”
Once again, they are using words as bait, just as they did when they created the memorial service notice.
Cassandra smiles. “‘Available immediately.’”
“Perfect. Valerie will post it on Apartments.com tonight.”
The sisters already cleared out Amanda’s studio in the weeks following her death. Now they do one final check, peering into kitchen cupboards and opening the dishwasher.
Cassandra opens the oven. A lone cake tin rests on the bottom rack. “She really did love her sweets.” Cassandra pulls out the tin. She tucks it under her arm.
Nothing of Amanda remains here anymore.
Jane nods. “At first I thought she might be too soft—this gentle-looking nurse with her plate of desserts.”
“But she had a bite to her.” Cassandra remembers how they’d heard about the ER nurse from Valerie, who’d gone to City Hospital after fracturing her ankle stumbling off an uneven curb.
Amanda was on call that day. As she tended to Valerie, she’d talked about another patient, a badly beaten teenaged boy who’d been brought in hours earlier. The boy’s parents had thrown him out of the house after he’d come out as gay, and he’d been living on the streets when he was attacked. Even after they’d learned their son was in a medically induced coma, the parents refused to come see him.
I’d like to go after his parents with a baseball bat, Amanda had said. And then find the gang that did this to him.
Valerie had taken a second look at the nurse who was tenderly wrapping her foot and lower leg in an Ace bandage. Two days later, Amanda had gone to Sweetgreen to grab a salad. Valerie had entered the restaurant moments after Amanda, feigning surprise to see her. They’d ended up sharing a table and talking.
I get a good vibe from Amanda, Valerie had said to the rest of the women—Cassandra, Jane, Beth, Stacey, and Daphne—during their next meeting. You’ve all spent a little time with her by now. I think she’s one of us.
Let’s vote, Jane had suggested. All in favor, raise your hand.
Stacey was the last to lift her arm, but when she did, it was unanimous—which was the rule for proceeding to the next step.
The vote didn’t mean Amanda would be invited into the group.
It merely meant the six women had decided to test her.
Now Jane touches Cassandra’s arm, drawing her back to the present. “Ready?”
Cassandra nods.
They walk through the door, leaving the memories of Amanda behind.
Although the rental market is tight, this particular apartment will remain vacant until Shay submits an application. The five thousand dollars in cash the sisters put in an envelope and handed the landlord earlier today will ensure this.
“Her name is Shay Miller,” Cassandra had told the landlord, who jotted it down on the back of the envelope. “She’ll be an ideal tenant.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
SHAY
Rental apartments comprise 63 percent of New York City’s total housing. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to find one. The vacancy rate is notoriously low. Last year it was 3.63 percent—almost half of the national vacancy rate, which is 6.9 percent.
—Data Book, page 42
THE APARTMENT IS UNREAL.
It’s just a few blocks from the place I shared with Sean. It’s an alcove studio, which is perfect, because I’ve recently discovered that I love living alone.
It isn’t big, but it’s clean with a large south-facing window. And the rent is surprisingly affordable. It’s only two hundred dollars more a month than I’ve been paying.
Plus something else happened today that makes it seem as if the fates are conspiring to put me in this new apartment.
I didn’t get the job at Avenues Agency—they went with someone else.
I got an even better offer.
A woman from human resources at Quartz Inc. reached out to me on LinkedIn. They need a forty-hour-a-week freelance researcher, at a rate that exceeds what I made in my last job.
Before I phoned her, I looked up the company, which is based in Palo Alto. This small but innovative marketing and advertising firm is led by a guy who began his career at Google.
After we spoke, she set up a call with her supervisor, Francine DeMarco—who offered me the position at the end of an interview that lasted nearly an hour.
I couldn’t help asking why they needed someone in New York when California had plenty of data analysts. I guess I was a little nervous that they might replace me with someone local.
Francine had laughed: “We’re looking for eighteen researchers, and we need them all to start as soon as possible. It hasn’t been announced yet, but Quartz just took on an enormous project, so we need a lot of hands on deck.”
She also strongly hinted the job could turn into a permanent position.
My start date is next Monday.
Now I click through the photos on Apartments.com again, noticing the tiny bathroom—typical for New York—and the surprisingly modern appliances in the galley kitchen. It isn’t nearly as luxurious as the place I’m house-sitting, but it has everything I need.
Available immediately.
I could move in this weekend.
There’s just one problem.
I didn’t realize it at first—I clicked on the photos before I did anything else—but when I read the fine print, I recognized the address immediately.
It’s Amanda’s old apartment.
I guess it makes sense that a few weeks after her death her place has just become available. And that I would find it, since I’ve been scouring rental websites nearly every day.
But how could I ever live there?
* * *
I pose that question to Sean when we meet for drinks the next night.
“A nice studio practically around the corner for that price?” He whistles. “You’d be crazy to pass it up.”
“It’s probably already been rented.” I pull out my phone and go to the site I’ve bookmarked.
But Amanda’s place is still available.
“Look, I get t
hat it might be weird for your new friends to see you there.” Sean leans back in his chair, splaying out his legs the way tall guys do. “But all rules go out the window when it comes to real estate in New York. You could look for six months and not find anything close to this good.”
I take another sip of my Sam Adams, thinking of the mousetraps and water stains and the wail of the baby I heard through the thin walls of the last apartment I checked out. He’s right.
“The thing is, I can picture myself there.” I brush away the thought that it’s a little unsettling that my life is intersecting with Amanda’s yet again.
The waitress comes by and Sean orders another round. “It’s on me.” He clinks his glass against mine. “Congrats on the new job.” Then he laughs. “I still can’t get used to you without your glasses.”
“Me, too. I keep trying to push them up on my nose, but they’re not there.”
“You look good. But you looked good before, too.”
I’m wearing the Zara outfit I bought for drinks with Cassandra and Jane, but I’ve swapped the flats for my leather boots. I guess that even though I know he’s with Jody, I still wanted to look nice for Sean.
You look good, too. But I don’t say it.
“Here’s what I would do,” Sean says, and I remember how much I’ve always appreciated his gentle, straightforward advice. “Call your friends. If they have a problem with it, you’ll just keep staying with me until you find something else. But maybe they won’t mind at all. Maybe they’ll even be happy for you.”
He’s about to say something else when his phone, which is on the table, buzzes with a new text. I glance down reflexively and see Jody’s name.
“Sorry, hang on a sec.” He types something quickly.
I wonder if Jody knows we’re out together. If I don’t at least try to get Amanda’s apartment, I’ll be back with them in just a few days. Hearing her giggle, seeing them snuggling on the couch, and tiptoeing by their closed bedroom door.
You Are Not Alone Page 15
