On the ride home, reality sinks in. Am I so pathetic that I actually allowed myself to believe that an old lady shilling fortunes for tips could change my life for the better? I wish I could blame my complete break from reality on party drugs, but the truth is that even the alcohol wore off a while ago.
The train arrives at my stop, and I get off, swimming upstream through crowds of revelers carrying New Year’s party hats, noise blowers, and bottles of champagne. Off to parties like the one I just fled. Out on the street, the buildings create a wind tunnel, pushing the cold December gale straight through my scarlet bolero jacket. But instead of shivering, my skin grows hot with humiliation. What if Sonya and Marianne had spotted me spinning around in the darkness like cake batter in a KitchenAid? Can you imagine what they’d tell everyone back at Xavier’s about how poor Sadie has gone off the deep end?
My alternate route back to Jacob’s takes me by my old apartment building, and I keep my head down because it hurts to gaze up at the second-story window that used to be mine. A few blocks later, Higher Grounds Coffee is closed up for the night, but I’ll be there bright and early for my shift in the morning. As I approach Jacob’s building, a text comes in from my dad.
Happy New Year. Did you look at those Brooklyn College brochures I sent you? You can’t live on Jacob’s couch forever.
I close my eyes with fresh humiliation. I’m not living on Jacob’s couch…
I just spend a lot of time there.
Somehow, my dad always manages to make me feel like I’ve dumped salt instead of sugar into a batch of cookie dough, ruining everything. Despite some less-than-gentle prodding from my college-professor parents, I chose culinary school instead of the local university, and they’ve never gotten over it.
But maybe my dad’s right. I can’t stay at Jacob’s forever and it’s not like the pastry chef jobs are flying in. Sighing, I quickly fire off a text. Maybe I’ll check them out later this week.
The second I hit send, I want to take it back.
Great! my dad replies. Maybe this is all for the best. I’m proud of you.
I stare at those last four words on my phone. I don’t know if either of my parents have ever said they were proud of me before. The fact that this is what it took depresses me.
I arrive at Jacob’s building, an updated prewar with a doorman. As I step off the elevator onto his floor, I nearly crash into Jacob’s next-door neighbor Paige and her boyfriend. When I first moved in, I couldn’t help but notice Olivia Rodrigo playing constantly on repeat through our shared wall, and I pieced it together that Paige was going through a rough breakup. I could relate. One evening, after listening to a muffled version of “traitor” coming from the direction of the exposed brick for about six straight hours, I had a bottle of wine and a box of chocolates delivered to her apartment. In a happy turn of events, Paige and the long-haired delivery guy named Brandon really hit it off. Now, I have the pleasure of seeing them make out in the hall whenever I get off the elevator.
I clear my throat to let them know I’m standing here, but they don’t bother looking embarrassed. Paige flashes me a grin and pulls Brandon onto the elevator. The doors aren’t even closed before they’re kissing again.
Seeing the two of them should make me hopeful. But selfishly, their happiness only depresses me more. Why can’t I be like Paige? Why can’t I seem to move on?
I enter Jacob’s apartment quietly in case he went to bed already. Though he doesn’t talk to me about his work, I’ve figured out his routine. When he has a big project on deadline, he might be up until all hours of the night, but once it’s over, he’ll crash early. I never quite know which one to expect, and either way, he’s usually in his room with the door closed, so it never really makes much of a difference to me.
Although he and my brother were inseparable throughout my childhood, Jacob and I were never friends. He and Owen were the smart kids. The talented kids. The ones who took honors classes and competed for valedictorian and landed scholarships to Ivy League universities. While the only class I excelled in was home economics. By junior year, I’d grown so tired of my parents comparing me to my perfect brother that I quit trying to do well in school and started trying to have fun instead.
Jacob not only got straight As but was also some kind of musical prodigy, and he always looked down on me for being the Molly Ringwald to his Anthony Michael Hall. When I’d try to make conversation, Jacob would stare at me like I was the rat in biology lab: a radically different species, beneath him on the food chain, and with no future ahead of me. I can talk to pretty much anyone, but Jacob’s quiet contempt would leave me babbling incoherently to fill the awkward silence.
To be honest, not much has changed. When I started crashing at Jacob’s place a couple of months ago, I thought maybe we’d hang out. He’s my brother’s best friend, and Owen and I are super close now. But the first time I invited Jacob to watch a movie, he flinched like it would physically pain him to spend two hours on the couch with me, so I gave up.
Now, we’ve settled into a mostly comfortable routine where Jacob stays in his room, or strolls by with his headphones on, and I stare into my pint of ice cream and pretend I don’t notice. So, when I arrive home from my New Year’s disaster and tiptoe into the apartment, I’m surprised to hear music floating down the hall from the living room. Maybe Jacob is still awake, and he’s put a record on the turntable. But when I stop in the doorway, I realize the music is coming from the piano.
Jacob sits on the bench with his back to me, a single lamp in the corner casting shadows over the lacquered surface as his hands move gracefully across the keys. The song that drifts out is slow, and melancholy, and reminds me of snow falling in the woods or the empty city streets on my early-morning walk to work. I lean against the doorframe as the melody envelops me, and when the last note rings out, I swallow hard to quell the unexpected emotion burning in the back of my throat.
Jacob turns, and his face registers surprise. “Sadie,” he says quietly, scrubbing a hand across his forehead as if he’s trying to orient himself back into the present moment. Dazed, I kind of know how he feels.
“I didn’t know you play the piano,” I say, stepping into the room.
His lips quirk into a half smile. “Did you think the giant instrument in my living room was for holding potted plants?”
I shake my head ruefully. “I mean, I guess I’m aware that you can play. I’ve heard your electronic music, and I know you use keyboards and stuff. But I didn’t know you played music like that.” I wave my hand at the piano. “Did you write that song?”
His eye twitches, almost like he’s surprised by the question, and inexplicably, a little hurt. Finally, he nods.
“It’s beautiful.”