Gabriel was shrugging his vest on. He stood with his hand on the doorknob. “Why’d you even agree to go out with me?” he said quietly. “You should probably . . .” He trailed off without finishing his sentence.
The way Gabriel looked at her now, Fiona wished she hadn’t blurted out the whole pathetic Willy saga. She would do anything to get back to the way they were at the restaurant earlier tonight. How he complimented her and admired her profile in the mirror. She saw no way of retrieving her dignity now.
Her favorite Mary was the one hanging next to the front door, who wore a ruby diadem and a crimson robe trimmed in gold thread. Her right breast was exposed, and the baby in her lap suckled with pleasure at the nipple. Fiona fixed her gaze on the red Mary now, avoiding Gabriel’s eyes but still holding him in her field of vision, as if preserving him in memory.
He opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The door shut behind him with a quiet click.
“I’m not rich,” she said bitterly. “And you’re an asshole.”
* * *
? ? ?
At her desk the next day, Fiona opened up a browser to the Jobs section on Craigslist Los Angeles. She found a few legal research jobs, similar to what she was doing now, but the advertised salary ranges were ten grand less than what she was currently paid. For a moment she entertained the idea of returning to law school, like she kept promising her mother. That possibility depressed her even more. She closed the browser window and decided to go for a walk to clear her head.
Downstairs, she headed east toward Herald Square. The sidewalk was wet from an early-morning shower. She stepped carefully over a slick metal grate. Fiona still felt haunted by Willy’s presence all over the city. Last week she thought she saw him reading a folded-up paperback on the downtown platform as her train slowed to a stop at the 14th Street station. It wasn’t him. The week before, she could’ve sworn it was him hailing a cab in front of that fried chicken joint on West Thirty-Second. Wrong again. Just one of his doppelg?ngers, another East Asian dude in tight black jeans and an oversized green utility coat, sporting a growing-out fade. She recalled the way he plowed the sidewalk, fists jammed into his pockets, shoulders hunched against some invisible impending wind. Still handsome in her memory, though she hated his guts. With every false sighting, her heart dropped. She scolded herself each time for wishing, just for a second, that she’d actually seen him.
Fiona shook her head and plucked a cigarette out of the soft pack crushed in her coat pocket, stuck it between her lips, and lit up. She fished her phone out of the other pocket.
Her mother picked up on the third ring, her voice scratchy with sleep. “Ona?”
“I can’t give you the money you asked for.”
Her mother was silent.
“It’s not because I don’t want to,” Fiona said. “I looked at the website, and you were right. It’s legitimate.”
“What did I tell you? You think Mommy is such a fool?”
“I’m the fool,” Fiona said, her voice breaking. “I wish I could help you, Mom, but I’m in some trouble—I made a mistake, I trusted Willy, and he—he—” Fiona stuttered, trying to find the words to explain herself.
“Willy?” her mother said. “What happened?”
“We broke up.” There was nothing to do but to come right out and say it. “He stole money from me. All my savings. Everything I had.”
“Did you call the police? They have to arrest him!”
“It was my fault, Mom. I made a joint bank account, and credit cards . . .”
“Oh no,” her mother moaned. “Ona. Really? Oh, dear.”
“I’m going to quit smoking,” Fiona said. “I’m getting the patch this week.”
Her mother sighed, and the silence between them stretched long and wide.
“Everyone makes mistakes,” her mother said finally. “But, Ona, this isn’t your fault. Okay? I have five thousand dollars. I’ll give it to you. To help you move back home.” A pause. “You can rest for a while.”
“That’s money you were going to invest into your business,” Fiona said. “I can’t take that from you, Mom.”
“Ona,” her mother said. “Last Christmas, I could read it in your face. So much stress. Sadness. Anger. You looked so lonely.” Her mother heaved another sigh. “Take the money. Come home.”
Gabriel had accused her of being rich, and she’d denied it. But here was her mother, floating Fiona a lifeline. Five thousand dollars until she figured out her next move. She felt shame burning in her chest, tethered to relief. She told her mother she would think about it, but in her heart Fiona already knew her answer. In truth, hadn’t she already been leaning in this direction? She’d put most of her belongings into storage a year ago, when she moved into the Gramercy sublet. Living among the Virgin Marys, she seemed to have become a supplicant without realizing it. Fiona no longer wanted restitution—from Willy, from the difficulty of life in New York. She wanted peace.