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“You can tell me tomorrow,” she exclaims. “I’m coming to New York!”
“You are?”
“My sister and I are visiting our cousins in Pennsylvania. I’m taking the bus into the city tomorrow morning. I figured I’d stay with you for a couple of nights.”
“Oh, Mags, that’s fantastic. I can’t wait to see you. I have so much to tell you. I’m dating this guy—”
“Maggie?” someone asks in the background.
“Got to go. I’ll see you tomorrow. My bus gets in at nine a.m. Can you meet me at Port Authority?”
“Of course.” I hang up the phone, thrilled. Then I remember I’m supposed to see Bernard tomorrow night. But maybe Maggie can come with us. I can’t wait for her to meet him. She’ll probably freak out when she sees how sexy he is.
Full of excitement, I sit down at the typewriter to write a few more pages of my play. I’m determined to take advantage of Bobby’s offer to stage a reading in his space. And maybe, just maybe, if the reading is a success, I can stay in New York. I’ll have officially become a writer and I won’t have to go to Brown at all.
I work like a demon until three a.m., when I force myself to go to bed. I toss and turn with anticipation, thinking about my play and Bernard and all the interesting people I’ve met. What will Maggie think of my new life?
Surely she has to be impressed.
Chapter Thirteen
“You actually live here?” Maggie asks, aghast.
“Isn’t it great?”
She drops her knapsack on the floor and surveys the apartment. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“Right here,” I say, pointing to the door behind her. “The bedroom is there. And this is the living room.”
She exhales. “It’s so small.”
“It’s big for New York. You should have seen where I was living before.”
“But—” She walks to the window and looks out. “It’s so dirty. And this building. I mean, it’s kind of falling down. And those people in the hallway—”
“The old couple? They’ve lived here their whole lives. Samantha keeps hoping they’ll die so she can get their apartment,” I quip, without thinking. “It has two bedrooms and the rent is cheaper than this place.”
Maggie’s eyes widen. “That’s awful. Wanting someone to die so you can get their apartment. This Samantha sounds like a horrible person. But I’m not surprised, being Donna LaDonna’s cousin.”
“It’s only a joke.”
“Well,” she says, patting the futon to make sure it’s sturdy before she sits down, “I should hope so.”
I look at her in surprise. When did Maggie become this prim and proper? She hasn’t stopped complaining about New York since I met her at Port Authority. The smell. The noise. The people. The subway terrified her. When we got out on Fourteenth Street and Eighth Avenue, I had to coach her on when to cross the street.
And now she’s insulting my apartment? And Samantha? But maybe it’s not intentional. Of course she assumes Samantha must be like Donna LaDonna. I would, too, if I didn’t know better.
I sit across from her, leaning forward. “I can’t believe you’re actually here.”
“I can’t either,” she says, full of enthusiasm. We’re both trying to recapture our old rapport.
“You look great!”
“Thanks,” she says. “I think I lost five pounds. I started windsurfing. Have you ever windsurfed? It’s amazing. And the beaches are so beautiful. And there are all these little fishing villages.”
“Wow.” The thought of fishing villages and long stretches of empty sand suddenly sounds as quaint as living two hundred years ago.
“What about guys?” I ask.
