“Time will go by pretty fast. Don’t get too excited about being an adult just yet. The lie of our lives is that this is preferable to school,” I said.
Nicolas snorted at my comment. “Try working eighty hours a week at below minimum wage, and then we’ll talk about adult life. Indentured servitude is probably a notch below a nine-to-five.” He sighed. “Thank God I’m in psych. Internal med and peds have it way worse.”
I glanced over to Nicolas as he turned his head to the left to check his blind spot before changing lanes. He was four years younger than me, but with his prodigious height and broad shoulders, I now had to struggle to think of myself as the big sister who used to chase him down the driveway, screaming for him to bring the cookie tin back.
“You cut your hair,” I said. Nicolas’s dirty-blond hair was excessively neat, neater than I ever remembered it being. He had messy waves for as long as I could recall, but now, his hair was closely cropped. It suited him. The cut brought his razor-sharp cheekbones out and accentuated his square jawline. Still, it was strangely disconcerting, as if he had finally grown up.
Nicolas ran an open palm over his scalp and scuffed the buzz cut. “Hospital policy. Needed to get rid of it. It’s alright.” He shrugged. “Easier to keep clean anyway.”
I snorted. “As if you were trying to keep clean before.”
Before I could react, Nicolas’s fist rushed out and cuffed me on my upper arm.
“Ow!” I yelped in protest, immediately massaging the sore spot.
“Talk about your own hair! It’s like a raccoon took up residence in it.”
My chestnut-brown hair was always much too thick for its own good and was now unceremoniously piled up on top of my head in a sloppy bun. Bangs and several layers hung down past my ears to frame my face, and I indignantly pushed them back from my eyeline.
“Don’t talk about Meeko that way. He keeps my head warm and my hair big and full of secrets.” I petted my bun delicately.
“He’s got a rough job. You probably know secrets that could topple a nation.”
“Brother, dear, you have no idea.”
Nicolas clicked his tongue several times. “Spill it.”
“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
Nicolas rolled his eyes at my answer. “Good cliché, James Bond Villain Number Eight. Sit back and rest up if you’re tired. Traffic is rough at this hour.”
It was good to be around Nicolas again. My little brother was annoying and loud, but this was the reason I’d wanted to come back to the States—to be with family and to finally gain some stability in my life. Life on the road was wearisome, and I was finally ready to tap the brakes on my career and let the cards fall where they may.
I reclined the seat and curled my legs up underneath me. The car rocked slowly as it chugged along the freeway.
“Thanks for picking me up.”
Nicolas turned towards me with a small smile. “Hey, anytime.” He paused, and then reached over to rustle my raccoon hair. “Good to have you back, big sis.”
* * *
The drive back was long due to traffic, but Nicolas and I chatted sporadically. The rest of the time, I just took in the changing landscape and emerging New York skyline. I had been back last year for two weeks, so it wasn’t anything new. I just simply never tired of experiencing the rush of anticipation that surged as the city appeared on the horizon, in all its gray glory, speckled in golden light.
Darkness had fallen by the time we rolled up to his apartment. While Nicolas wrestled my suitcase from his pathetically small trunk, I gawked at the exterior of his building.
“Come on.” Nicolas intentionally bumped shoulders with me as he carted my suitcase up the steps into the lobby. “What are you spacing out for? Let’s get inside, I’m freezing.”
“You live here?” I hissed at him as I jumped up the stairs to keep up. I always knew he lived on the Upper West Side, but I’d never imagined he was shacking up in a high-rise of glossy glass and steel.
“You know I’ve been here since I moved to New York.”
“But here?”
Nicolas ignored me and entered the lobby, the doorman tipping his hat at both of us as we passed.
We rode the elevator to the sixteenth floor. Nicolas pushed open the door to his apartment, I followed, heaving the torturously heavy tote bag off my shoulder with a sigh of relief and allowing it to thud to the floor. The tiled entryway had a sad little table that appeared to have spent considerable time outdoors and the entryway opened up to an open living room, with a kitchen area outfitted with a dark granite peninsula that provided bar seating. To the left, there was a hallway that led to the bedrooms.
I noticed was that the place was insanely orderly and neat. But I knew better. It was unlived-in more so than kept-up. Nicolas worked long hours and only came home to sleep.
The entryway table was covered with frames. Nicolas was a bit of a picture hoarder. Ever since he was a kid, he’d loved collecting them. If he had been a serial killer, his trophies would have been photographs. He was fascinated with the instant quality of Polaroid cameras, but more so, Nicolas just adored amassing photos of every occasion and putting them up for display. Our attic back home was crammed with box after box of his collection, and when he’d moved to New York, he’d brought along his favorites. Those photos now took up an entire wall of his apartment, with more frames scattered about the mantel, side tables, bar area—basically anything with a flat surface. It was a wonder he had space to put anything else down.
“Okay, this place is really nice.” I walked towards the hallway, opening doors and cabinets, peeking around corners.
Nicolas called out after me, “Yeah, please, make yourself at home! No need to ask. Of course you can open everything, look around. Make sure to rifle through my broom closet, can’t miss that on your tour.”
I yelled back at him, “You don’t have a broom closet. You probably don’t even own a broom.”
“Why don’t you check for me?” came his response.
The apartment was huge. Two bedrooms, two baths with a living room and kitchen, it had to be at least two thousand square feet. The furniture was sparse, as if Nicolas had run out of money to furnish the place, but just like the building, the apartment was relatively new and immensely upgraded. Like I’d told Nicolas, it was nice. I entered the spacious master bedroom and immediately narrowed my eyes in suspicion. Too nice.
When I returned to the main living area, Nicolas was putting away his groceries. I took a quick inventory of what he had bought—toaster pastries, honey-roasted peanuts, assorted granola bars, and a ten-pound can of coffee. When he opened the cabinets to stow the items away, I could see all the way to the back of the cabinets. All of them were pretty much empty, devoid of anything, even tableware.
“Do you know your master en suite bathroom has a Jacuzzi?”
Nicolas didn’t turn when he answered, “I’ve been living here for the past four months, so I probably noticed.”
“How are you affording this place?” Recent medical school graduates made squat during their first year of residency. His salary was barely enough to afford those off-brand toaster pastries, much less New York City rent.
Nicolas shrugged, all ease. “I know the developer. I stayed in one of the smaller units for med school, but I decided to upgrade to a bigger place once my residency started since I needed an office. The guy gave me a good deal.”
“A good deal?” Every alarm in my brain was pinging furiously. “Where are we, still in St. Haven? Landlords don’t give tenants good deals on this side of the world,” I said. Nicolas didn’t answer me and my temper spiked.
“What are you paying?” I prodded.
“Why do you care? Mind your own business.”
I sighed, exasperated. It was like we were kids again and I was trying to force him to admit he’d eaten all the Oreos. “I’m your older sister, so your business is mine. Now spit it out, what’s the price?”
&n
bsp; “Hey, I take umbrage at that. Your business is your business and mine is mine.”
I was growing more suspicious by the second. “Can your fancy words! This smells wrong. What are you paying?”
Nicolas shoved the last toaster pastry box into the cupboard and slammed the door, then glanced over his shoulder and gave me his look, the one that warned me not to freak out. “Fifteen hundred a month,” he said as he walked towards to the sink. “Which is still a lot on my salary. I’m trying to find a roommate.” Nicolas said this in a nonchalant tone, but I immediately began sputtering in shock.
“What? Fifteen hundred dollars? New York real estate is expensive as hell. What are you doing for that price?” This place could have fetched five thousand a month, easily. Probably even sixty-five hundred in today’s market.
Nicolas laughed. “Nothing illegal or immoral, trust me.”
“This isn’t a casting couch sort of scenario is it?”
“This is exactly that kind of scenario. Who could resist all this?” Nicolas gestured up and down his body with one hand and wiggled his butt at me.
Nicolas was handsome—handsome as hell. He was tall, which drove the women crazy, and he had the features of some Greek sculpture. But I seriously doubted he was selling his body for some choice square footage.
“Nicolas, I’m serious,” I said in my sternest big sister voice. Nicolas gave an audible groan and turned his back towards me. “Nic! This is shady. Who is this guy? Oh my God, are you in with the mob?”
Nicolas burst out in laughter as he washed his hands in the gleaming copper sink. “Florence, it’s not a big deal. Don’t worry.”
I cocked an eyebrow and put my hands on my hips. “You’re hiding something. What are you not telling me?”
“Oh no! Both hips! This is serious!” Nicolas shook the water off his hands. “Don’t worry about it. At worst he’ll kick me out when he’s sick of losing money on this place.”
“Who is he?” I was nearly screaming at this point. Something niggled; something was wrong and I didn’t want Nicolas getting in over his head.
“The developer of this building kept a couple units for himself. He rents them out, and he gave me a good price. He doesn’t need the funds, so he took pity on a poor little medical student such as myself.”
I leaned forward over the peninsula and took in Nicolas as he dried his hands on a kitchen towel. Ever since we were young, Nicolas was a bad liar. From what I could tell, he was telling the truth to an extent, but I couldn’t help but feel something was missing from the story. Something important.
“Is he blackmailing you for prescription drugs or something?”
Nicolas laughed again and hung the towel over the giant double wall oven. I studied the unit—touchscreen, convection, stainless steel, some German brand I’d never heard of before.
“That’d make this whole sordid tale more interesting. But sadly, I’m not raiding the hospital for opiates. Just drop it, Flo. I’m not involved with anything shady, just a guy who decided to give me a good price.”
“But—”
Nicolas heaved a loud sigh that interrupted me. He walked over and his giant hands crashed onto my shoulders, which pushed me into a barstool. I quickly glanced down at the stool. It was part of the bar and made of gleaming steel and plush leather.
“Florence, I’m going to the bathroom to take a leak. When I come out, you’re going to be obsessing about something else besides this boring topic of rent prices and my landlord.” Nicolas didn’t wait for me to answer; he just spun on his heel and walked away from me into the hallway.
I stared at his retreat for the space of a couple seconds, blatantly defying his orders and thinking about the apartment. Okay, perhaps I was overreacting. Nicolas was a grown man. He could deal with any problems that came his way. If he didn’t want to share the details with me, I should just trust that he was sane enough not to get involved in anything too serious.
Nicolas was smart … most of the time.
I sighed audibly and swung my knees under the granite bar. There was a sea of picture frames crowding the surface, and I could barely rest my elbows on the edge without knocking any down. I searched through the pictures, shots of Nicolas and his life up until now.
My father smiled back at me from some, perched in mostly casual poses such as one on our old plaid couch. Another was a blurry spontaneous surprise shot of Dad amusingly irritated with his palm outstretched to cover the lens. There were a couple of Nicolas with guys I didn’t recognize, most likely college friends, and guys I did recognize, high school buddies.
There were a couple of me. There was that one picture from when Nicolas had come to visit me in Vietnam and I had taken him to the beach. I was wearing a straw hat and a white dress that was going everywhere in the wind. A couple progressed from my teens to the college years, and there was even one of Tracy and me in cocktail dresses, drunk and disheveled in Times Square with our heels in our hands.
I cringed. That was taken the last time I’d returned, when Nicolas, Tracy, and some of her friends had gone out to the Meatpacking District to a “rager” Tracy had promised. I’d realized then I was growing too old to rage or drink to excess.
I’d always loved Nicolas’s habit of picture taking. He could never explain to me why he did it, nor did he ever pursue it as any artistic medium. He had old Polaroid cameras that he’d just shove in people’s faces, take a shot, and then frame. Nothing more and nothing less.
The edge of a black wooden frame peeked out from behind a gleaming metallic one that held a photo of Nicolas on a sailboat, and I picked it up gently as not to disturb the others around it. A sliver of blue seersucker greeted my line of vision, and within the space of a breath, my heart dropped.
Emotions flooded.
It was a picture of when I’d won Queen Blueberry Festival my sophomore year of high school. The younger me was wearing a grimace, a hideous blue seersucker dress with puffy shoulders, and a ridiculous large blue sash emblazoned with glittery letters proclaiming my title. In one hand, I clutched a giant basket of blueberries and my trophy, while the other arm was wound around the waist of a tall young man who held my face in his hands …
A young man with dark hair and the lightest hazel-brown eyes, intense, sharp features split into a rare smile, dimples carved into his cheeks.
I stared at the photograph, my heart pounding in my chest.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe. The curve of my thumb traced the edge of the frame, ghosting alongside the edge of his shoulder …
A sound came from behind me, and Nicolas’s voice burst in my ear, “Ha-ha! I love that picture!” I swung back around, startled. “It’s the only one from the festival that year when they forced you into that outfit. You wore that thing all day, and Alistair tackled you—” Nicolas abruptly stopped as he processed the look on my face. “Shit. Oh shit. Sorry.”
He reached over to grab the picture from my fingertips and slammed the frame downwards so the image faced the table. The force knocked a couple other frames down, and the room was soon filled with sounds of wood and metal on granite as well as the muttered curses of Nicolas trying to right them all. As noise burst around me, I stared at the back of the frame while my chest ached and emotion seized my throat.
I would not cry.
I would not feel.
Smile. Smile, Florence, just smile.
Nicolas finally calmed the falling photographs, but before he could say anything, I shook my head and forced a cheery grin on my lips.
“So! What’s for dinner?” I quickly spun around and hopped off the barstool.
Nicolas threw me a concerned look, which I promptly ignored. Instead, I trudged over to the entryway where my suitcases were and hummed loudly while I threw them down and began rifling through, ignoring the sharp pangs of longing jabbing into my heart. The pain was numbing and familiar. It was to be ignored.
It had been long enough, I just needed to get over it.
Final
ly let it go. Let him go.
“Sorry about—” Nicolas began behind me.
“What’s for dinner?” I interrupted loudly, repeating my question. I extracted a thick sweater and yanked it on roughly.
“Umm …” Nicolas’s voice was hesitant.
“Do you want to go out or eat in?” I adjusted my sweater, fussing with the fabric I gripped between trembling fingers.
Nicolas’s lips tightened. He wanted to continue talking about the photograph and … him. My eyes narrowed in warning, as if to say, Don’t go there. Don’t ever go there.
Please, don’t.
Thankfully, dinner plans seemed more important. “I’m not cooking,” Nicolas finally said while pointing to his kitchen. It sparkled with the gleam of a brand-new car. “We can go to this Indian restaurant down the block. It’s pretty good.”
“Sounds good. I love Indian food.” I stood up and swung my purse over my shoulder. I made my way to the front door and gripped the handle.
Just then, Nicolas said, “Hey, I’m sorry about the picture.”
My fingers twitched over the steel. I stared at the wood grain of the door before me and took several deep breaths. “Drop it. Just … yeah, no, it’s fine. I don’t want to talk about it.” I heaved a heavy sigh. “I just got back. I’m tired. Let’s just go to dinner.”
After a pause, Nicolas nodded and followed me towards the door. We both donned scarves and hats, then trudged our way to the elevator.
* * *
The sidewalk was freezing in the mid-March spring weather, and we didn’t talk as Nicolas led me a couple buildings down to a small restaurant whose awning read “INDIAN CUISINE.”
As we entered, the warm, spice-filled air greeted me and filled my lungs with a soothing sensation. I wound my scarf off as Nicolas asked for a table for two and I remained quiet until we slid into the booth.
After the waitress took our orders and left us with cups of ice water, Nicolas leaned across the table and said in a low voice, “I’m serious. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I smiled gently. “Never better.”
The Beginning of Always Page 2