He grins. “Yeah.”
And then the lights are green again, and we’re off before I can even glance back one last time. The city feels huge and confusing, but Tyler seems to know his way around, and we turn north onto Third Avenue, which makes me think of Third Street and the promenade and Santa Monica. I wonder how Dean’s spending his day off work.
“We’re almost there, by the way,” Tyler says. “About fifteen blocks. Just look for Seventy-fourth Street.”
I glance out the window. Sixty-first Street. Ahead, the avenue looks gorgeous. The sky is clear and the buildings are all lit up by the sunlight so most of them look white. And then we come to Seventy-fourth Street, which I don’t even notice until Tyler turns right onto a narrow one-way road. Almost immediately Tyler slows the car and maneuvers it into a spot by the sidewalk between a Honda and a truck, leaving barely a couple of inches between each.
I lean forward to peer through the windshield and frown. “Aren’t you worried they’ll hit your car when they try to get out?”
“No, they never move,” Tyler says as he kills the engine. He pulls the keys from the ignition and pulls off his seatbelt, and I follow suit. “Truck belongs to some old guy in the building next door who doesn’t drive anymore and the Civic is some girl’s home. It’s been parked here for as long as I can remember. She comes back every night and sleeps in it.” His expression is neutral, so I can’t figure out if he’s joking or not, and I don’t get the chance to ask because he’s already saying, “C’mon, I’ll grab your stuff.”
I push open my door and step out, stretching my legs.
And it’s like: Woah.
New York.
I’m standing in New York. Actually standing here on the streets of Manhattan. I glance down. There’s a lot of gum. And some trash. But still. Manhattan.
“You okay?”
My eyes snap up from the ground. Tyler’s hauling my suitcase out of the trunk, careful not to hit the Honda Civic with it, and he’s arching an eyebrow at me. I offer him a sheepish smile and reach into the car to grab my backpack before stepping away and swinging the strap over my shoulder. “It’s just that this . . . this is so surreal.”
I feel like I can hear the busyness now. The sound of engines. Voices. Horns blasting. It feels loud yet somehow not loud at the exact same time. Like a constant buzz of noise that I think I’ll grow accustomed to. Now I understand why New Yorkers talk so loud.
“I know,” Tyler says. He slams the trunk shut and locks up. “You’ll get used to all of this within a week.” He walks around to meet me on the sidewalk and just when I’m about to ask where his apartment is, he nods at the building across the street. The tallest on the block. Right on the corner. It looks nice from the outside, with off-white bricking and huge brown-framed windows.
“Yeah, this was definitely your mom’s doing.” Of course Ella chose the nicest-looking apartment building. I wonder what the inside will be like. Tilting back my head, I quickly count the number of floors. Twenty. “Which floor are you?”
“Twelfth. Apartment 1203.” He’s still smiling at me. I don’t think he’s stopped since the airport. “Wanna head inside?”
I nod and follow him across the street toward a set of glass doors. He punches a code into the number pad and there’s a sharp beep as the doors unlock. Wheeling my suitcase inside, I stay by his side and study the entrance as he leads me over to an elevator. There’s a collection of mailboxes covering an entire wall, and some vending machines, but mostly it’s bare. The elevator is huge, though. You could probably fit twenty people inside it, but there’s only Tyler and me. He stands at one side and I stand at the other, and it feels like there’s too much space between us, like we should be standing closer. Or perhaps it’s just wishful thinking on my part.
“Snake should be back by now,” he says after a moment. The elevator moves with a soft jolt. “He headed out with some guys from school, but I’m pretty sure he’ll be here.”
“Do I have to call him that?” I don’t mind nicknames, but his just sounds ridiculous. Who would even want to be called that? “Can I just call him Stephen?”
“Yeah, sure, if you want him to hate you,” Tyler deadpans. Slowly, he cracks a smile. “After a while, it stops sounding so stupid. Especially when you’re yelling it across the street to him. You learn to ignore the weird looks you get.”
There’s a ding and the elevator door opens, revealing a lobby that’s painted off-white, presumably to match the exterior bricks. Three doors down, Tyler draws my suitcase to a halt outside apartment 1203.