Page 60 of Look, Don't Touch

My aunt’s heels clack on the parquet floor in the hall.

Astor grins back. Her thick brows waggle, and her eyes shine with mischief. “Does Nat know you’re the one who stole her vintage Dior handbag, gifted to her by Yves Saint-Laurent himself?”

“Borrowed,” I whisper.

“Are you planning to return it?”

“Return what?” Nat asks, always the Nosy Nelly.

My friend bats her lashes and smiles at me.

“A bag I borrowed from Astor.” I flip her the bird when Nat’s back is turned, setting down a tray of fruit, cheese, and crackers. “I’ll bring it to you Monday.”

I brought Astor a bag I borrowed from her three years ago. Haha!

She didn’t even remember the damn thing. Took a little wind out of my sails. Then I tried my best to walk back out. The woman is thin but ballsy and not to be fucked with. She had a text typed and ready to send to my aunt as collateral. So I stayed and spilled my guts, the parts I was willing to acknowledge.

That’s why the frosty wind slaps my face, and my feet hurt. On particularly heinous sessions, I’ll leave her office on the Upper West Side and hoof it through the park to decompress before heading back to work. Admittedly, it’s been a while since I’ve dug deep. The last time, I wasn’t in fear of losing my nose to frostbite.

By the time I stop at the corner of 85th and 5th, I’m scanning left for a cab when I see a hint of the Guggenheim’s iconic profile through the leaf-bare trees. I haven’t made the decision to go that way, but my numb booted feet carry me closer. Wind slithers up my long skirt and seeps into my tights.

In a few minutes, I stand in front of its curved sides, staring up like a tourist.

One of his parents worked here. He said the museum was in his backyard.

My head turns to look down 88th.

And I wonder.

I wonder and walk, away from the art and toward the row of domestic homes. I stroll like I have an internal compass guiding me. The white stone fronts are carved with shields and buttresses, scrolled designs and floral embellishments. Each one is grand, standing five stories high, plus a basement.

The first quite literally touches the famed gallery.

It also has two carved oak doors thrown open. A big truck with trees and bushes, vibrant green grasses, and a variety of plants poking out the top and sides is parked in front.

There’s no one on the street or in the truck’s cab.

I’m pulled closer and closer still.

The balconies are stunning. Of course, there are more than one. I count three, maybe four. Every one overflows with greenery in the unforgiving cold.

“Hey, uh, comin’ through.”

I jerk and spin toward the thick Jersey accent. He stands at the back of the truck with a dolly filled with a pallet of the greenest grass I’ve ever seen.

He points toward the home that I’m blocking his path to.

“Sorry.” I shuffle to the side.

The young man rolls the wheels to the curb, hefts the stack of grass onto the sidewalk, and then walks it backward toward the series of stairs. He stops at the bottom and squares me with a look. He smiles. “You, uh, need some landscaping done, doll? I can help you out.”

I can’t tell if he’s hitting on me or genuinely asking if I’m in need of a landscaper, mostly because I’m the one staring. I started this. Not that I was looking at him specifically.

“It’d be my pleasure to help you out.” His wink is the giveaway. “Yours too.”

“I doubt it.”

The words aren’t mine. They could have been, if not for the familiar airy rasp.

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