As I head down to the main lobby in the elevator, I double-check my backpack to ensure I threw my wallet in there last night, and breathe a sigh of relief that I did. I pull out my phone and weave my way around a group of tourists gathered around the front desk, careful not to bump into any of their luggage, and then thank the doorman again for opening the door for me.
I walk away from him as fast as I can, making my way along the street as I stare down at my phone. I draw up the subway map at the same time as I search for potential studios. With no idea yet which direction I’m going to be heading in, I pause on the corner as I figure it out. The streets are heaving, just the way they usually are, so I step back against the wall of the building nearest to me, adamant that I won’t block the flow of pedestrians.
It takes me no more than ten minutes to decide on the studio and to map out the subway route, and even though I have to head two miles across Manhattan on my own, I feel pretty confident about it.
I expertly slip between fascinated tourists as though I’ve lived in Manhattan for years. The grid layout of the city has become easier and easier to navigate, especially after walking these streets for a month now, so I’ve got my way around Upper East Side memorized. I reach the station in just over five minutes, and luckily I’ve got my MetroCard with me.
Four weeks ago, the subway terrified me. Tyler had to drag me into the station back then, yet now I’m navigating a new station without a worry in the world. That is, of course, until I reach the right platform. There’s a God-awful stench. The station is sweltering hot, made worse by the flocks of people, and I can’t even try to hide my distaste for it all. Before I came to Manhattan, I never expected the subway to be luxurious or even clean, but at least the other stations haven’t made me want to throw up. I hold my breath and come to a stop, jammed between a woman with a stroller and a group of young Asian tourists. If my mom knew I was down here alone, she’d kill me.
The train arrives after a few minutes, but there are so many people gathered on the platform that I don’t even make it on. I’m not bold enough to elbow my way through the crowd, so I hang back as it fills up and leaves, and then I edge my way closer to the platform edge, silently wondering to myself how long I’m supposed to be able to survive down here before the toxic fumes kill me. I’m scared to breathe, so I close my eyes and hold onto my backpack as tightly as possible as I wait for the next train.
It turns up around five minutes later, and this time I do fight for my space. There’s no way I’m sticking around in the black hole that is the Fifty-ninth Street station for a second longer. It’s packed, so I stand, but I don’t mind. I’m only on it for a couple minutes, just until Grand Central, so it’s not long before I’m off the train.
I’ve been to Grand Central Station numerous times over the summer so far, so I transfer straight to the Forty-second Street shuttle with ease. The entire time nerves are building up inside of me, but I tell myself I won’t back out. I might be acting upon a split-second decision and it might be crazy and it might be stupid, but it just makes sense. It just feels right, for some odd reason, and for that reason alone I keep pursuing my plans, taking the shuttle over to Times Square.
Quickly, I head out of the station when I arrive and follow the map I’m looking at on my phone, glancing between the streets of Manhattan and my screen as I check to ensure I’m still on the right route. I make a left onto the avenue and head two blocks south, just past Fortieth Street and the New York Times Building, and that’s when I find what I’ve been looking for.
It’s nestled above a store selling New York souvenirs and next to Subway, and I don’t even take the time to study the studio from the outside before I head inside. I just want to get it over with quickly, rather than allowing myself to overthink what I’m doing. I do stop on the stairs, however, to glance down at my Chucks.
Tilting my foot onto its side, I run my eyes over Tyler’s handwriting. It’s been four weeks since he told me not to give up. All I can do now is let him know that I haven’t, in the rawest possible way I can think of, and by the time I’m pushing open the door to the tattoo studio, I’m smiling.
I’m just making my way down Lexington Avenue when Emily calls. It’s almost five by now and rush hour is upon the city, with the traffic jammed and the sidewalks bustling. I didn’t intend to stay out all afternoon, but after traveling around, suffering through a two-hour wait at the studio and stopping for coffee and lunch for almost an hour, I’ve ended up returning to the apartment only now. So when my phone vibrates in the back pocket of my jeans, I answer Emily’s call as I continue to walk.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“I’m sort of locked out of the apartment,” Emily says sheepishly.