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Sighing, I text: Remind me to never let it ride.
Jackson: Why would I do that when I just won from your poor judgment?
I chuckle. Me: Cade still there?
Jackson: He just left.
Me: I was heading over there, but I think I’ll head home instead.
Jackson: Early morning for me, so I wouldn’t be good company for long anyway. There’s a game on Thursday.
Between my caseload, Tealey moving in, and now this Marlow madness, I reply: A lot going on this week. I’ll check my schedule.
Jackson: All good. Have a good one.
Me: You too.
Although I’m heading in the same direction as my apartment, I’m not ready to go home. I lean forward and tell the driver, “Change of plans. Brooklyn.”
Cars honking. The city lit up at night. People crowding the sidewalks. It doesn’t matter if it’s a Tuesday or Saturday night, the city is always awake and thriving. The thrum of New York beats inside me, and I sit back and let it fight against the adrenaline coursing through me. That’s something I usually reserve for court but going against the Marchés is similar. The only difference is I think I just lost my case.
Tealey asking if I’d ever considered leaving has me looking at the city again. I’ve become so used to the hustle of the streets that it had become a blur in my mind, a place I was sleepwalking through to get to my job or go home with not much life between.
If someone were to ask her, she’d detail out some exciting life that she imagines I lead. It’s interesting enough to pass time, but is it fulfilling in the ways humans desire?
I think it used to be.
Now, I’m not so sure.
As we cross the bridge, a new rush runs up my spine. I shouldn’t be fixated on Tealey like I’ve been since we’re just friends, but I’m starting to believe that she might put some excitement back in my life.
Friend.
Roommate.
Whatever we are, I’m liking this energy she’s injected.
Deep in the borough away from the bridge, the cab turns down a street and then cuts across another. I recognize the block, though I don’t think I’ve ever been here at night. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve been in Tealey’s apartment at all.
I pay the driver and get out. Looking down the street in one direction and then the other, it’s distinctively quieter on her block than the parts of Manhattan we drove through to get here.
After verifying the address once more, I walk to the door. I’m about to knock, but some guy on the first floor smoking a cigarette asks, “You don’t live here. Who are you here to see?”
“Tealey Bell in 3B.”
The lines in his brow are smooth, and his expression lifts. “Why are you here to see her?”
“We’re friends. Good friends.” Since that doesn’t seem to satisfy the old guy, I add, “She’s moving in with me this weekend.”
“Chad Mellington, or something like that.”
“Close enough.” That Tealey’s talked about me has to be a good sign.
He stamps the cigarette on the brick windowsill and says, “I’ll buzz you in.”
I wait only a few seconds before I hear the buzz and the lock release. I pull the door open and enter the building, only to be greeted by the same guy. “She tells me you have a nice place.”
“I do. It’s not too far from Central Park.”
Rubbing his fingers together, he oohs. “Money. She deserves better than this dump.” He pats the wall. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go on up.”
I go but stop on the bottom step and turn back. “What’s your name?”
“Meisler. Joey Meisler.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Meisler.”
Nothing impresses this guy. Without another word, he eyes me up and down and then returns to his apartment.
Dilapidated is an understatement. The handrail wobbles, and the stairs sound like they’re about to break under my feet. There’s a distinct smell of old cigarettes and chemical cleaner in the air. On the second floor, the sound of a gameshow blares through the thin and dusty walls as I climb higher. When I reach Tealey’s floor, I glance down the hall to see the apartment number—3B.
There’s no sneaking with floors this creaky, but it’s noticeably cleaner, and the bad odors don’t linger up there. I knock on her door and then shove my hands in my pockets to wait.
The door swings open, and there she is—hair twisted in pink rollers and a T-shirt that hangs to her knees, fuzzy pink slippers, and what appears to be a face mask. Without looking up, she says, “What’d you forget—Oh!”
I smirk.
Her fingers rip the white sheet from her face, and she starts scrubbing her fingers across her skin. “What are you doing here?”
“I was nowhere near your neighborhood, so I thought I’d stop by.”
Her shoulders ease as she laughs. “Well then, since you’re here, come on in.”
