Briar: Did you make her matzo brei for breakfast??
Radhya: Wait, she spent the NIGHT?
Josh: Your shock is very flattering, thank you.
Radhya: Don’t do anything.
Don’t text, don’t call.
Wait for her to initiate contact.
Briar: I dunno…
3:25ish is a GREAT time for a “sup?”
Very casual.
Radhya: No.
GIVE HER SPACE.
She might call me in the meantime.
Briar: Good strategy. Triangulate!
Gtg team. Peloton is starting.
* * *
ARI HURRIES AROUND the corner to the Bleecker Street station, hugging her peacoat closed. It’s hard to believe she was sweating a few minutes ago. She sifts through her unanswered texts with the charging cord still attached to her phone, slapping against her inside-out tights as she runs down the stairs.
Fumbling in her bag for her MetroCard with one last fare, Ari pushes through the turnstile with the slightest sense of relief that there’s at least one physical barrier between current Ari and the Ari of ten minutes ago. It’ll feel even better to get out of this neighborhood. There’s no arrival time on the LED displays—just a random pattern of red pixels.
She checks her phone. There’s an angry red dot with the number 104 over the messages icon. She’s sure that number was in the 80s yesterday.
Sun, Jan 15, 5:31 p.m.
salt & pepper man + blond hotwife : Still on for 6:15?
The place on 20th.
6:21 p.m.
We’re here.
6:42 p.m.
We’re in the dining area in back. Ordered some tapas.
7:05 p.m.
What’s your ETA?
7:23 p.m.
Look, we were willing to wait over an hour because Cara liked that thing you did with your chin but this is extremely rude.
7:31 p.m.
How challenging is it to send a text?? “Sorry, can’t make it” would fucking suffice.
Do you know how hard it was for my wife to get comfortable opening things up?
7:47 p.m.
Your time is not more important than OUR TIME.
Women like you don’t give a shit about anyone else.
You happy?
Ari blinks at the screen until the words turn into clumps of letters. Cool. Not only is she blowing up her own life; she’s destroying other people’s relationships, too. A rat with a long white scar down its back casually meanders over the rumbling tracks. The headlights of the 6 light up the tunnel. Ari watches the rat wander, unconcerned, along the rail.
The train slows to a stop and she chooses a car with enough people in it to indicate that it’s free of horrific smells.
Ari’s thumb hesitates over dust daddy.
Ari: hey
Delete.
She watches the letters disappear. Maybe if they just never speak of it again, it’ll be like it never happened.
It’ll be fine.
It’s fine.
The train surges forward and service cuts out in the tunnel. Putting her head in her hands, Ari becomes one of those women who softly cries on the train while the other passengers mercifully ignore her.
* * *
—
WHEN ARI ARRIVES AT THE address Josh’s mother texted her, she recognizes the front windows, now papered over with a smattering of posters for a new HBO series and a bit of graffiti. Abby is already inside the old Brodsky’s building, pacing back and forth across the mostly empty floor. She has two white AirPods pressed into her ears, facilitating a spirited conversation with an invisible person.
She waves Ari over, continuing her call while pulling a metal folding chair over to a table with a laptop and scattered papers. “It has a thirty-five-year tax abatement. Mixed-use. Yes.” She crushes Ari into one of those maternal hugs that rock back and forth a few times. “A hundred eighty rental units at the base of the Williamsburg Bridge? Text me after you connect with him. Okay.” Abby rolls her eyes. “Okay.” She hangs up and drops the phone to the table. “I swear to God, men refuse to read emails. They need me to tell them the information three times before it takes. Sit, sit.”
Ari’s phone chimes.
Briar:
SO great seeing you yesterday.
At least it’s not from Josh.
“Thanks so much for meeting me here,” Abby says. She holds up two Starbucks cups. “I’m doing a walkthrough with a potential buyer this morning.”
Briar: the first of MANY hangouts!
If Ari had come here two weeks ago, she’d be scanning the place, looking for clues, trying to glean those tantalizing bits of information that Josh never wants to talk about. Did ten-year-old Josh sit at the counter and refill salt and pepper shakers after school?
Except she doesn’t really want to imagine Josh doing anything right now. Not while she’s wearing clothes that she picked up off his bedroom floor. Not after what happened this morning and especially not in front of his mother.