The Last Phone Booth in Manhattan(30)
“Adam has nothing to do with my career,” I insisted.
“Or lack thereof,” Marisol bit back.
It was a below-the-belt strike, and I fought to find something equally hurtful to hurl in her direction. But my racing thoughts kept me from finding the perfect retort. After a moment of silence, all I could muster was, “I love Adam, and I love our life together.”
“You mean his life, don’t you?” she fired, not relenting. “You gave yours up when you moved out of our place and into his penthouse on Park Avenue.”
“Riiiiiight, I forgot the only place worth living is ten feet from Grimaldi’s Pizzeria. Just ’cause I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge doesn’t mean I defected. I was drowning—in failed auditions and in self-doubt. Meeting Adam was like being thrown a life raft. When you’re drowning, you don’t question the help, you just take it, grateful your head’s above water again.”
Marisol softened a bit, her expression growing more worried than angry. “I’m not trying to fight with you, Ave . . . I just . . . I don’t recognize you anymore. What happened to the girl singing and dancing on tables at Mimi’s ready to take on the Great White Way? You gave up on her too easily. Where’s your fight? Where are you in any of this?” she asked as she again gestured to the opulent chandeliers, luxurious decor, and tuxedoed waitstaff.
Why couldn’t Marisol see that I didn’t want to stop fighting—I just didn’t have any fight left. Doors can only be slammed in your face so many times before you start looking for a new one. I sighed. “I’m still me, Marisol.”
She grabbed for the bottle of champagne and waved it in front of me. “Could’ve fooled me.”
I held up my hands, tired of running in circles that seemed to have no finish line. “Maybe we were stupid to think that after Gabe and I broke up our friendship could go on like nothing happened. You chose your side. I get it.” I ceremoniously picked up my glass of the $800 bottle of Dom Pérignon and lifted it in a cheers motion. “And I chose mine.” I pulled a long sip from the flute before resting it back on the table between us. “There’s nothing more to say. I guess we’re done.”
The corners of Marisol’s eyes were wet with tears, but she cleared her throat and threw some cash down on the table as she rose from her chair. “Until you see this has nothing to do with Gabe or Adam and everything to do with you, I guess we are done.”
Chapter Fifteen
True to his word, Charlie texted Lyla, and we arranged to meet the next day at her apartment in Bushwick, Brooklyn. Climbing out of the M Train, I pushed through the throngs of early-morning commuters until I reached the Knickerbocker Avenue exit. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, the air crisp and fresh, fragrant with the scent of pizza mixed with the sweet, herby cloud blooming from a nearby vape pen. I looked for an address, scanning the streets and signs, but after a few seconds of confusion, I ducked into the first shop I saw in search of someone to ask.
Pulling open the heavy glass door, I was assaulted by the thick, dank stench of weed and gave a little cough as I made my way to the counter through a haze of smoke. A lithe young hipster stood behind the counter, which displayed glass tubes and thingamabobs that I couldn’t even identify. A thin gray thread floated up past his lips as he asked, “What can I get you? We have a special on Gorilla Punch and also Marshmellow vape carts.”
“Oh, I’m not . . . um . . . I don’t need that today. Thanks. But I was wondering if you know where I can find Morgan Avenue. Is that close by? I just got off the subway, and I’m a little turned around.”
He hiked up his pants with a shimmy and pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “Morgan Avvvveee.” He dragged out the words as he thought out loud. “You came up on the M, right? Then you were parallel to Morgan. You just took a wrong turn when you left the station. Head back, and it’ll be on the other side. Just cross over at the main intersection, can’t miss it.”
I threw a few bucks into his tip jar as a thank-you and stepped back into the fresh air, a little dizzy from the possible contact high. I retraced my steps back to the subway and started heading north on Morgan, checking the numbers as they descended until I found myself standing in front of Lyla’s apartment building. I hurried up the front steps into the lobby and pushed the ringer for apartment C3.
Suddenly, a bright voice from inside the intercom said, “Come on up,” followed by a click and a loud, vibrating buzz. I pushed open the vestibule door and started my ascent to the third floor, which incidentally was a breeze after the Mount Everest–like climb I made with Mindy.
A young woman with smooth dark skin, a round face, and wide, excited eyes answered the door with a smile. “You must be Avery. Come in.” She swept the door open and gestured widely with her arm to enter. “Girls, Avery’s here,” she called, her voice echoing down the corridor. “I’m Oaklyn, by the way. I go by Oak. Lyla’s just finishing getting ready, she’ll be right out.”
“Yo, what’s up?” one of the other roommates added as she approached us.
Oak put her arm around the girl’s waist. “This is Sevyn, and she is clearly a woman of many words.”
Sevyn shrugged and barely registered the slight. “Emotions are overrated. I either eat ’em or yeet ’em.”