Stubborn Love

by Wendy Owens

  At first, everyone treated me like I was a wounded animal; they wanted to help me, protect me, and nurse me back to health. As time passed, things changed. They looked at me differently, and perhaps it was my own paranoia, but I think most of them figured I might as well have pulled the trigger. Who knows, maybe they were right?

  My mom could see what was happening, the way the small town rumor mill was beginning to wear on me. I couldn’t stay in the house where Ashton had ended things. After the funeral, I handed the keys over to his father, as he had mostly paid for the home, and there was no possible way I could handle the process of selling it. It didn’t take me long to become somewhat of a hermit. I had suddenly become the girl who only left the house to go to work. A little more time passed, and I couldn’t even bring myself to go to work.

  When my mom first told me she wanted us to move, I fought her. I told her I couldn’t leave. Honestly, I think part of me felt like I deserved the pain the town wanted to inflict on me. It didn’t take much pushing, though; I had very little fight left in me at that point.

  I’ll never forget those first couple weeks at The Grove. I started going out of my mind. Ashton haunted my dreams—he was everywhere I looked. I didn’t know what to do. I changed my name back from Stirling to my maiden name, Hayes, in an attempt to regain a portion of my identity. Mom was the one who convinced me to pursue my studies through a distant learning program. It was the first thing she had suggested that made sense to me. I needed something to bury myself in—a distraction.

  And it worked. I completed everything I could on my degree via correspondence in record time and still managed to find time to paint. Of course, it helped that mom refused to have a television when we moved. She claimed she was tired of all the negativity the rest of the world had to offer. It was shocking how much time the device had eaten up in the past.

  Once I completed my correspondence courses I was left with a choice: I could accept a degree in art history and be done with it; or, if I wanted the fine arts degree that I had always aspired to earn, I would need to go to a physical university to complete my studio courses. If I buckled down, and worked hard, I knew I could finish in a year.

  Applying was the easy part, though. I never thought I would actually get into either of the two schools I’d applied to. It is very easy to say you want something that might be scary, when deep down you think it is impossible. Courage comes from actually following through when the opportunity presents itself. An education primarily made up of distance learning, a patchy portfolio, at best, and the fact that I was now twenty-six years old, I was certain of the response I would receive. But then, if I applied, at least I could say I tried, and no one would ever be able to tell me I didn’t.

  As part of the application process I was required to write an essay as to why I deserved one of the few spots available to Parsons School of New Design. I don’t actually remember writing the paper. That sometimes happened to me. Stuff about Ashton seemed to get put into boxes in my mind, tucked away onto dusty shelves, never to be thought about again. When the acceptance letter arrived, it said the essay had clenched it for me. I considered pulling it out and rereading what words had managed to open this door for me, but thought better of delving into those dusty boxes.

  Which leads me to now. It was that quick. I had managed to build a quiet existence of solitude in the past few years, and now… now I was surrounded by chaos.

  I thought finding an apartment would be easy; I was never so wrong about anything… well, except maybe for Ashton all those years ago? Classes started in two days, and though I had seen about thirty units, I was no closer to finding a place to live than the day I started. Though I had been saving money, it was quickly becoming evident that what I thought would be a nice sum to live on for a year, was nothing compared to the cost of living in New York.

  “Are you getting in or not?” asked an impatient voice behind me.

  I turned around to see the most ornately decorated girl I had ever laid eyes on. Her hair was pulled up into a tight ponytail on top of her head, pink stripes randomly placed throughout her platinum blonde hair. Her dress was a white retro cut A-line, adorned with cutout lace flowers. Climbing up both arms were brightly colored bracelets, and her four-inch red patent leather shoes caused her to tower over my five foot eight inch frame.

  “I’m sorry?” I asked, confused by what she was asking.

  Placing a hand on her hip, clearly annoyed, she clarified, “The taxi. You’ve had your hand on the door for the past five minutes. Are you getting in or not?”

  “Oh—” Startled, I looked down and realized I had zoned out. This happened to me sometimes, as well. “I was headed to West 16th Street.”

  “I didn’t ask your life story, hon.”

  I looked at the girl, my face burning bright red. “Sorry.”

  “Are you a nut job?” the girl inquired, giving my body the elevator look. I glanced down at myself, my bohemian skirt seemed to be hanging properly, my v-neck t-shirt had a stain from breakfast, but nothing I thought seemed too offensive.

  “I don’t understand… What do you mean?” I questioned, looking back to the girl’s sparkling blue eyes.

  “I have a shoot in the Meatpacking District. We can split the cab if you’re not a crazy.”

  Remembering my quickly dwindling funds, I decided the idea had merit. Nodding, I climbed in, the slender blonde following me. We each gave our addresses to the cabbie.

  “I’m Paige.” As the girl introduced herself I felt a wave of disappointment wash over me. Not that there was anything wrong with her name, but I had imagined something so much more exotic; perhaps Keira or Delphine.

  “Clementine, but my friends call me Emmie,” I responded with a smile.

  “Well, since I don’t really know you, I’ll call you Clementine,” Paige chimed, looking out the window.

  Something was off about Paige, but I liked whatever it was. She was snarky. I could see how her humor could easily be mistaken for rudeness.

  “So, where are you from?” she inquired, glancing in my direction.

  Surprised she had so quickly made me for a tourist, I asked, “How do you know I’m not a New Yorker?”

  “Please, I grew up here, the last thing you are is one of us. Not a bad thing, sweetheart, but I can spot a tourist a mile away.”

  “I’m not a tourist,” I corrected her. “Not exactly. I’m moving here from Ohio, well, Indiana, to go to art school.”

  “Which is it? Ohio or Indiana?”

  I smiled. Paige was quick witted, which I liked. “I grew up in Ohio, but moved to Indiana a couple years ago.”

  “Welcome hayseed,” Paige offered, before leaning forward and tapping on the cabbie’s window. “Come on! Do I look like an idiot?”

  The man mumbled something under his breath before taking a sharp turn down a side street.

  “You gotta watch some of these guys. They’ll take the highest traffic routes to jack up the fare on you,” Paige explained.

  “I see, thank you,” I replied, taking note of her warning.

  “Don’t get me wrong—most are honest—just saying, not all of them are, ya know?”

  I nodded, but I didn’t know. I felt like I didn’t know much. Twenty-six years old, and all I seemed to understand was pain.

  “Art school, huh?” Paige asked, which I assumed was her attempt at small talk.

  Happy to not think about my past, or the pain I was trying to escape, I gladly engaged in the conversation. “Yeah, Parsons.”

  “No shit?” Paige said, squinting and looking closely at me. “You a transfer student or something?”

  I smiled. This girl said what she thought, and I liked that, too. She could tell I wasn’t fresh out of high school anymore. “Yeah, I needed to get my senior studios in. I’ve been looking at apartments, but no luck yet. I knew it was expensive out here, but I had no idea it was this insane. I’m still waiting on my living stipend from scho
ol to show up, too.”

  I could see Paige’s ears perk up when she heard that I was receiving a stipend for living expenses.

  “Do you mind roommates?” she asked quickly.

  “No, I mean, not as long as I have my own space to work,” I answered. Based on the prices of the places I was finding, this was a much taller order than I had originally anticipated.

  Paige reached over and grabbed the pencil that was resting inside the spiral casing at the top my sketchpad. Pulling it free, she scribbled a number on the front. “We might have a spot opening up in our loft.”

  Just the sound of it—loft—it was so elegant, and so New York. “All right, I will, I mean—call you.”

  A moment of silence lingered between us before my curiosity got the better of me. “So, are you a model or something? I mean, I don’t want to be nosey, but you said you had a shoot to get to.”

  “No, I just like to dress up like Rainbow Brite for fun,” Paige answered with a serious face.

  “Well, I like your look,” I said, unsure if I had offended her.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me? This crap is so uncomfortable. These low budget jobs are incredibly annoying, but money is money, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” But I really had no idea what she was talking about. A low budget job versus a high budget—they both seemed glamorous to me.

  “Some club is trying to act like they’re the new hip rave scene, and I get to go to a shoot and pretend to actually be having fun.” Paige stuck her finger down her throat to mimic a gagging motion.

  “So—I take it’s not a cool place to go?”

  “If you have to advertise you’re underground, then you’re about as far from underground as one can get. The wankers pay cash, so oh well.”

  I had never actually heard anyone use the term ‘wanker,’ but I wished I could use it and sound as cool, however, I already knew I could not.

  The cab screeched to a sudden halt. “150 West 16th Street.” Glancing at the total on the meter, I handed the cabbie my share and stepped out onto the street.

  Paige leaned over before I closed the door, and inspecting the dingy street, she giggled then added, “I’ll expect your call.”

  “Nice meeting you,” I said with a smile. The moment the door was closed, the cab pulled away from the street side. I turned, and flipping open my sketchbook, I glanced down at my apartment-hunting notes. I found the address, the notes scrolled next to it read:

  shared one bedroom apt.

  $2800 total rent

  $1400 plus utilities

  The brick was faded, but at least it wasn’t crumbling like other places I had seen. I tried not to judge a book by its cover, but the bars on the windows did alarm me, and the scary man sitting on the stoop was not giving me the warm and fuzzies either. I took a deep breath and turned back to the street, arm stretched out to wave for a cab. Next.

  Last night, when I called the number Paige had jotted down for me, it sounded like there had been a party going on in the background. She shouted the street address over the commotion, told me to be there at noon today, and hung up before I had a chance to ask any questions. I had no idea what I was walking into. She had called the place a loft, but I honestly didn’t know what that meant. How many bedrooms were in a loft? How many roommates would I have? Were parties something I would have to deal with a lot?

  I waffled back and forth all morning, debating if I should even keep the appointment. One thing was certain, classes were starting soon, and I was running out of time. I needed to get my housing situation figured out… and fast.

  The previous night I had tried to do a search for the address she gave, to see if maybe Google Maps would reveal if the trip would be worth it. It only made me more nervous when it said the address could not be found. I heard a horn sound outside my motel window.

  I thought staying at a motel on the outskirts of the city would be cheaper during the apartment hunt. What I hadn’t considered was the cost of transportation. I had begun to dabble with the subway system, but still wasn’t confident enough to use it on a regular basis.

  Grabbing my favorite leather satchel, I tossed it over my shoulder. When I dressed myself this morning I took into consideration the look Paige had given me before, obviously regarding my bohemian style. Today I was much more confident in my attire. A white tank top, blue and white striped short sleeved sweater, and dark denim crop pants with oversized rolls at the calves, all complimented by a pair of white ballet flats. I was rather proud of the ensemble.

  “Where to, miss?” the cabbie asked as I pulled the door closed.

  “Corner of Fourteenth and Ninth, please,” I answered, watching him for a reaction to the location. He gave me nothing, only pressed on the accelerator, and we were off.

  When we arrived at the building I was certain something was off. I stared at the street side for a moment longer before repeating the address I had actually desired to the driver. He again confirmed this was the location. Settling the balance owed, I stepped out, watching the cab pull away. The street itself was actually quite quaint. There were trees lining both sides, and down a block I could see the start of some pristine looking row houses.

  What I was staring at, however, was not quaint. It was a huge, oversized, dilapidated warehouse with a number of the windows boarded up. I glanced at the address I had jotted down: 16475. Looking to my left, and then right, I did my best to try and piece this puzzle together. That’s when I spotted it. A door a few feet down on my left had the numbers 16475 spray painted above it. The paint was running, but the numbers were unmistakable.

  My heart sank as I realized this was another dead end. There was no possible way this place could be livable. With a hard swallow, I decided to at least go in. I wasn’t sure what was prompting me to keep this appointment. Perhaps it was because I had enjoyed talking to Paige. As sad as it was, Paige was the most contact I had with anyone in the city so far, except for my motel clerk who smelled like stale cigarettes and always stared at my breasts when he spoke to me.

  Pulling the heavy metal door open, a blast of cool air and the smell of steel hit me. I walked inside to find an old lift—an actual lift, not an elevator—it was unlike anything I had ever ridden on before. I hesitated, unsure if I was even allowed to be in the place. Perhaps I had misread the numbers, and now I was trespassing. I pulled up the wooden gate and enclosed the cage around me. Now what? I wondered as I stared at the control board. One had a yellow star painted next to it so I decided to begin there.

  Buzz.

  The loud noise filled the car as I realized there was an intercom to the left of the control panel. My stomach twisted, nerves consuming me as the unfamiliar situation began to overwhelm me. I flexed my fingers, trying to calm myself.

  Pressing the intercom button, I spoke, “I’m here to see Paige about an apartment.”

  Nobody replied. I stood there in awkward silence. A moment passed and the lift began to move. I sighed with relief; I had to be in the right place. The shaft moved slowly past the openings in the rickety wooden slat gate, until at last it came to a stop. Lifting the ancient gate, bits of white paint chipping off as I did, I stepped out onto a small landing with concrete floors, an oversized steel door in front of me. This door was actually quite beautiful with a patina all around the edges and a handsome sheen to it.

  I reached out and knocked, the ting of steel against my knuckles filling the corridor.

  “It’s open,” a man’s voice called back.

  A knot formed in my throat. That answered one question I had for Paige. Roommates? I couldn’t see myself living with male roommates. Now I was certain this wasn’t going to work out.

  I pushed open the heavy door, stepping inside the vast space. The floors were no different than what had been in the corridor—unfinished concrete. I thought there was no way this could be a habitable dwelling, it had to be some sort of mistake.

  “Hello?” I called out, fee
ling it was rude to walk too far into the space unescorted.

  “Come on in,” the faceless man called out from a hidden location.

  Cautiously, I walked farther into the room, peering around the corner slowly. I was standing in the middle of a warehouse. It was exactly what it looked like from the outside, there was no mistaking it. It appeared as though a bunch of squatters had taken up residence in the space. A makeshift kitchen was off to one side, beaten down cabinets hung on the walls with no doors on the front of them, exposing the hodge-podge of cookware inside. The countertop was made of steel, and I would almost think it were stylish if it hadn’t looked so filthy.

  In the main room, the ceilings were open all the way to the rafters, and though there was a couch and some other random items of furniture strewn about, in no way did words like ‘cozy’ or ‘home’ come to mind. Off to one side was a hallway, which I had no desire to see what might reside on the other end.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumbled, assuming I was alone in the room.

  “About what?” the faceless voice called back. I quickly realized someone was lying on the couch.

  “Oh, I’m sorry—I didn’t see anyone. I’m here to see Paige,” I replied.

  “She’s busy. I’m sure she’ll be out soon,” the raspy voice answered. I found myself getting annoyed at the fact this man continued to lay on the couch, out of sight, as I spoke to him. He obviously had no manners.

  “I’m sorry, there must be some kind of mistake. Paige said this was a loft, and well, this is not what I pictured.” I grimaced, confused by the picture before me. When I thought of a loft I imagined the glamorous images in magazines. This place definitely had the industrial thing going for it; after all, it was pretty much a factory floor with some furniture on it.

  “And what exactly did you picture?”

  “Something that didn’t make me feel like I needed a tetanus shot after standing in it for ten minutes,” I replied honestly.