Broken (18 page)

“I wanted to introduce you to my friend, Milan. Milan, this is Lane.”

“Hi.”

“Follow me.” We walked to the stables.

“I forget on purpose. I think the help here should have my horse ready,” Frenchy texted me. Suddenly, I started to not feel so well. My stomach was beginning to cramp up in knots.

I followed Frenchy to get her saddle. Her horse was a beautiful mix of light tan with white spots. “Milan,” Frenchy pointed behind me. I turned around to find Lane walking over with a young black horse. I walked over to her.

“This is Toby. He should be pretty gentle.”

“I hope so.” I took the reins from Lane.

“We're up!” Frenchy said. Toby and I walked behind her to the indoor riding area.

I didn't start feeling like I was in the
Twilight Zone
until we finished riding—after having my life flash before my eyes once or twice, and triumphantly making it through. The horse was gentle, but when he started to trot I was all kinds of scared. Then as we
left the stables and walked to the car and Frenchy put her arm around me and gave me a hug, I was at a point where I didn't want to talk to her. “Let's get some Korean barbecue for dinner. I love it.”

“I should go home and do my homework,” I said.

“Sleep over.”

“I can't. I left my work for tomorrow at home.”

“Then the least you could do is have dinner,” she said.

“All right.” Just like that, I was forced to forgive.

I received a text message from Lisa's assistant, Raul, around 2 p.m. about this penthouse party in Tribeca.

My stomach hurt so much that I went home and took a quick nap. I arrived relatively on time. Raul said the start time was 6 p.m. It was a quarter past 7, and people were still arriving. I had spoken to two girls from the
Tween
magazine shoot last month. They were cool. They lived in the city, one in Harlem, another in Hell's Kitchen. So she said. I called it the Theater District. Anyway, they left earlier. One of them had a midterm the next day. I flagged down a waiter. He reminded me of Dimitri a little bit. He had an
urban flare with earrings in his ears and his hair cut with long sideburns, though his eyes were riddled with kindness—nothing like my brother.

“I've seen you in Times Square,” he said.

“Yes. How are you?” I said. He smiled. Maybe even giggled. Interesting. “Do you go to college?” I asked.

“Yeah, I'm in my third year.”

“Just one more to go,” I said.

“Uh … probably two. I've been trying to work my way through. I don't want to be married to Sallie, the loan company. What would I look like with a ball and chain already?”

“How are the classes?” I asked. I wanted to ask if they were hard. But I didn't want to sound silly.

“They're a lot of work. But you get used to it. I'm taking four classes this semester,” he said.

“Is that how it's done?”

“Pretty much. You have certain classes you have to take based on your major. You can take 12 credits, 9 credits, 15 credits, or 18 credits each semester. Depends on what kind of workload you want and how much time you have to study. Since I work full-time, I can't live in the library.”

“Do you go to school every day?”

“Nah. How I do it is simple. I take daytime classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Then I have one night class on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. Since I'm at school, I do all my homework then.”

“Do you like it?”

“You want to know what I think?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Yeah,” he smirked.

“What school do you go to?”

“Hunter College. What's with you and college? You're probably so rich and famous you don't need college. Seriously, if I were rich, I would not go.”

I winced at the thought of not needing to be educated. It was equivalent to the thought of not needing to vote. People had died so that future generations could vote. Not even just African American people, but people of all ethnicities. What about women's suffrage? Obviously, my sophomore women's lit class was weighing heavily upon my mind. In the early 1900s, there were still some colleges that didn't admit women, even some Ivy Leagues.

“I think ‘need' is an interesting choice of a word. I believe if more people chose to educate themselves out of the need to be self-sufficient, out of a need to abolish ignorance, and out of the need to cultivate an appreciation of the world past and present, then there would be less of a need to create classifications among the population based on race, class, and education level. Relieved from such concerns, we could then tackle imminent issues such as global warming as a unified human race.”

“Ha, I like that. Sounds like an excellent introduction to your college application essay,” he said.

“You're right.” I still hadn't come up with an essay topic yet.

“I just saw my manager give me the evil eye. Maybe I can bring you something, then we can talk some more later,” he said.

“So sweet. I will have cranberry juice. Thank you.”

“Milan!” Lisa came rushing up to me with a debonair older man in tow. It wasn't his crispy, tailored suit that said the most about him. The shoes gave him away. My father had the same exact pair of those suede Armani shoes. Lisa would only bring him over to me at this kind of party if he was a designer. I was beginning to learn Lisa was all work and little play.

“This is Tristan Careden,” she said. What a name. “This is our Milan.”

“Good evening, my love,” he said and kissed my hand. Lisa winked. What did that mean? We never had signals. Sierra and I had signals. Even Cece and I had a few signals. Lisa, I could never figure her out. Maybe she wasn't feeling well. She'd still work even if she had the flu.

“It's lovely to meet you, Tristan. I love the name Tristan,” I said.

“Yes, you should name your firstborn Tristan.”

“Wait. Not just yet. She's only 17,” Lisa said.

“Yes, yes, in France it is different. In America, women wait until 37 before they have their firstborn. Just ask my wife,” he said.

“Thirty-seven is the new 27, Tristan,” Lisa said.

“So you. This face, I know so well. My office is on 39th and Seventh. I see you every day on my way to work. I said, ‘She must be the face for Mia Swim 2015.' Our
swimwear line will premiere at Miami Swim Fashion Week. We need you and those soft curves. Women want to look like you. Just ask my assistant, Ariel.” He looked around the room. “She is around somewhere. She thinks you are the most beautiful face on Times Square. Now we can do a full ad campaign and catalog for buyers with your face. What do you think?” he asked.

“She wants to be your face,” Lisa smiled and looked at me. This was a first: a designer was asking me what I thought.

“I love the idea. When can I see the line?” I said.

“Tomorrow,” Tristan said.

“Well, tomorrow let's talk. Milan is booked for a job. What about next week?” Lisa said.

“Yes, yes. Next week is good. Schedule with Ariel. I will text her now,” he said.

“Good. I am emailing my assistant now to call Ariel in the morning to confirm a meeting for next week,” Lisa said.

“Ahhh, beauty,” Tristan grabbed me by the hands. “The essence of you is beauty, grace, youth. She is the future,” he said. He whisked me off, away from Lisa. Next thing I knew, I was on the dance floor following his every move. Save me, I thought. I felt like a marionette. I should've tried harder to like it. Maybe I was saving the effort for prom. I was a little confused. I mean, he was nice. And, of course, there was the fact that he reminded me a little of my father. But I didn't want to dance anymore. I wasn't even dancing—I was following. How could I get out of this?

“You are good,” I smiled.

“I can teach you. Just bop like this.” So I did as Tristan said. Secretly, I had fun acting silly. I threw my hands up. “Yes! Yes!” Tristan said. I shook my head down low, then up high. After several rounds of head shaking and hands shaking, Tristan grabbed me by the shoulders. “I feel the same way you do, love. But we cannot dance to this song. I am boycotting rap.”

“Oh, my gosh!” I was so embarrassed. Had I still been dancing and the music changed? Too bad, I shrugged.

“Let's get a drink. My wife will love you. You are her, 10 years ago,” he said. I spotted my waiter. He had my drink on his tray. He lifted it up. I waved him over.

“One cranberry juice for the lovely model,” he said. I took my glass from him.

“So healthy,” Tristan said.

“Cranberry does a body good,” I said. Tristan laughed. I turned my head for minute and I saw Lisa.

“Milan, dear, time to go home and rest up for that early-morning booking.” The whole thing about a booking was news to me. “The car is waiting for your downstairs.”

“Okay.” I kissed Lisa on the cheek. Tristan gave me a kiss on each cheek.

“My wife will meet you next time. Until next week, beauty,” he said.

“Next week, then. Have fun.” I smiled. Lisa ushered me to the elevator.

“Check my text,” she said and pushed me into the elevator. I waved to her. As soon as the elevator door closed, I checked my cell. “I need you to be unavailable tomorrow. There is no booking. Check email for Monday's booking, chipmunk. Night. Get home safe,” Lisa had texted.

The car took me all of five blocks home. “Here we are.”

“Thank you very much!” I said.

“Do you have an umbrella, ma'am?”

“No. It's okay.”

“Wait a minute.” He got out of the car and stood in front of my door. He opened the car door with an umbrella and escorted me under my building awning.

“Thank you.”

“Have a good night, miss.”

“You, too.” I was dreading the thought of going upstairs. It was kind of cool outside—brisk enough for me to feel the chill against my skin, but not cold enough for me to want to run upstairs. I was dressed in a mere T-shirt and jeans. I had five-inch J. Choos on. They were my absolute favorites. I hung onto favorite shoes, favorite watches, favorite scarfs. Gold and white. They used to be my mom's. I saved a few things from her closet before Daddy packed them up and put them in the second guest bedroom. I stood there, smelling the freshness of the rain, wondering what it would sound like when it dripped upon my skin.

Something in my mind kept making me feel like I should look down the block at the corner. If I closed my eyes, it would only be me and the smell of the rain. However, I was compelled not to escape into my own world. I quickly glanced at the corner to prove to myself there was no point to paying attention to what was in my mind.

My eyes fell upon the yellow crosswalk sign. Without even a breath going by, it happened. Right underneath the crosswalk, I saw Noel, looking as perfect as he'd looked in every fantasy of mine. Was he taller and sort of broad-shouldered? I couldn't really tell underneath the leather biker jacket. But the smile—the smile that pulled on my heart and made me feel pain for all the time I had been denied seeing it, that smile was unmistakably the same.

I stopped breathing for seconds stacked right on top of each other. Was he truly crossing the street? I ran like my pumps were Cross Trainers. The rain washed over me. It felt like I had hope and proof. The suffering, the tears, the prayers were worth it. My heart was pounding against the walls of my chest. I deserved this? I did.

He was everything I wanted. God, I wanted him so badly to take me away from here.

The light changed. I waited anxiously for a chance to walk through traffic. I couldn't see him. He wouldn't do this to me. I knew he must have seen me. It's me! The crowd at the opposite corner just kept growing. Yikes! This light was going to mess me up! I was desperately impatient. I ran across the street against the light. An Escalade was steering straight for me. I was going to stop right there. But I just ran. A thought of my mother crossed my mind.

I had to risk it to find him. As soon as my foot hit the curb, the crowd charged across the street. Had that millisecond even made a difference? I still didn't see him. I charged against the crowd. It was like 20 people deep. I thought I had finally made it through the maze of people when I turned my head left, then right to look for Noel.
Unannounced, a 10-year-old's mother grabbed on her so hard she slammed against me. I fell from the recoil.

There I was, on the pavement, only a moment away from tears. In the rain, my blouse and jeans completely soaked. This was New York, right? No one was going to lend me a hand to get up. And I was falling behind. I could barely think straight. How could he come to this corner and not come to the house? How could he just have walked by? Where was he?

Had he fled upon seeing me? Like when I fled upon seeing him kiss that girl? The reminder alone hollowed out my chest. It was that wretched, empty feeling you got right before you break down and cry. I couldn't help the tears. It felt like I had lost him all over again. It felt like I was defeated and mistaken and not deserving. It felt like his love was not mine. My face was so wet that no one could see I was crying. I was probably going to get pneumonia. Would it serve me right? The world was not mine, after all. I shared it with millions of people, people who had prayers much deeper than mine. I was to cross the street and go back up to the apartment. I was to learn to love. … A knot gathered in my throat as I thought. I was to learn to love those who loved me and stop pretending things would ever change.

I stood just outside the building awning. Wet and shivering, I had no concerns for the cold. I couldn't go inside crying. That was one thing. No one ever knew how I cried. I stood there and I asked God to let the rain wash away my broken heart. I asked him, had I even seen Noel?

I was getting used to feeling broken. It was the feeling that I would never be fixed that frightened me. That was new.