“What are you paying?” I prodded.
“Why do you care? Mind your own business.”
I sighed, exasperated. It was like we were kids again and I was trying to force him to admit he’d eaten all the Oreos. “I’m your older sister, so your business
is
mine. Now spit it out, what’s the price?”
“Hey, I take umbrage at that. Your business is your business and mine is mine.”
I was growing more suspicious by the second. “Can your fancy words! This smells wrong. What are you paying?”
Nicolas shoved the last toaster pastry box into the cupboard and slammed the door, then glanced over his shoulder and gave me his look, the one that warned me not to freak out. “Fifteen hundred a month,” he said as he walked towards to the sink. “Which is still a lot on my salary. I’m trying to find a roommate.” Nicolas said this in a nonchalant tone, but I immediately began sputtering in shock.
“
What?
Fifteen hundred dollars? New York real estate is expensive as hell. What are you doing for that price?” This place could have fetched five thousand a month, easily. Probably even sixty-five hundred in today’s market.
Nicolas laughed. “Nothing illegal or immoral, trust me.”
“This isn’t a casting couch sort of scenario is it?”
“This is exactly that kind of scenario. Who could resist all this?” Nicolas gestured up and down his body with one hand and wiggled his butt at me.
Nicolas was handsome—handsome as hell. He was tall, which drove the women crazy, and he had the features of some Greek sculpture. But I seriously doubted he was selling his body for some choice square footage.
“Nicolas, I’m serious,” I said in my sternest big sister voice. Nicolas gave an audible groan and turned his back towards me. “Nic! This is shady. Who is this guy? Oh my God, are you in with the mob?”
Nicolas burst out in laughter as he washed his hands in the gleaming copper sink. “Florence, it’s not a big deal. Don’t worry.”
I cocked an eyebrow and put my hands on my hips. “You’re hiding something. What are you not telling me?”
“Oh no! Both hips! This is serious!” Nicolas shook the water off his hands. “Don’t worry about it. At worst he’ll kick me out when he’s sick of losing money on this place.”
“Who is
he
?” I was nearly screaming at this point. Something niggled; something was wrong and I didn’t want Nicolas getting in over his head.
“The developer of this building kept a couple units for himself. He rents them out, and he gave me a good price. He doesn’t need the funds, so he took pity on a poor little medical student such as myself.”
I leaned forward over the peninsula and took in Nicolas as he dried his hands on a kitchen towel. Ever since we were young, Nicolas was a bad liar. From what I could tell, he was telling the truth to an extent, but I couldn’t help but feel something was missing from the story. Something important.
“Is he blackmailing you for prescription drugs or something?”
Nicolas laughed again and hung the towel over the giant double wall oven. I studied the unit—touchscreen, convection, stainless steel, some German brand I’d never heard of before.
“That’d make this whole sordid tale more interesting. But sadly, I’m not raiding the hospital for opiates. Just drop it, Flo. I’m not involved with anything shady, just a guy who decided to give me a good price.”
“But—”
Nicolas heaved a loud sigh that interrupted me. He walked over and his giant hands crashed onto my shoulders, which pushed me into a barstool. I quickly glanced down at the stool. It was part of the bar and made of gleaming steel and plush leather.
“Florence, I’m going to the bathroom to take a leak. When I come out, you’re going to be obsessing about something else besides this boring topic of rent prices and my landlord.” Nicolas didn’t wait for me to answer; he just spun on his heel and walked away from me into the hallway.
I stared at his retreat for the space of a couple seconds, blatantly defying his orders and thinking about the apartment. Okay, perhaps I was overreacting. Nicolas was a grown man. He could deal with any problems that came his way. If he didn’t want to share the details with me, I should just trust that he was sane enough not to get involved in anything too serious.
Nicolas was smart … most of the time.
I sighed audibly and swung my knees under the granite bar. There was a sea of picture frames crowding the surface, and I could barely rest my elbows on the edge without knocking any down. I searched through the pictures, shots of Nicolas and his life up until now.
My father smiled back at me from some, perched in mostly casual poses such as one on our old plaid couch. Another was a blurry spontaneous surprise shot of Dad amusingly irritated with his palm outstretched to cover the lens. There were a couple of Nicolas with guys I didn’t recognize, most likely college friends, and guys I did recognize, high school buddies.
There were a couple of me. There was that one picture from when Nicolas had come to visit me in Vietnam and I had taken him to the beach. I was wearing a straw hat and a white dress that was going everywhere in the wind. A couple progressed from my teens to the college years, and there was even one of Tracy and me in cocktail dresses, drunk and disheveled in Times Square with our heels in our hands.
I cringed. That was taken the last time I’d returned, when Nicolas, Tracy, and some of her friends had gone out to the Meatpacking District to a “rager” Tracy had promised. I’d realized then I was growing too old to rage or drink to excess.
I’d always loved Nicolas’s habit of picture taking. He could never explain to me why he did it, nor did he ever pursue it as any artistic medium. He had old Polaroid cameras that he’d just shove in people’s faces, take a shot, and then frame. Nothing more and nothing less.
The edge of a black wooden frame peeked out from behind a gleaming metallic one that held a photo of Nicolas on a sailboat, and I picked it up gently as not to disturb the others around it. A sliver of blue seersucker greeted my line of vision, and within the space of a breath, my heart dropped.
Emotions flooded.
It was a picture of when I’d won Queen Blueberry Festival my sophomore year of high school. The younger me was wearing a grimace, a hideous blue seersucker dress with puffy shoulders, and a ridiculous large blue sash emblazoned with glittery letters proclaiming my title. In one hand, I clutched a giant basket of blueberries and my trophy, while the other arm was wound around the waist of a tall young man who held my face in his hands …
A young man with dark hair and the lightest hazel-brown eyes, intense, sharp features split into a rare smile, dimples carved into his cheeks.
I stared at the photograph, my heart pounding in my chest.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe. The curve of my thumb traced the edge of the frame, ghosting alongside the edge of his shoulder …
A sound came from behind me, and Nicolas’s voice burst in my ear, “Ha-ha! I love that picture!” I swung back around, startled. “It’s the only one from the festival that year when they forced you into that outfit. You wore that thing all day, and Alistair tackled you—” Nicolas abruptly stopped as he processed the look on my face. “Shit. Oh shit. Sorry.”
He reached over to grab the picture from my fingertips and slammed the frame downwards so the image faced the table. The force knocked a couple other frames down, and the room was soon filled with sounds of wood and metal on granite as well as the muttered curses of Nicolas trying to right them all. As noise burst around me, I stared at the back of the frame while my chest ached and emotion seized my throat.
I would not cry.
I would not feel.
Smile. Smile, Florence, just smile.
Nicolas finally calmed the falling photographs, but before he could say anything, I shook my head and forced a cheery grin on my lips.
“So! What’s for dinner?” I quickly spun around and hopped off the barstool.
Nicolas threw me a concerned look, which I promptly ignored. Instead, I trudged over to the entryway where my suitcases were and hummed loudly while I threw them down and began rifling through, ignoring the sharp pangs of longing jabbing into my heart. The pain was numbing and familiar. It was to be ignored.
It had been long enough, I just needed to get over it.
Finally let it go. Let him go.
“Sorry about—” Nicolas began behind me.
“What’s for dinner?” I interrupted loudly, repeating my question. I extracted a thick sweater and yanked it on roughly.
“Umm …” Nicolas’s voice was hesitant.
“Do you want to go out or eat in?” I adjusted my sweater, fussing with the fabric I gripped between trembling fingers.
Nicolas’s lips tightened. He wanted to continue talking about the photograph and … him. My eyes narrowed in warning, as if to say,
Don’t go there. Don’t ever go there.
Please, don’t.
Thankfully, dinner plans seemed more important. “I’m not cooking,” Nicolas finally said while pointing to his kitchen. It sparkled with the gleam of a brand-new car. “We can go to this Indian restaurant down the block. It’s pretty good.”
“Sounds good. I love Indian food.” I stood up and swung my purse over my shoulder. I made my way to the front door and gripped the handle.
Just then, Nicolas said, “Hey, I’m sorry about the picture.”
My fingers twitched over the steel. I stared at the wood grain of the door before me and took several deep breaths. “Drop it. Just … yeah, no, it’s fine. I don’t want to talk about it.” I heaved a heavy sigh. “I just got back. I’m tired. Let’s just go to dinner.”
After a pause, Nicolas nodded and followed me towards the door. We both donned scarves and hats, then trudged our way to the elevator.
* * *
The sidewalk was freezing in the mid-March spring weather, and we didn’t talk as Nicolas led me a couple buildings down to a small restaurant whose awning read “INDIAN CUISINE.”
As we entered, the warm, spice-filled air greeted me and filled my lungs with a soothing sensation. I wound my scarf off as Nicolas asked for a table for two and I remained quiet until we slid into the booth.
After the waitress took our orders and left us with cups of ice water, Nicolas leaned across the table and said in a low voice, “I’m serious. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I smiled gently. “Never better.”
Nicolas furrowed his brow in concern.
I tucked my hair back behind my ears. “Okay, fine—it was surprising to see him, but I’m back in New York. It’s inevitable that I’ll run across some news. I just didn’t expect that it’d be so soon, or in your apartment. But it’s okay. Just, the initial shock was a bit jarring, but once I have some food, it’ll be okay. It’s okay,” I repeated with more conviction. “It’ll be okay.”
“Okay,” Nicolas echoed.
“Let’s talk about something else, please.”
My request was interrupted by the waitress arriving with a basket of garlic naan. My mouth watered and I inhaled the pungent smell with appreciation. Nicolas and I descended upon the basket, and I unceremoniously crammed a buttery piece into my mouth with a moan of joy.
“Very attractive,” Nicolas teased.
I responded by exaggeratedly chewing with my mouth open, and he laughed.
As my speed slowed, Nicolas asked, “So what are your plans now?” He tore off a piece of naan and popped it in his mouth.
“Well, to put it simply, I’m just going to work from the New York office. I’m tired of the traveling. The editor gave me the option to come back to New York, so I took it.” Even before Gordon Jones had extended the offer, I had already made up my mind to start the process of winding down my time overseas. The call was a welcomed surprise, providing me an easy transition.
Amazing how easy it was to leave somewhere, but I supposed I’d never really belonged there in the first place.
Nicolas nodded in response. “I figured. It’s been, what? Six years since you lived somewhere?”
“Yeah, just about.” I distractedly swirled the straw in my cup.
“That long, huh?”
“I guess so. Time is scary. It just blazes past and before you know it, you’re old. And then you’re dead.”
Nicolas made a face. “Real positive, Florence. Great motivational quote.”
I shrugged. Yes, I was tired from the plane rides, the hotel rooms, but to be honest, perhaps a part of me was jaded. I was turning thirty years old at year’s end and I wished I could feel better about life and about people. I was a work in progress, as simple as that.
I was weary of analyzing myself, so I threw the conversation towards Nicolas’s direction. “How’s work for you?”
Nicolas shrugged in response. “Busy. Exhausting. Stressful. Whatever.”
“Are you happy there?”
Nicolas leaned back and stretched his long arms over the back of the seat. His lips went crooked with a pensive expression and he scratched the top of his head. “I guess. New York is just New York. I came here for school, and a part of me is afraid I’ll never leave.”
“What’s wrong with staying in New York? People come here from all over the world. Hell, we ended up here from Podunk St. Haven.”
Nicolas combed his fingers through his hair with a sigh. “It’s weird here, Flo. People are weird. It’s just so … different. Sometimes I feel like I can’t keep up, like I can’t function the way I’m expected to.”
“So you don’t want to stay?”
“Something will either keep me here or kick me out. Who knows? We’ll see what happens. Same with you.”
“I suppose we will.”
* * *
Dinner went by uneventfully. Nicolas told me about his rotations over plates of chicken tikka masala and vindaloo, and I left sleepy and sated with carbs and rich sauce. Once we returned to his apartment, I took some time settling into his second bedroom, and when I emerged from the shower and walked into the living room, I found Nicolas splayed out on the couch fast asleep. I watched him for several minutes as he snored lightly with his arm thrown over his forehead.
Most of my teenage years had been spent taking care of Nicolas. Even though we were relatively close in age, it was pretty amazing how much it had taken to care for a younger sibling—work that had inevitably fallen on me, barely a high school student. He was sweet and smart and a goofball, but I knew he felt the same hurt I did. He just did a lot better job of not showing it, but I suppose I did too, before it all went to shit.