Last Girl Ghosted(23)

“He told me he’d wire again, and I wasn’t too worried about it because he’d done as he said he would the first time. But a couple of days went by. Finally, some money came through—but a fraction of what another week would cost. This went on for about two weeks—he didn’t pay. Didn’t vacate. Finally, I sent someone to kick him out. But he was already gone.”

The words rattle around my brain. This doesn’t compute with anything I think I know about you.

“When was this?” I ask.

“A couple of months ago, now.” He’s clicking on his computer. “He checked in October 1. I sent someone on November 1 to get rid of him, but he was gone.”

Where have you been living all this time? In your office? Another rental somewhere? Is that what you do—just move from place to place?

“Did you file a police report?” I ask.

“No,” he scoffs. “The police don’t give a shit. New York City is not a vacation-rental-friendly town. People don’t like it. But, you know, this is my retirement income.”

“What name did he give you?”

“Adam Grove,” he says. “Surprise, surprise, not his real name. Some people only take credit cards because of this type of thing. But I try to trust people. Or I did. From now on, it’s credit cards only, pay up front, no refunds.”

“I’m sorry this happened to you,” I say. I realize I’m using my Dear Birdie voice.

There’s a surprised silence on the line.

“I hope you find your friend,” he says after he blows out a breath. “If you do, tell him to pay an old man what he owes, and he can have his things back. And as for you, young lady, take my advice. I think you should spend your energy finding some new friends.”

A little glimmer of hope. “Have his things back?”

“I have a box of junk he left in the apartment. I thought about trashing it but then I decided to hold on to it.”

“Do you mind if I come by and take a look?”

An old-man sigh. In spite of his gruffness, I can tell Joe is a nice guy—I don’t know how. Something about his tone.

“Look,” I say, when he doesn’t answer, “I’ll pay what he owes you.”

I didn’t plan to say that. And it’s kind of a crazy thing to do. But it just came out. Something about our discussion on ethics and doing no harm. I feel responsible that you hurt this man. Why is that?

“And why would you do that?” he asks.

“Because I can,” I say. “And it’s not fair what happened to you. I’ll bring cash.”

Another silence. Finally, “You got a deal, kid. What time?”

I check the time on my phone; there are a couple of hours before I have to meet Bailey Kirk. “How about now? Where’s the box?”

“In my storage unit on Tenth Avenue. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

After we end the call, a text comes through with the address of the storage facility. I’ll have to get to the bank and across town in an hour.

In New York City, there’s only one way to get anywhere fast—but it means taking your life into your hands. Citi Bike.



eleven


Then


“Let’s go.”

Jay roused me from my light slumber by touching me on the shoulder.

The strange room was golden in the rising sun. I’d barely slept, dreaming of my friends, my old room, my English teacher Miss Penny who told me I was an “exceptional writer.” The ache for all of it was physical, something I felt in my stomach, in my heart. A spiraling case of homesickness. Even though this was our home now.

“Where?” I asked, not eager to move from the warmth of my bed.

Are we running away? I wondered. Maybe I could live with Grace in her pretty house. It seemed possible; but then I thought of my mom and I was rooted to this place, this new life. Buck up, buttercup. Mom’s famous pep talk.

“I found something in the woods,” Jay said with a note of intrigue. “I want to show you.”

He moved over to the door frame, waiting. The room was plain, just a bed, a dresser, a small closet.

This was my sister’s room, my father told me when he carried my boxes in the night before. Bigger than your old room, right? Make it yours. Do whatever you want to it.

An aunt I’d never met. They were estranged, my mother said. Didn’t get along. Then my aunt died. So I was sleeping in a dead girl’s bedroom, sort of. At least that was the story I had been telling myself, imagining her creeping, pale and stiff out of the closet, or from under the bed, scaring myself silly until my mother scolded me to pull myself together.

Jay was already dressed. I climbed out of bed and he waited while I pulled on my jeans, sneakers, leaving on my unicorn pajama top. I followed him down the creaking stairs and out the front door where the morning was alive with birdsong, bright green with leaves, and a velvety coolness in the air. We walked along a thin path in the woods until we came to an old tree house that sat rickety looking in the thick branches of a tall oak.

“Is it safe?”

“Probably not,” said Jay, with a shrug. “That ladder won’t hold my weight. But you can get up there. Go check it out.”

I tugged on the rope ladder that hung from a hatch in the floor of the tree house. It felt solid enough. I was never a girlie girl, always half tomboy. I had to be if Jay would have anything to do with me. He taught me to throw a ball, to make a goal in soccer, to ride a bike, to walk off a skinned knee, not to cry like a girl when I was mad.