The Futures(98)

“What I mean is there’s nothing wrong with you. You had a shitty job, a shitty guy who messed things up for you. But that happens. You can’t really avoid that stuff. It’s not easy, figuring out what you want. It’s really hard. And I mean what you want, not what your friends want, not what someone else wants.”

I was quiet. She paused. “Is this making sense?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess I just—I know what you’re saying, but I don’t know…how do you actually do it? I mean, how do you figure that out?”

“Well,” she said, sitting up straight. Then she laughed. “This is kind of silly. I’m, like, two years older than you. Tell me if I’m being obnoxious.”

“No, not at all.”

“Well, I don’t know. It takes a while. It’s trial and error. But you just have to start doing it. And you have to trust yourself, to know what matters to you. You’re a smart girl. You’re going to be fine. Don’t let other people think they know better.”

The waiter set the coffees in front of us, two china cups quivering in their saucers. Sara tore open three sugar packets at once and emptied them into her coffee. “I have such a sweet tooth,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s terrible.”

Time seemed to slow down—the dissolve of the milk into my coffee, the clink of the spoon against the cup, the breeze from the door opening at the front of the restaurant, the grains of sugar falling from between Sara’s fingertips into the black liquid. I thought about what Sara had said. I thought about the canvases, hovering, in Donald Gates’s studio. I thought about the unopened envelope of photos back at Abby’s apartment. I thought about the loneliness of the spring, which had recently transformed into something else. A purer, simpler feeling. Like the satisfied, heavy-limbed awakening that follows a long night of sleep.

I looked up. Sara wrapped her hands around her coffee cup, waiting for me to speak.

“Thank you for that. It’s really good advice.”

“Is it? I’m not sure it would have actually helped if someone told me that after college. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t have listened.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Please.”

“Why did you ask me to lunch? I mean, last year at the party. I’m grateful, really, but why do all this?”

“You seemed smart. You seemed better than the situation you were in.” She shrugged. “Also, you seemed better than that asshole Adam. I can relate to that. I only wish you had called sooner. We had a job opening a few months ago that would have been great for you.”

My stomach dropped. I had been in Boston, I reminded myself. I hadn’t been planning to move back to New York. “You filled it?”

“I did. I’m sorry, Julia. I wish I had something to offer you now. But things come up. I hear about things through friends. You are looking for a job here, right? You’re staying in New York?

“Yes. Yes, I’m staying.”

“Good,” Sara said, smiling.

I saw Cat every few days when she returned to the apartment for a change of clothes or, occasionally, to spend the night. She had tattoos and cool thrift-store outfits, and when I first learned she was a musician, I thought, That makes sense. Then she clarified that she was a cellist, studying at Juilliard. Her boyfriend, Paolo, was the lead singer in an indie band. It was a Thursday night. Cat was standing in the kitchen, eating a bowl of cereal before she headed back downtown.

“You sure you don’t want to come along?” she asked, rinsing her bowl in the sink, opening the fridge. Cat’s visits to the apartment were always crammed with action, a determination to squeeze as much utility as she could from her trip uptown. “They’re playing at the Bowery Electric. It’ll be a great crowd. We’re going out afterward.”

“I think I’m going to stay in. Thanks, though.”

“Text me if you change your mind.” She paused amid her flurry and looked at me. “You know, the drummer—he’s single, and you are totally his type.”

I laughed. “Go, I’ll be fine.” Cat waved as she walked out the door, and then the apartment was quiet again. Cat had lived in this apartment for four years, since she had started at Juilliard, and the place carried the sediment of permanent life: framed posters, painted walls. I could see why she didn’t want to give it up. There was an elaborate sound system in the living room. Cat sometimes plugged in her stereo headphones and listened to recordings of her work, head nodding and eyes scrunched closed, opening only when she paused to scribble down notes.

A towering stack of CDs sat next to the speakers. I don’t know what inspired me that night, after Cat left, to crouch down and examine them for the first time. She had gestured at them before, telling me to play them whenever I liked. A familiar title stood out in the stack. Kind of Blue, which Adam used to play for me. I slid the CD into the tray. A moment later, the music began, filling the apartment. The twinned initial steps of piano and bass, the soft invocation, the shimmering light of percussion, the eventual pierce of the trumpet. Adam liked to put things before me, novels or albums or movies, and when he told me of their greatness I’d nod along, feigning comprehension, letting his gestures guide my response. I must have heard this album a dozen times at his apartment, but that night was the first time I actually listened to it. I let it fill me, like water rising in a glass.