Page 60 of C*cky Best Friend
Chapter Twenty-Six
Logan
“Winter is no joke,” I mutter as I zip up an ineffective jacket I’ll need to replace soon.
The guys agree as we head down a cement staircase that leads underground, to catch the ‘C’ train.
Terrence has been here for two weeks and already knows his way around the subway system. He showed me how to use the map on my phone. “All you have to do is put in an address and it gives you options for which train to take, and a walking map that leads you all the way to your destination.”
Its simplicity relaxed my shoulders.
We’re at 14th Street but we need to be at Eighth Avenue and 36th Street. So the ‘C’ it is. Or the ‘E,’ but apparently it’s not running today, so say the signs littering steel beams.
Down in the tunnels we pass street performers—a violinist, and a small band further down. They’ve got buckets for tips on the ground, and their music is damn good. Joel throws some dollars in and mutters, “Hot damn. Create wherever you can!”
As we pass movie posters tagged with graffiti, Elliott tells us, “I read in an article that a famous musician came down here and did his thing, and nobody paid attention. You see how most everyone is walking past and not watching? People normally pay hundreds of dollars to see this guy perform and here he was playing for free and they walked on by. It’s all about perception, man.”
I ask, “Was it an experiment?”
He stops in front of kiosks where we’ll buy our tickets. “He was curious.”
Terrence gives us the quick rundown on how to do this and soon we’ve all got a thin slip to pass through the reflectors, gates unlocking one at a time to allow us entry. The mix of people waiting for a ride is about as diverse as you can imagine. We went colorblind a long time ago, so all we notice are the fashions that identify how people choose to present themselves. You look at our clothes and you can tell we’re dancers. And if you’re not clued into our culture, you’d recognize us as artists of some form, at the very least.
With the approaching train comes a gust of wind. I close my eyes to force an uninvited image of Samantha from my mind. This would’ve blown her hair back, and the excited smile she’d have had is something I would pay to see.
She’s staying in the girls’ loft. We haven’t spoken. Last night, my chest didn’t stop pounding with suspense until the plane’s wheels left the ground and clouds were underneath my feet. It was a relief to not be on her plane, and I counted myself lucky.
But now I’m about to face her for the first time since I blew everything. Did I, though? She had to know about Asher. My sister was right about that. Samantha needed the warning. Just in case. But then I leapt over the line.
How can I take back what I said?
How do you retract, I love you?
Turns out the ride isn’t long. Terrence makes a joke about us being lazy, and how we should have walked. We don’t pay lip service to the obvious fact that it’s freezing outside and nobody wants to walk in this wind. Besides, we’re about to have our nuts handed to us after grueling weeks of rehearsals our legs will hate us for later.
Up in the overcast light of day, the six of us weave around countless pedestrians on 8th Avenue, as honking vehicles on our left head north since it’s a one-way road. I rake my anxious gaze along the front of a skyscraper much bigger than our rehearsal home back in the other Midtown. She’s up there. An image of her literally running into me when I discovered ketchup on my shirt flies into my mind.
We were just us then.
Happy.
“This is the place?” Elliot asks.
Johan waves a big YES while eyeballing a store across the way. “Is that food?”
Terrence explains, “Yeah, that’s a bodega. Your basic convenience store with a mini-buffet. Note it and memorize it! We will be living there!”
There are three options to get into this building from the front—a spinning door, double doors, and a handicapped entrance with automatic doors.
“It doesn’t lack for options,” I joke, but I’m secretly impressed by the size. Everything I’ve seen is impressive, if it weren’t for this impending sense of doom I’m swallowing.
We file in, hand our ID cards to a somber security desk that employs not one but four guards scanning information while dryly asking, “What floor?”
The guys and I exchange looks, feeling pretty special.
Only Terrence asks, “Did something happen here that they now need so much protection?” as we head for our pick of seven steel-grey elevators.
Johan turns right, but Elliot grabs his shoulders and steers him opposite. “Those are for floors 35-55.”