offered to cram himself into the fridge to prove its square footage. I politely declined.
After briefly investigating for vermin, and finding none visible, it was time to get down to business. I needed the space. Maybe space would bring Mya and I closer. And maybe there were gold bricks buried along with Jimmy Hoffa in the walls.
“So, six months rent, up front. That’s a lot,” I said, sighing. Unbelievable. I was on the verge of shelling out over two-thirds of my savings for an apartment that looked like the only witness to a teen horror flick.
“Up front. You pay down payment now.”
“ If I take the apartment,” I said. Manuel shrugged and nibbled a fingernail.
“You don’t take now, someone will tomorrow.”
“That right?”
“I place the ad yesterday, amigo. You the third person to see it today. You write check today, maybe I tell the others to scram.”
“Damn,” I said, a little too audibly. “Is there a cable hookup? Is the apartment Internet-ready?”
“Of course,” Manuel said, a toothy grin spreading over his face. “You have all the Internet you want.”
“All right,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’ll take it.”
I took the papers, read them over.
“You fill these out now, have a certified check for me tomorrow for the first six months. Six thousand, eight hundred seventy-five dollars.”
“You mean five thousand, eight seventy-five.”
“Yes, right. And you don’t pass your credit check, I put ad back in the paper.”
I nodded, followed Manuel downstairs to an office on the first floor. He took a seat behind a squat metal desk littered with papers and empty candy wrappers. I filled out the application, my chest swelling when I filled in the “employer” field. When I handed it back to Manuel, he turned the page around, pointing to that very space.
“This,” he said. “Who you work for?”
“The Gazette, ” I said. “You know, the newspaper.”
“You take pictures?”
“No, I’m a journalist. I’m going to be the next Bob Woodward.” Manuel eyed me, eyed the form.
“Woodward?”
“You know, Bob Woodward? All the President’s Men? ”
“Yes, the building has very good woodwork,” Manuel said, tapping the wall behind him.
No sense explaining. Soon enough, everyone would know. The newsroom at the Gazette, that was my Batcave. This apartment would be my Wayne Manor, the shell covering the hero underneath. Though I doubt Wayne Manor housed mice the size of beagles.
“You’ll like it here,” Manuel said. “Just like home.”
Yeah, I thought. Just like home. Like the home I wished I’d had, instead of a clapboard box where the only noises were a faulty sink and the venom spewed from the man who called himself my father. Home. At last.
I went straight to Mya’s once we finished the paperwork. Before moving out I wanted to celebrate, spend one last night in her bed. See if those familiar sparks could be ignited one last time. I called ahead to propose a celebratory dinner, but she replied with a curt, “Henry, I have finals next week. Dinner will take hours. If you want we can grab something from Subway.”
I declined. I’d eat on the way.
She met me at the door wearing a red bathrobe, her blond hair stringy and wet. She smelled great, fresh. I wanted to gather her up, hold her like I held her when we first met. When nothing else mattered and real life seemed so far away. I placed my hand on her arm, rubbed it gently.
“Henry, I just moisturized.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay, it’s just…”
“I know.” She sighed, smiled faintly.
I took off my sneakers and lay them outside her door. She sat down on the bed, her lips pursed, and crossed her arms over her chest.
“So tell me about the new place.”
“Well, as far as I know nobody’s ever died in it.” Mya didn’t seem to find me funny today.
“Come on, seriously. What’s it like?”
“Well, it’s in Harlem, 112th and Amsterdam. The building won’t win any awards from House and Garden, but the utilities work, I have room to live, the door locks and that’s all I need.”
“Is it clean?”
“Well,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “I’m not sure clean is the word. But it’s livable.”
“Do you expect me to come over?”
“I was hoping you would, being my girlfriend and all.”
Mya stood up and walked to the open window. She stared out across the street. The night sky stared back, cold and un-inviting, as she chewed her nails.
“I thought you stopped chewing,” I said.
“I did for a while. Just came back.”
I could feel the brutal static between us. Why were we together? Just because we’d weathered the storm and were content to hit dry land? Or did we really think we had a chance? That maybe we’d remember those first nights, when every moment was the only reality we needed?
Staring out the window, Mya said, “I hope your apartment works out for you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” And this, I knew, was the end.
“That’s all I mean. I hope you like your apartment. Don’t try to analyze so much.”
“No, there was something in your voice. ‘I hope you like your apartment, but…’I just want to know what the ‘but’ was.”
Mya turned around. Her hair fell around her shoulders, her skin shined.
“I wonder sometimes, Henry.”
“Wonder about what?”
She turned back around. “Nothing.”
“Don’t do that, that thing where you ask a question and then say it’s nothing.”
“It’s not worth talking about.”
“Yes it is. It always is.” I walked over to her, put my hands on her shoulders. She shivered for a moment, then relaxed.
“Sometimes I think about things.”
I knew where this was going and felt a knot rise in my stomach. My hands fell off her shoulders and I took a step back. Then her voice got soft, quiet. “Things have been different. I think you and I both know that.”
“I know it has.”
“It’s been like this since…”
“Since that night.”
“Yes,” she said, sighing. “Since that night.”
I sat down on the bed, wrapping my arms around a lace pillow. I looked up at Mya, could see the faint scar on her cheek. It was barely noticeable unless you knew it was there. I knew it was there.
“I just think about that night and wonder if it was an omen, you know. A sign.” I nodded, knowing too well what she was saying.
“So what do you suggest we do? End it now, right when things get hard?”
“This isn’t hard, Henry. Hard is what’s going to happen when I graduate from law school and you’re working night shifts at the Gazette. School and work take up time, but-” she paused “-they’re really only stepping stones. I just don’t want to slip up before I graduate. I don’t want to lose focus.”
“This isn’t-we aren’t-a stepping stone. If we work hard we’ll find a way to make it work. I know things have happened.” I hesitated, my voice catching, a lump rising in my throat. “Bad things. But we can get past them.”
“Maybe,” she said, uncertainty coloring her voice. “But when I’m a lawyer and you’re a…journalist or whatever, we’ll have even less time to talk things out. At some point we need to step back and really wonder if it’s worth it.” I knew I shouldn’t ask. It wasn’t the topic of discussion. But it burned me, and I had to.
