The Ex by Freida McFadden(8)

Chapter 3: The Ex


“Micro-studios are very trendy right now, Ms. Mascolo.”

I am standing in the tiniest apartment I’ve ever seen. My real estate broker, Cindy, has now shown me three apartments, each smaller than the last. This one is only seventy square feet. Yes, that’s right. Seven-zero. I need to suck in my breath to fit into the room. There are coffins larger than this apartment.

“And it’s furnished,” Cindy adds, gesturing at the small sofa pushed against the wall, and the tiny desk smashed into a corner. There’s even a mini-fridge on the side of the sofa, doubling as an end table. “You’ll just need a microwave and maybe some sort of hot pot.”

“What about a closet?” I ask around the bile rising in my throat.

Cindy pushes aside a faded yellow curtain and there it is: what may be my new closet. It’s roughly one-sixth the size of my current clothing space. I’ll have to get rid of most of what I own if I move in here.

I glance around again, sure I’ve missed something. “What about sleeping?”

I’m certain Cindy’s going to inform me that sleeping standing up is all the rage right now, but instead, she gestures at a set of stairs leading to a nook just above our heads. No wonder the ceiling is so low.

“You’ve got an upstairs bedroom,” Cindy says, without cracking the smile that I feel such a statement clearly deserves.

I climb the stairs, which is really more of a ladder than a staircase. It leads to a tiny nook above the apartment where I can put a mattress. When I’m lying there, I will have about a foot of space between my nose and the ceiling. The coffin metaphor is becoming more and more apt.

“What about a bathroom?” I ask.

“There’s one in the hallway. You’ll share it with four other residents.”

I climb back down the ladder carefully, landing unsteadily on my feet. I don’t want to live here. I really, really don’t want to live here. But my options are horrible. I’m too old to deal with a strange roommate, and even renting out a room in Manhattan is pricy.

I tried Queens. I looked at three apartments there that were at least somewhat larger than this place, but the easiest commute would involve two busses and a subway, totaling three hours of daily commuting time. At least this place is in a good neighborhood—right near Lincoln Center and Central Park.

“You don’t have anything bigger?” I ask hopefully.

Cindy arches an eyebrow. “Ms. Mascolo, this apartment is in the upper limit of your price range.”

“Yes, but—”

“And it will be snatched up by the end of the week. Believe me.”

I run my hand along the top of the mini-fridge. I get a jolt of electricity and yank my hand away.

“Oh, you don’t want to touch that,” Cindy says.

I shut my eyes. This can’t be my life.

“So do you want the place or not?” Cindy glances down at her gold watch. “I’ve got another client in twenty minutes.”

“I…” I look around at the tiny living space. My knees feel like Jell-O. I recognize I’m on the brink of being homeless, but I can’t live here. I’ve been here less than fifteen minutes and I’m about to have a panic attack. “I need to think about it.”

Cindy shrugs. She’s not giving me the hard sell, because she knows someone really will snap up this apartment by the end of the week. But it won’t be me. I’ve still got two weeks left before I have to move out of my current place. I can wait a little longer.

After we leave the apartment building, Cindy rushes off to another appointment. She’s a busy woman, and I need a place to live more than she needs the commission she’ll get from whatever apartment I choose. I watch her hurry down the block, her cell phone pressed to her ear. She laughs at something the person on the other line says to her.

I wonder if she’s laughing about me. About the woman who thinks she’s too good to live in an apartment the size of a walk-in closet. But no, that’s self-obsessed. She’s probably already forgotten me.

I walk down the street, my eyes peeled for signs hung up to advertise apartments. Every wall in the city is a potential billboard where I could discover my next place to live. Maybe there’s a gem out there that nobody else knows about. Two bedrooms, one bath, located on the upper west side—only five hundred dollars a month!

God, I’m becoming delusional.

My eyes drop to the cardboard sign on the street. Homeless. Anything helps. Next to the sign is a woman not much older than I am. She’s sitting on the ground, wearing dirty blue jeans, neon yellow sneakers, and a gray coat with a fur lining on the hood. It’s not coat weather, but she’s got the coat on anyway. Her hair is disheveled—too long and a peppery mix of gray and the same shade of dark brown as my own. She peers up at me with watery chocolate-colored eyes. Her right hand shakes as she extends the Styrofoam cup she’s holding. There is dirt caked into her fingernails.

“Spare change, lady?”

Joel always used to tease me that I was far too generous with homeless people on the street. You could go through a whole paycheck walking through the Bowery. He was right. Whenever I see someone down on their luck enough to be living on the street, I feel a rush of sympathy for them. It always gets me to open up my wallet.

But today, when I look down at this woman who has made this tiny outdoor corner her home, I feel something else: