You Are Not Alone(50)

Amanda was on call that day. As she tended to Valerie, she’d talked about another patient, a badly beaten teenaged boy who’d been brought in hours earlier. The boy’s parents had thrown him out of the house after he’d come out as gay, and he’d been living on the streets when he was attacked. Even after they’d learned their son was in a medically induced coma, the parents refused to come see him.

I’d like to go after his parents with a baseball bat, Amanda had said. And then find the gang that did this to him.

Valerie had taken a second look at the nurse who was tenderly wrapping her foot and lower leg in an Ace bandage. Two days later, Amanda had gone to Sweetgreen to grab a salad. Valerie had entered the restaurant moments after Amanda, feigning surprise to see her. They’d ended up sharing a table and talking.

I get a good vibe from Amanda, Valerie had said to the rest of the women—Cassandra, Jane, Beth, Stacey, and Daphne—during their next meeting. You’ve all spent a little time with her by now. I think she’s one of us.

Let’s vote, Jane had suggested. All in favor, raise your hand.

Stacey was the last to lift her arm, but when she did, it was unanimous—which was the rule for proceeding to the next step.

The vote didn’t mean Amanda would be invited into the group.

It merely meant the six women had decided to test her.

Now Jane touches Cassandra’s arm, drawing her back to the present. “Ready?”

Cassandra nods.

They walk through the door, leaving the memories of Amanda behind.

Although the rental market is tight, this particular apartment will remain vacant until Shay submits an application. The five thousand dollars in cash the sisters put in an envelope and handed the landlord earlier today will ensure this.

“Her name is Shay Miller,” Cassandra had told the landlord, who jotted it down on the back of the envelope. “She’ll be an ideal tenant.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE



SHAY


Rental apartments comprise 63 percent of New York City’s total housing. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to find one. The vacancy rate is notoriously low. Last year it was 3.63 percent—almost half of the national vacancy rate, which is 6.9 percent.

—Data Book, page 42



THE APARTMENT IS UNREAL.

It’s just a few blocks from the place I shared with Sean. It’s an alcove studio, which is perfect, because I’ve recently discovered that I love living alone.

It isn’t big, but it’s clean with a large south-facing window. And the rent is surprisingly affordable. It’s only two hundred dollars more a month than I’ve been paying.

Plus something else happened today that makes it seem as if the fates are conspiring to put me in this new apartment.

I didn’t get the job at Avenues Agency—they went with someone else.

I got an even better offer.

A woman from human resources at Quartz Inc. reached out to me on LinkedIn. They need a forty-hour-a-week freelance researcher, at a rate that exceeds what I made in my last job.

Before I phoned her, I looked up the company, which is based in Palo Alto. This small but innovative marketing and advertising firm is led by a guy who began his career at Google.

After we spoke, she set up a call with her supervisor, Francine DeMarco—who offered me the position at the end of an interview that lasted nearly an hour.

I couldn’t help asking why they needed someone in New York when California had plenty of data analysts. I guess I was a little nervous that they might replace me with someone local.

Francine had laughed: “We’re looking for eighteen researchers, and we need them all to start as soon as possible. It hasn’t been announced yet, but Quartz just took on an enormous project, so we need a lot of hands on deck.”

She also strongly hinted the job could turn into a permanent position.

My start date is next Monday.

Now I click through the photos on Apartments.com again, noticing the tiny bathroom—typical for New York—and the surprisingly modern appliances in the galley kitchen. It isn’t nearly as luxurious as the place I’m house-sitting, but it has everything I need.

Available immediately.

I could move in this weekend.

There’s just one problem.

I didn’t realize it at first—I clicked on the photos before I did anything else—but when I read the fine print, I recognized the address immediately.

It’s Amanda’s old apartment.

I guess it makes sense that a few weeks after her death her place has just become available. And that I would find it, since I’ve been scouring rental websites nearly every day.

But how could I ever live there?



* * *



I pose that question to Sean when we meet for drinks the next night.

“A nice studio practically around the corner for that price?” He whistles. “You’d be crazy to pass it up.”

“It’s probably already been rented.” I pull out my phone and go to the site I’ve bookmarked.

But Amanda’s place is still available.

“Look, I get that it might be weird for your new friends to see you there.” Sean leans back in his chair, splaying out his legs the way tall guys do. “But all rules go out the window when it comes to real estate in New York. You could look for six months and not find anything close to this good.”