Layla pulled her hair into a ponytail. “Just promise you’re not ditching out on us again anytime soon.”
Zia’s throat tightened. She was already looking for another overseas assignment. “I didn’t ditch you. I’m just, y’know, living my life.”
“I know.” Layla sighed. “I’m just jealous. I wish we could trade places for, like, forever.” She massaged the joints in her hands, wincing. Zia’s older sister had rheumatoid arthritis, and even with medication, it still gave her pain. “Are you sure you can’t babysit? Day care’s so expensive.”
“Sorry. I’m working a wedding upstate for Liv Goldenhorn.”
“Didn’t her husband bite it?”
“Layla! He didn’t ‘bite it.’ He died.” Zia had worked on and off for Liv since she was seventeen. Eliot’s death made her more determined to live life on her own terms. “I gotta go. Darlene’s driving, and she hates when I’m late.”
“Before you run off again…” Layla handed her a medium-size box.
Zia read the front. “It’s an air mattress.”
“Yup. Unless you wanna keep sleeping in the bed with me.” Layla tossed her a grin. “Just like when you were a kid.”
Zia put down the box, a sense of claustrophobia closing in. “Thanks, but I might crash at Darlene’s tonight.”
Layla paused. “It’s a really good mattress.”
“Babe, I’ve been here every day since I got back,” Zia said lightly. “And Darlene has a sofa bed.”
“The doc wants a million follow-ups for Mateo’s leg.” Layla piled dishes into the already full sink. “No idea where I’m getting the money for that. And I really need a dishwasher. Swear to God, I spend my nonexistent free time up to my neck in dirty dishwater. It’d be great if I had an unburdened little sister who could finish up here before she disappears. Again.”
“I can’t. I’ll be late.” Zia stuffed her sleep shirt and toothbrush into her backpack, trying to mute the impulse to flee.
“Okay.” Layla blasted water over the dishes. “Have fun.”
“It’s not fun, it’s work.”
Layla opened her mouth. Reconsidered. Shut it. She pulled her sister in for a hug. “Love you.” It sounded like a reminder.
“Love you too.” Zia backed toward the front door. “And you can have all my tips from tonight. But I really gotta go.” Then to the kids, “Bye, monkeys! Have fun at day care!”
On the street outside, she inhaled a breath of fresh air, letting the tension of the morning melt away. It was a beautiful day in Astoria. Things with her sister would work out. Even if she was envious, Layla wanted the best for her. She’d never really stand in her way.
Zia breathed in once, twice, and set off on her bike, coasting down the wide, sunny street. You’re free, she told herself, still trying to believe it.
10
It was a gorgeous, sunny morning in SoHo—the kind that makes the city look like a backdrop for a movie where everyone gets what they want in the end. Sunshine splashed over the yellow cabs and glinting skyscrapers. Why would you live anywhere else?
The bagel shop guy rang up Darlene Mitchell’s breakfast order. “Eighteen dollars.”
Ouch: that was why. Darlene was frugal, but being frugal in New York was like trying to be sober at a wedding. Still, it was satisfying the order came out even. Darlene’s car volume, thermostat, and her alarm were always set to even numbers. Just a little bit of symmetry in an uneven world.
She was humming as she reached for the twenty-dollar bill tucked in her wallet. The twenty-dollar bill that was decidedly not there. No: it had to be. She definitely had a twenty. A twenty… that she spent on a cab last night. She’d waited three hours for a five-minute slot at a crappy open mic in Sunset Park. By the time her name was called, it was 2:00 a.m. and the audience had reduced to drunk white guys who stared at her boobs. A cab seemed like an act of self-care. Now, the familiar low-grade panic about being a doomed, broke musician made it look like a foolish indulgence. Darlene handed over a credit card, trying not to think about her elephantine student loans and astronomical rent. She left a good tip—relying on tips herself, it was impossible not to—and stepped outside.
A few minutes past their agreed-on time, Zia glided to a stop, dismounting her bike with the ease of someone who enjoyed outdoor activities. “Hey babe. Sorry I’m late: took the scenic route. Such a beautiful day!”
“Hey lady.” Darlene hugged her tightly. “So good to see you!”
She and Zia had met while carpooling to an In Love in New York wedding years ago. They talked so much Darlene had to remind herself not to overdo it before singing all night.
“How was Cambodia?”
Zia locked up her bike. “Incredible: the food, the kids—I wanna go back.”
“Take me with you,” Darlene groaned. “The most adventurous thing I’ve done since I saw you last was go to Sunset Park.”
Zia laughed. “Where’s Zach?”
It was 10:35 a.m. “Officially five minutes late. But if he appeared right now, he’d actually be fifteen minutes early, according to Zach time.”
They got into the rental car parked outside Zach’s chrome-and-steel apartment complex. Zach rented his condo from his parents, probably for less than Darlene paid for her postage-stamp-size spot in East Williamsburg. The two women began on breakfast: cream cheese bagel for Zia, who had the metabolism of an Olympian, and a large green juice for Darlene.
“Oh my God,” Zia groaned. “So good. I want to marry this bagel.”
“A lot of men are going to be sad they lost out to a piece of boiled bread.”
Zia snorted. “Yeah, right.” She’d always regarded her attractiveness with neutral detachment, even mild embarrassment, which Darlene both admired and felt a little jealous of.
“What about you?” Zia asked. “Still dating that political commentator guy—Charles?”
“Broke up a few months ago.” Darlene flipped the driver-side mirror down and adjusted the wig she usually wore to wedding gigs. Bouncy waves of shiny black tickled her skin. “My love life is officially on hold until I record an EP.”
“Awesome.” Zia licked cream cheese off her pinkie. “How’s all things music?”
It was a polite inquiry, and a genuine one. Everyone was interested in the path of the artist, excited for success, sympathetic about setbacks. Firm in their belief that for good people, tenacity and talent paid off. But what Darlene didn’t realize about choosing to forgo a reliable nine-to-five in favor of the nebulous dream of being a full-time musician was how often she’d have to play the role of optimistic striver. No one wanted to hear that dream chasing could be tiring, demoralizing, and financially crippling. Not that she wanted to share that uncomfortable truth. While Darlene Mitchell could sing songs that were full of emotions, she was not particularly good at expressing them. There was something about that sort of vulnerability that made her feel exposed. Or worse still, pitied. So when people asked about how her music “career” was going, she’d usually slap a smile on her face and say, Great! I’m performing pretty much every weekend! (Unpaid open mics or jazz gigs covering other people’s songs, but still: the truth.) But Darlene didn’t need to pretend around Zia. She huffed an exasperated breath. “I’m twenty-nine. I need to get off the wedding-party circuit and into an actual studio. Record my own songs.”