On the subway, a guy walks up and down the length of the car. He stops by an older lady with a bag full of groceries and reaches for the carton of milk sticking out from the top. Two people nearby hold their phones up and start recording videos. The guy notices them and continues to walk up and down the car, leaving the milk in the bag with the older lady.
The entire car smells like sweat—not gym sweat or locker-room sweat, but end-of-day sweat, faint and sour. No one seems to notice, and I resist the urge to ask the people sitting nearby if all the subway cars smell like this.
I pull my phone out, and there are a few texts from Chantal. She wants to know if I've seen Natasha. She knows Natasha is in New York because of the picture Natasha uploaded to Instagram with two girls wearing touristy T-shirts, one with an I <3 NY T-shirt. She reminds me of my promise not to sleep with Natasha because she knows Natasha and I slept together a couple of times in high school. If I sleep with Natasha, Chantal reminds me, I can kiss my political career goodbye.
I text back that I bumped into Natasha, but I didn't sleep with her and I was aware of my promise that I wouldn't sleep with her if I saw her. And I'm not lying. Kissing isn't sex, going down on her isn't sex, and a handjob isn't sex, either. But I don't tell her those things, even though I want to. Home seems so far away, not just another time, but another life. Like something that was a dream compared to the life I'm now living. Instead, I text Chantal that I'm having fun and I'm hoping to go to the zoo because I've always wanted to go to the zoo. And if I go, I'll send her some pictures. She replies right away, telling me she's going to come and visit, sooner than she thought. She wants to see me, so I tell her that's okay, and maybe we can go to the Met, because I know how much she's always wanted to go.
I can imagine her pacing around her room as she imagines me seeing Natasha. She'll wonder if I am telling the truth and will hope I told Natasha I never want to see her again. But that's impossible. After all, we all went to private school together. It's not my fault Natasha signed a modeling contract when she was 14, and I was one of the only people she kept in contact with from school. I know Chantal's mad, and I wish I hadn't told her I saw Natasha. She doesn't own me, and I should be able to hang out with whomever I want to. But I don't text any of that.
Instead, I get off at the next stop and find a quiet corner where I can do some coke. I always feel better after I do coke, like everything is going to be okay, that life will somehow work itself out, even if I make no real effort.
YOU ARE READING
The Heir of New York
General FictionNew York changes people, and not always for the better. Evan and Chantal have a life planned together, but when he moves to New York to attend University, things go off track when he runs into an old flame from high school.
