Page 23 of Daring You

The last thing I do before exiting my apartment is put on my engagement ring.

I’m not ready to deal with those kind of questions yet.

* * *

I gothe frugal path and take the subway to Locke’s place rather than a car, getting an impromptu steam inside my parka as I sit in the overcrowded car of the train among all the other winter-clad passengers, our down jackets and cotton pea-coats with hats and gloves creating a cloying atmosphere in such a small space. Shoes and boots squeak against the wet floor every time the train brakes. Dirt pellets, giant pieces of salt, and melting snow chunks roll around with us. I wait for a rat’s whiskers to poke out between a seated person’s shoes.

When I first moved here, clients wouldn’t know the deep-dives I took in what is basically New York City’s moldy sewer system. I’d always arrive fresh-faced, bright-eyed, and wrinkle-free, because I’d leave for my destinations two hours early, even if that meant descending into the subway at 4 a.m. It gave me enough time to get all my curse words out, shove enough people out of my way, switch out my runners for heels, smooth down my hot, windblown hair, and shake hands with serenity.

As a junior associate trying to make it in a top law firm, time worked against me. As a woman, time also worked backwards, making it crucial to nab any opportunities, even if it meant catching a train at Greenpoint in the dead of night to impress my supervisor with a fifty-page motion before he had time to arrive and make himself a cup of coffee.

Why I decided to take the train this morning instead of a hired car—on a weekend no less, when the schedule slowed down exponentially and tourists fell all over themselves because they can’t balance on moving trains—lies in the background of my thoughts, and I’m reluctant to bring it forward.

Mike was always in the car with me.

To rest against the black leather this morning, surrounded by interior silence while the city wails outside, would give me too much time to understand my current circumstance and just how much this career has made me sacrifice.

Has it made me give up on love?

My lip curls. When did I become so unhappy?

The conductor’s garbled announcement that we’ve reached the station hits my ears, saving me from myself. I stand, weaving my body around arms, torsos and legs, much like the Grinch on Christmas morning, until I reach the doors and stumble out into the cool(ish) air of the platform.

I check my watch as I sprint up the stairs and onto the street. Late, as usual, but Locke is used to it and pretty immune to any excuses I come up with, especially if they involve words like motion and contracts and Mike.

I don’t dwell on the implications and instead focus on the one true beam of light in my life: Lily.

Locke’s daughter, my niece, who somehow has reached the ripe age of one-and-a-half within the blink of an eye. I feel like she entered my life yesterday and can’t believe the personality coming out of such a tiny rockstar. I’m proud to say that the second word she ever learned was no.

When I reach the outside of Locke’s worn-down, crumbling brick apartment complex, I wonder why he isn’t utilizing the money he received by the NFL by getting his family a better place. A better area.

“Hey, come on up,” Locke says through the speaker.

I frown at the lopsided, dented metal he sounded out through after I buzzed.

Throwing open the main door, I clomp up the stairs, kicking off any salt and snow my boots collected on the two-block walk over here.

Locke’s door is cracked open in anticipation of my arrival, and I step through, enjoying the waft of warm, humanly heat and the food-smells it brings.

Cinnamon. Cranberry. Pumpkin.

Carter’s taken all the Autumn New York had to give and selfishly kept it in this apartment, while the rest of us are left to deal with gray, slush, and frozen garbage.

“I could be anyone, you know,” I say as greeting while pulling off my boots. I whack them against the doorframe for good measure, dislodging any remaining filth and leaving them in the hallway. “You should at least ask who it is before you buzz me in.”

“Nice to see you too, sis,” Locke says as he comes out of the kitchen, holding Lily.

Maybe I should’ve lead with the instant feeling of belonging stepping through this threshold gave me.

“Where’s Mike?” he asks.

“He’s busy,” is all I’ll say.

Locke’s expression remains carefully blank. “Uh-huh.”

Lily claps her hands upon laying eyes on me, screeching and saying “Ah! AH!”

Ahis Lily’s name for me. Astor is a bit too difficult for her, so she’s settled with the first syllable, sadly also the sound someone makes when they scream. Locke’s had a boatload of fun with that one.

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