Page 62 of Collide
“I did think stripping might be a lucrative gig to get into.” She cackles, tossing her hair back like she’s already picturing herself under neon lights.
“Or maybe high-end escorts,” I tease, nudging her elbow. “You’d be raking it in quick with your special talents.”
“I’ll be fine, babe. The job’s good enough—stable, at least. My boss might be uptight, but the money’s decent. And if I find the right roommate, I can swing a small art studio space to rent.”
“Can I buy, like, a thousand lap dances to cover your rent?” I grin.
“Tempting. I mean, for you, I’d do it for free, but it wouldn’t be right,” she says flatly, though her eyes flicker with amusement.
“Ugh, fine, but the offer stands, okay?” I shrug, dropping the bravado.
“I appreciate that. Really.” She sighs.
We fall into step again, the sidewalk buzz picking up around us as the city rushes by in all its usual chaos.
“So, how’s the painting going? Does New York inspire?” I ask, glancing over.
“I haven’t had much of a chance lately. Not enough room in Polly Pocket’s Dream House.” She shrugs. Her tone’s light, but I can see the tightness in her jaw, the way she presses her lips together. She’s trying to make it sound like a joke, but it’s not. Her creativity is suffocating in a too-small apartment she doesn’t love.
“I feel terrible,” I blurt out.
“Why?”
“Because New York wasmydream. The music thing. And I feel like I dragged you into this—and now you’re miserable.”
“Babe,” she says, pausing long enough to make sure I hear her. “I’m not miserable. And New York wasourdream. You and me taking over the city. Making it our bitch. Like Carrie and Samantha.”
“You’re clearly Samantha.”
“Yeah, obviously. You already found your Mr. Big,” Riley says with a smirk.
“Oh my God.” I gasp. “Do you think Alex ismyBig?”
She shrugs. “I mean…he could be.”
“That whole situation was fucked though,” I mutter. “So I hope not. Give me an Aiden, any day.”
“He makes furnitureandhe’s hot—yes, please.” She laughs, but it doesn’t quite reach all the way. I can tell she’s stressed. It’s in her shoulders, in the way she’s holding herself tighter than usual.
“Okay, if you won’t let me help you financially,” I coax, looping my arm through hers, “at least let me shout you lunch.”
“That I can do.” She nods.
We approach a large red-brick complex on the corner, its windows glinting in the sunlight. Riley glances at the scrap of newspaper again.
“I think this is it.”
She buzzes the apartment number and we wait, shifting restlessly on our feet. The heat slicks on our skin. I pat the sweat off my brow, and Riley fans herself with the newspaper.
“Come up,” a voice crackles through the speaker.
We climb three flights of stairs and buzz again at the door marked ‘3B.’ It swings open, revealing a lanky guy wearing thick glasses, his greasy hair hanging limp around his face, with a ferret perched comfortably on his shoulder.
“Hi, I’m Ben. You must be Riley. Come on in,” he mutters, his eyes darting everywhere but directly at us. He pauses awkwardly, scratching his head. “I thought you were a guy.”
The apartment is tidy enough, but the smell—it hits me instantly, sharp and unmistakable. Ferrets. Interesting. The furry creature scuttles from Ben’s shoulder, bouncing off the couch onto a pile of scattered toys in the living room.
“Sorry to disappoint,” Riley murmurs, her voice tight, the corners of her mouth dropping as her nose wrinkles slightly. She smells it too—the pungent scent of an animal with absolute free rein over the place.
