Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56071 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56071 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
“I guess we haven’t had time for a proper talk in a long time. I moved,” I say, trying to sound casual, like it’s no big deal. “I’m on the Upper West now.”
Kate squints at me, puzzled. “Back up, lady! I think I missed something. When I left the city for Paris, you were juggling jobs and barely making rent. Do you have a sugar daddy or something?”
I lean toward the driver’s seat and direct him. “Take a left up here. It’s the building on the right.”
As we pull up to my building, Kate’s eyes go wide as saucers. I look out the window, seeing what she’s seeing for the first time. The building is ten stories, brick, with wrought iron balconies all around the fifth floor. There are lovely potted red geraniums hanging from them. The entrance has all the markings of “fancy Manhattan building:” a classy red and white striped awning extending all the way across the sidewalk, and a doorman, standing sentry at the door, in a pressed uniform and at the ready to help you with your most trivial or important needs.
The driver gets out of the car and opens the trunk. Kate doesn’t move. She’s still staring.
“Earth to Kate. You have to open the door to get out,” I joke, trying to ignore what she’s obviously thinking: How the hell can Weaver afford this?
Kate gives a little shake of her head and opens the door. As she stands and stretches, she turns to me and says, “Girl, we have a lot to talk about, don’t we?”
We do, and I’m really not looking forward to it.
It was fifteen minutes before I could even get Kate into the guest room to show her where she’d be staying. She’s stunned by my new apartment. I admit, it is pretty fantastic. The floors are shiny hardwood, and the lack of rugs or carpeting make the apartment appear even bigger than it is. She takes in the views of the river from my bedroom and the living room, even pointing out her aunt’s apartment and noting it is smaller than mine. She spends the most amount of time in my kitchen, turning on the burners of my six-burner chef’s stove (I barely use it) and remarking that this kitchen opens up a whole new world for this weekend because she intends to cook me three meals a day. I think my mouth starts to water when she says that. When I show her the small guest room, she puts her hands to her chest and squeals with delight. Bingo! That is just the reaction I was going for.
“Oh Weaver, this is perfect. Would it be too weird to ask you to tuck me in right now? Because the cozy level of this room is off the charts.”
“Thanks, Kate,” I say, a little embarrassed by how pleased I feel. “But no, there will be no tucking in because we have to pack in a lot of girlfriend time. What should we do now? I wrote out a list of about a dozen things we have to do this weekend.”
“Oh honey, there’s only one thing we have to do right now, and that’s sit down in that gorgeous kitchen, have a cup of tea, and you tell me what the fuck is going on? How can you afford this apartment?”
“Oh, it’s just a place to sleep,” I say to Kate, who is already filling the kettle and poking around for mugs and teabags. I need to start and finish this conversation fast. I don’t want to lie to Kate, but I don’t want to spill everything to her either. Once Kate sits down with a mug of tea, we’ll be in it for the long haul. There is nothing my best friend loves more than a hot cup of tea and a thorough analysis of her friend’s feelings, life events, and decisions. Kate is someone who likes to process. A lot. And with tea.
“No, Weaver,” Kate says, closing the cabinet. “Your fourth-floor walk-up was “just a place to sleep” because you literally couldn’t do anything else in there. I didn’t even like to pee in that bathroom because my knees knocked into the door. This is a luxury, pre-war, upper west side apartment building. It is way more than a place to sleep. It’s heads and shoulders above your last place, so I want to know, how’d it happen?”
The tea kettle whistles buying me some time to think of an answer. I guess I should start with the truth, and work from there.
“Well, I kind of got thrown out of my other apartment,” I begin. “I couldn’t cover the rent anymore. Like you knew, I was struggling, so the landlord wouldn’t renew my lease. I left my things in Long Island with mom and flew out to you, for your restaurant opening.”