Love, Chloe (8 page)

“Who is the mayor of New York?”

The presses in my brain stopped. In my four years in New York, I had barely picked my head up from my books, or my drink, or Hulu, long enough to notice current politics in this giant city. I swear, the first name that almost spilled from my lips was Giuliani. Thank God I stopped
that
brain fart in time.

I swallowed, sweat dampening the back of my shirt. “I-I … I just graduated from NYU. I’m afraid that my studies have taken up the majority of my time.”

My answer passed, no contempt blazing in their eyes. Burying oneself in studies was, apparently, a point in my favor. “What major?” the woman asked.

“Real Estate with a minor in Psychology.” I breathed a little easier at a question I knew. I just hoped she wouldn’t ask me to produce a diploma.

“You aren’t up to date on New York politics? Or any politics at all?” The man wasn’t letting this go.

To lie or not to lie, that was the question. I smiled and tried not to fidget. “Politics in general. I just haven’t had time to stay properly informed.”

“What political party are your parents?”

“Republican.” I crossed my fingers and hoped it was the right answer. The man actually
smiled,
and I relaxed a little.

“And what do your parents do?” The woman flipped a page of my application.

Oh God. It was so hot in there. I felt a bead of sweat run down my back. “Investment banking.” Be short and sweet, Cammie had coached.

The woman smiled. A miracle. I guess she liked that answer. She glanced at the man, who cleared his throat and leaned forward, resting the tops of his fingers on the desk as if he was playing the piano. “It’s very important to us, Ms. Madison, that this building maintains a certain level of decorum. We won’t tolerate parties or loud music or a lot of young people coming in and out at late hours.”

“I understand. I’m very focused on my career right now. I won’t be a problem.” I forced a smile and hoped it was convincing. I knew what they were worried about. And that girl, just a few months ago, was me. But ever since losing my money, ever since moving in with Cammie, ever since working for Nicole… I’d gotten pretty boring. I had, fortunately or unfortunately, grown up. Was staying in more than going out. I was what they wanted. And I was desperate for the apartment.

They asked a few more invasive questions. Did I eat meat? What was my opinion on the United States’ involvement in the Middle East? Was I involved in any charitable organizations? Did I have a 401(k)? Did I understand that there would be absolutely no pets of any kind allowed in the apartment? The last question—the only appropriate question out of the whole bunch—gave me the first hint that I was passing the ridiculous interview. The deal was sealed five minutes later, when they passed me the keys, along with a three-page list of rules for tenants.

I would move in on the fifteenth. And even though it was my third apartment since moving from Miami, it felt like the first time I’d really be living here. Maybe it was my name on the lease. Or the hours of work behind my deposit. But I knew one thing: it felt good. Scratch that. It felt
great
.

New York City better get used to my face. I was here to stay.

I didn’t understand why they wouldn’t call. At the very least, parents should call on a girl’s birthday. She shouldn’t spend it huddled in a corner of a crowded bar, pretending to be happy. She should be able to have one real conversation with someone who understood the pain of losing everything. She shouldn’t have to smile over cashmere gloves from her best friends when all she really wanted was her cell phone bill to be paid.

The man bent over, a loop in hand, and peered down at the earrings. He nodded, pushing them aside, and reached for my watch, a sixteenth birthday present from my father. I chewed on the edge of my pinky, my nails nude for the first time in years. I’d tried to paint them myself, the result a disaster—dark purple polish that looked like it’d been applied by a child, as much off my nails as on.

“You have a receipt for any of this stuff?” The man peered at me, suspicion in the worn lines of his face, the contents of my jewelry box dotting the velvet surface before him.

“No.” I raised an eyebrow, my look daring the man to accuse me of theft. The man was selling Casio watches, for God’s sake. He should be tripping over himself for my pieces.

I hadn’t brought everything. I’d keep a pair of diamond studs that my parents had given me for my high school graduation. Kept an emerald pendant that had been my grandmother’s, along with a handful of other sentimentals. But everything else, sadly, was here. In this dimly lit pawnshop in Midtown, one with a huge sign screaming their inventory of jewelry. An upscale jeweler had been my first stop. But they only sold on consignment, wanting a hefty sixty percent cut, and I had needed cash now. So there I was, in my first visit to a pawnshop, and hopefully, my last.

“I’ll give you four thousand.” The man rested his hands on the glass display case, leaning over my things.

“What?” I stared down at my pieces, several of them worth that alone. “That’s ridiculous.” Panic welled in my chest and I swallowed hard, vowing not to lose my cool. I pointed to Vic’s earrings. “Those earrings were easily ten grand, and I just got them last month.”

“This is a pawn shop.” He looked at me as if I were mental. “This ain’t Tiffany’s. I got to make a profit, and price things low enough to sell.” He lifted up my watch, a diamond-studded Tag. “Not many of my clients are looking for pieces like this.”

Glancing at his other inventory, I believed the man. I held out my hand, asking for the watch, and he handed it back. I studied the face of it, thinking of the day I received it, then glanced back up at him. “Five thousand,” I said, sliding the watch on my wrist and fastening it. “Without the watch. That’s more than fair.”

“Forty-five hundred. Cash.”

“Okay.” I nodded without looking at him, thinking of the apartment I so desperately wanted. I didn’t have to sell these to make the deposit, but doing so would mean the difference between bare bones living and some security.

With a price agreed upon, the rest was quick. He inventoried my items, wrote out a receipt, and counted out a stack of hundreds. I pulled my wallet out and passed over my license, then returned it to my jacket pocket. Watching him count out the bills, my chest loosened. He put it all neatly in an envelope, one too thick to fit in my other jacket pocket. I stuffed it in my purse, carefully zipped it shut, and was out the front door, steps quick and happy, feeling rich for the first time in months.

The wind howled through the early night and I stopped in the middle of the crowded sidewalk, ready to splurge, pulling out my phone to find an Uber.

The shove was brutal, square in the middle of my back, my phone flying from my hand as I fell forward, my knee hitting the sidewalk hard, a gasp of pain all I could manage as my palms scraped the concrete. My bag, an Alexander McQueen, was jerked away, wrenching my shoulder in the process, my shout of protest taken by the wind.

The asshole wore a brown jacket and had dark hair. That was the only thing I saw as I hobbled to my feet, my knee screaming in pain, the bright green edge of my purse disappearing as he ran through the crowd, then rounded a corner and was gone.

I yelled, I pointed, and was ignored, the crowd moving around me, one girl meeting my eyes with a regretful frown as she stepped past. I stared after him, thinking of my money, all of that cash,
gone
. Just like that. One more New York mugging, like the hundreds that happened every day. It wasn’t worth a call to the police; I hadn’t even gotten a glimpse at the mugger. Stupid me, skipping out of the pawnshop with a giant smile on my face. I should have had Dante drive me. I should have worn sweat pants and a fanny pack. I should have just sold the stuff on eBay like Cammie had suggested.

“Is this yours?”

I looked over, to the short man, a stranger, who held out my phone, his eyes worried as he gave me a onceover. I took it from him, smiling as tears pricked my eyes. “Thanks,” I whispered.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded. “I’m fine.” I stepped away from him, limping slightly, and looked down to see the knee of my jeans ripped. Waving away his concern, I headed for the warmth: just two doors down, a neon Bud Light sign called my name.

I never used to drink beer. I preferred wine or champagne, my fancy mouth above something so barbaric as a two-dollar beer. Now, in a booth stuck along the back wall of a burger joint, a bucket of peanuts before me, I tipped back an ice cold Pabst Blue Ribbon. They were the special, I was told by an enthusiastic redhead—a bucket of six for seven dollars. I felt my pocket, reassured by the feel of my wallet, and ordered the bucket, resting my foot on the opposite bench and rubbing my knee while I contemplated the depressing turn my life had taken.

I could have called Benta or Cammie. Gotten a drinking partner or, at least, a safe ride home. But there was something satisfying about a pity party for one. Something entirely blissful in finishing one, then two beers, while feeling sorry for myself. I understood my problems. They didn’t. They had no idea what any of this was like. And it wasn’t from not asking me. But they didn’t know the questions to ask. We’d never talked about money before, so they didn’t think to ask if I was okay. They bought my food and offered loans and moved on with their lives. They didn’t ask if it hurt that my parents didn’t call me. They didn’t ask if I was lonely.

The stress over money.

The worry over my parents.

How much I missed them.

How I felt so lonely.

The fight to keep positive when everything seemed to be falling apart.

They. Didn’t. Understand.

I opened a third bottle. The taste really wasn’t that bad. With the salty peanuts, it was almost good.