The Arrangement

by Robyn Harding

  Cole had broken a basement window and squeezed himself inside her family’s darkened home. He had crept toward Nat’s upstairs bedroom (across the hall from her toddler brother and sister; her mom and Derek slept on the main floor). What would have happened if her stepfather hadn’t woken up, hadn’t intercepted the younger man, hadn’t beaten him until he was barely conscious before realizing he knew the culprit? Would Cole have harmed her? Her young half siblings? Himself?

  “I just wanted to be close to her. I just wanted to watch her sleep, one last time.”

  That’s what Cole told the cops who arrived that night. Like it was totally harmless, totally normal. He was drunk and maudlin and sloppy. The officers seemed to pity him, brushed his actions off as puppy love gone awry. But they hadn’t seen the way Cole looked at her as he was placed in the back of the squad car. He hated her. She could see it in his eyes, feel it emanating from him in palpable waves of animosity. Would Cole have placidly watched her slumber? Or would he have grabbed a pillow and held it over her face?

  As always, the memory elicited a muddle of emotions in Nat: guilt (she’d endangered her family, her mother’s new perfect children); fear (was Cole still obsessed? Would he harass her again if only he could find her?); anger. At Cole Doberinsky. And at herself. How had she not seen how needy he was? How unstable? Cole had told her he loved her, that he couldn’t live without her, but he’d only wanted to possess her. To keep her down. To hold her back.

  They didn’t press charges. It would have been scandalous in their small town. Cole’s family was wealthy, influential, well-liked. Nat’s family could not take them on. And Cole was now “back to his old self,” her mother had informed in one of her e-mails. She and her mom didn’t talk about the incident; didn’t talk much at all, come to that. For a few years, Nat had been the only child of a single mother; more than just a daughter then. She’d been a friend, a confidante, a shoulder to cry on . . . But Derek filled those roles now. Her mom was too busy being a part-time real estate agent, a devoted wife, and mother of two adorable towheaded children, to focus on the daughter from her disastrous first union. Nat had been resentful, at first, but no longer. At twenty-one, she was fine with the long silences punctuated by newsy e-mails (Astrid scored a goal in soccer! Oliver will play a squirrel in the school play!), the obligatory birthday cards containing professional photos of her half siblings frolicking in a hayfield. Her mom’s missives were just reminders of the life she’d gladly left behind.

  The train eased into the Third Avenue station, and Nat and several fellow passengers moved toward the exit. This was her life now: one small drop in an ocean of people carving out a life in the world’s greatest city. Anything could happen in New York. Sure, that anything might be a mugging or a terrorist attack (thanks for pointing that out, Derek, moments before she boarded the plane). But the scariest thing that had ever happened to her was as she lay in her own bed, under her parents’ roof, in sleepy Blaine, Washington. Nat would take her chances.

  It was her high school art teacher who had urged her to apply to the School of Visual Arts. Ms. Nguyen had confidence in Nat’s artistic talent. The teacher had helped with her portfolio, had pressured her to fill out a multitude of scholarship applications. (Tuition was outrageous, Derek had said. They would not/could not pay.) To Nat’s delight, she’d been accepted into the faculty of illustration. (She and Ms. Nguyen considered it the most practical of the streams. Still, highly impractical, according to her stepfather.) She’d received a school bursary and a partial scholarship that would cover a significant chunk of her tuition. She’d deferred acceptance for a year to work full-time at a Greek restaurant to pay the rest. In New York, her part-time bar job covered rent with a little (not enough) left over for food. She didn’t need anyone to support her. Financially or emotionally. She was on her own. Completely independent. It was how she wanted it, she told herself. But the truth was . . . she had no choice.

  Emerging onto the street, the wind greeted her with an icy slap to the face. She had a short walk straight up Third to the Twenty-Third Street campus. Huddling into her wool coat, she hurried along the avenue, head lowered against the chill blast. With her gloved hands tucked into her pockets, she felt her phone vibrate. Extricating it, she read the text from Miguel.

  Hang out tonight?

  She removed her gloves then paused, her thumbs hovering over the keyboard. No thanks, she should have texted. This is casual. Friends with benefits. Nothing more.

  But she couldn’t deny how nice it would be to go to Miguel’s apartment, to curl up beside him on his ratty sofa, and study. Later, they might watch Netflix or a movie. They didn’t have to make out, didn’t have to end up in bed together. Miguel could be her buddy, her pal, her refuge from the toxicity permeating her apartment. She didn’t need him, she just . . . enjoyed him. She typed:

  kk

  Shoving the phone back into her pocket, she hurried to campus.

  3

  * * *

  The Penthouse

  Nat had naively envisioned art school as full-time drawing classes, but apparently there was more to creating a marketable artist than studio time. The illustration faculty demanded several credits in the humanities, sciences, and art history. Nat understood that the study of past cultures was valuable in developing her artistic point of view, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. As the Western civilization professor droned on about Voltaire, Nat slouched in the tiny desk, her mind fixated on her upcoming bills. She was forecasting her next week’s salary and tips and applying them to her current bank balance, when the instructor’s nasal voice, appropriate to his nebbish appearance, jarred her from her calculations.

  “Don’t forget the midterm on Thursday.”

  “Shit,” Nat muttered, as she closed the neglected notebook on her desk. The impending test, combined with her financial shortfall, made her chest constrict. She struggled to take a breath.

  “You okay?” It was Ava, a gifted artist, seated across the aisle. The two young women had several classes together and had been study partners on occasion. They were friendly but not friends. Nat had very little time to socialize. And Ava was . . . different. She lacked the edge that most art students had. Her clothes were sexy, designer, new—unlike the alternative, secondhand threads worn by most of their peers. Ava’s blond hair was expensively cut and highlighted, her skin buffed and lightly tanned. She had long acrylic nails, mink lashes, and microbladed eyebrows. And, she had no visible tattoos or piercings, which made her an art-school anomaly. Nat, with the tiny gem in her nose and only two holes in each ear was conservative by art-school standards.

  Nat smiled at her classmate’s concern. “I’m fine. Just a little stressed.”

  “Me, too.” Ava stood, gathering her books and her big YSL satchel. “I consistently zone out in this class. I’m going to have to cram like crazy, if I’m going to pass the midterm.”

  “Same.”

  “We could study together,” Ava proposed.

  Nat had three hours until her next class. “Good idea.”

  The pair made their way to the library and found it packed. Clearly, they weren’t the only students trying to cram more than a month’s worth of information into their brains in a matter of days. The women moved to the student center and found it less crowded but exponentially louder. An improv club was holding a rambunctious meeting that made concentration impossible.

  “We can go to my place,” suggested Ava. “I live in Chelsea. I’ll make tea.”

  As they scurried west across chilly Twenty-Third Street, Nat wondered about her companion’s background. The beautiful clothes, the salon hair, the apartment in pricey Chelsea. They all added up to a rich girl. Nat’s middle-class upbringing had imbued in her a mistrust and mild resentment toward the wealthy. When her dad lost his accounting job at the manufacturing plant, he’d blamed his boss. That rich prick was out to get me from day one. This attitude was subtly reinforced by her mom and Derek, who rarely failed to make a
snide comment about anyone who appeared to be financially thriving. Must be nice, they’d sniff, whenever a neighbor got a new car or a boat or took a tropical vacation. But this was New York. It ran on money. Wealth was to be admired, not sneered at.

  Ava led the way into a tall upmarket apartment building where they were greeted by a weathered doorman who looked more suited to captaining a fishing boat than opening doors in a posh co-op.

  “Morning, ladies.” His accent was familiar. Brooklyn.

  “Hi, Pete,” Ava said, as they breezed past.

  Inside the mirrored elevator, Ava stabbed the button marked PH. Nat refrained from gasping, but a penthouse in Chelsea? Even a tiny studio would have been way beyond Nat’s budget. How rich was this girl?

  Her query was answered the moment they entered Ava’s apartment. It wasn’t a huge space, except by New York standards, but it was undoubtedly high-end. The unit had an open-plan living room, a designated dining room, and a sleek, modern kitchen. It appeared to have been professionally decorated, but Ava was artistic, stylish, creative. She may have personally chosen the low, slate sofas; the leather-upholstered wing-back chair; the creamy wool carpet with its subtle geometric design. But who had paid for it?

  Ava led Nat past the smoked-glass dining table into the kitchen with its modern, top-of-the-line appliances. “Tea?” she asked, reaching for the stainless-steel kettle.

  “Yes, please.”

  As Nat watched her host fill the kettle and place it on the gas range, she thought of her own shabby kitchen and her own stove. It was scuffed and stained, two of the four burners inoperable. When she’d first moved into her run-down apartment in Bushwick, it had seemed quaint, charming, full of character. But now, in her classmate’s upscale pad, she realized it was simply a dump.

  “Nice place,” Nat said, trying to sound casual, or, at least, not awestruck.

  “Thanks. I love it here.” Ava dropped tea bags into two mugs.

  “Do you live here alone?”

  “Yep.”

  “Want a roommate?” Nat was joking, obviously. She barely knew Ava. But if the girl had offered her a space, she would have jumped at it. Nat loved Bushwick—the galleries, the bars, the street art—but she would have said goodbye to her cramped bedroom, her crowded commute, her judgmental roommates, and never looked back.

  Ava laughed. “Sorry. It’s a one-bedroom.”

  “Does it have a closet? A bathtub? I can sleep anywhere.”

  The blonde laughed again in lieu of a response. “Want to see the best part of this place?”

  “Let me guess . . . It has a roller coaster? A stable full of ponies?”

  “Better.”

  Ava led her to double glass doors that opened onto a good-size patio. The furniture was stacked and covered for winter, but Nat could envision the enclave with plants, a patio sectional, glowing lanterns. Like the interior, it would be tasteful, classy, a calm oasis from the bustling city below. Ava pointed due east, to the prime view of the Empire State Building.

  “It’s amazing at night when it’s all lit up,” Ava said, eyes affixed to the iconic structure. “In the summer, I sit out here with a glass of wine, and I just stare at it. I can’t believe I actually live here.” She turned to face Nat. “I grew up working-class in the armpit of Ohio.”

  “Me, too. Except I’m from Washington State.”

  Their eyes met then and they shared a look of recognition. There’s friendship potential here, Nat realized. She had dismissed Ava as different, with her fancy clothes, bags, and lashes. But they were kindred spirits, in a way. The kettle whistled then, and they hurried back into the warmth of the apartment.

  With their steaming mugs of tea, the women settled in the living room. The designer couch was more comfortable than it looked, and Nat sank into it, sipping her hot drink. Ava, in the leather wing-back chair, dug her textbooks out of a sleek backpack and placed them on the black marble coffee table. Nat was about to reach for her own books, when her eyes fell on a framed etching on the wall. It was the portrait of a man’s long, ruddy face: ugly, entrancing, powerful.

  “Oh my god”—she leaned forward for a better look—“is that a Lucian Freud?”

  Ava glanced toward the artwork. “Yeah . . . It was a birthday present.”

  From whom? Nat wanted to ask, but she couldn’t. It would be gauche. She’d taken enough art-history classes to know that the etching would be worth at least fifty grand. “It’s intense,” she said instead.

  “I’m not a huge fan, but my friend said it was a good investment.”

  Her friend?

  Nat pasted on a pleasant smile even as her brain scrambled to piece together the details of Ava’s situation. She came from a working-class family in Ohio but lived in a pricey Chelsea penthouse. Despite her humble beginnings, Ava clearly had rich friends. Nat had so many questions—how do you afford this apartment? Your clothes and bags? Who bought you the Freud? But she couldn’t interrogate this girl. She liked her.

  “Okay,” Ava said, opening her textbook. “Let’s talk about Nietzsche.”

  4

  * * *

  Strike Two

  Later that night, pressed against Miguel’s warm, naked body in his twin bed (Oops), Nat’s mind returned to Ava’s luxurious apartment. Miguel lived in a walk-up studio with mice, crumbling walls, and plumbing that screamed when a neighbor took a shower—entirely appropriate to his student status. As she stared at a mushroom-shaped water stain on her lover’s ceiling, she recounted her day’s experience.

  “I went to study at a friend’s apartment in Chelsea today. She lives in an amazing penthouse.” Nat described the view of the Empire State Building, the elegant furnishings, the original Freud as a birthday present.

  “She must have rich parents.”

  “No, her parents are working-class.”

  “Rich boyfriend?”

  “She never mentioned one.”

  “Maybe she’s a hooker?”

  Nat was defensive. “No way.”

  “Not like a streetwalker,” Miguel clarified. “Like an escort. Or a sugar baby.”

  Nat propped herself up on an elbow. “Are you serious?”

  “It’s not uncommon here,” Miguel said, sounding sage. He had grown up in the Bronx, had moved to Brooklyn when he started at St. Joseph’s College. Unlike Nat, he was a true New Yorker. He’d seen it all and was unfazed.

  Of course, Natalie had heard about high-end escorts, about sugar babies—she was from Blaine, not Mars. She’d seen reality shows, Instagram feeds, online clips of vapid girls with lip injections, breast implants, and closets full of shoes and bags. These girls were spoiled and materialistic, willing to trade sex for money and toys, trinkets and tropical holidays. They weren’t talented art students who crammed for midterm exams. They weren’t like Ava.

  “She doesn’t seem the type.”

  “I’m not sure there is a type, anymore,” her worldly partner said. “You’d be surprised how many girls have a sponsor. Desperate times and all that.”

  Nat suddenly felt claustrophobic in the tiny bed. “I should go.”

  Miguel pressed himself against her. “Stay.”

  She should have felt warm and safe and desired, but instead she felt crowded, sweaty, itchy. She wouldn’t sleep well in this single bed. And spending the night was too intimate, too much like a relationship, which this wasn’t. It was friendship. It was sex. It was not a romance.

  “I can’t.” She threw the blankets off her and reached for her underpants on the floor.

  “I’ll walk you home. It’s late.”

  “I’m fine. It’s only a few blocks.”

  But Miguel was already getting dressed.

  They strolled through the darkened streets, past the row houses, their regal history defaced by paint, stucco, or vinyl siding. Conversation was light, gossipy, revolving around their colleagues at Donnelly’s, the bar where they both worked. By the time they reached Nat’s building, it was almost 1:00 A.M. They faced
each other at the bottom of the steps for an awkward moment. The whole friends-with-benefits scenario got a little confusing when it came time for a good-night kiss. Leaning in, Nat gave him a quick peck on the lips that Miguel tried to segue into an open-mouth kiss. She turned her face away, but he missed her cue.

  “Maybe I could come in?” he tried.

  Nat had a double futon. They could sleep comfortably side by side. But no. Way too coupley . . .

  “Sorry,” she said. “My roommates.”

  “I promise I won’t flash them again.”

  Nat giggled, which Miguel seemed to take as encouragement. His hands slid under her coat and encircled her waist. She stepped back.

  “Don’t.”

  “Come on,” he said, moving toward her. He found her belt loops and tugged her closer. Something flared inside of her: anger, revulsion. Her mind flashed back to Cole, his possessiveness, his neediness. She remembered the barrage of texts he would send if she didn’t respond to him instantly, the harassing phone calls if he didn’t know where she was. She was not ready for another relationship.

  “I said no.” It came out harsh and angry.

  Miguel stepped back, holding his hands up in surrender. “Sorry.”

  “Just . . . Back off, okay?”

  “Jesus, Nat.” He shook his head, exasperated. “One minute, you’re into me, then the next minute, you want nothing to do with me.”

  “I told you when we first hooked up: this is casual.”