Page 55

“Nah, you’re a fine wine, baby,” Maya says, giving me a peck on the cheek that sends a fresh rush of happiness through my chest.
“That’s right,” the woman says, sitting back in her seat with a satisfied nod. “You’rebothfine wines, and you’ll blend together beautifully as you age. Just keep choosing each other. That’s the secret to making love last. Love isn’t something you find and mark off your list. It’s a garden, one you need to cultivate with care and devotion every single day.”
“Thank you,” Maya says, her smile fading as her gaze softens. “That’s wonderful advice.”
“And unsolicited.” The woman winks as the train slows and she rises from her seat with the aid of her cane. “But when you’re old, you don’t wait to be invited to say your piece. You can’t. You don’t know if you’ll be alive to say it later.” Cackling at her own joke, she waves as she moves toward the door. “Take care, lovebirds. Your smiles made me happy.”
Maya and I wave, wishing her well. Then, as the doors close and the train lurches into motion again, my girl puts her hand in mine. I squeeze her fingers, and we ride the rest of the way to Red Hook in silence that doesn’t need filling.
Silences rarely do when you’re with the one who’s meant for you.
And wearemeant for each other, even a stranger on the train could see that. It gives me faith that we’ll get through my confession on New Year’s Eve, the fallout after, and anything else that stands in our way.
Emerging from the station in Red Hook, I’m surprised by how much this part of the neighborhood has changed since the last time I was in the area, looking at a property I was considering buying a few years ago before electing to go in a different direction. New coffee shops and funky boutiques are now interspersed with the bodegas and an art gallery is going in where the local dive bar used to be. We pass the corner where I used to meet up with friends from school to buy candy at the Dollar Mart, now an organic juice bar.
But some things remain the same. The roughest streets in Brooklyn still form the outer boundaries of the neighborhood, and there’s an edge to these streets, even early on a Wednesday morning. Signs of drug use and violence still mark the community, confirming my suspicion that it isn’t the place for Maya. It’s fine for her to work here, but I don’t want her walking home in the dark on these streets.
I’ll find a way to get her settled in a safe neighborhood, even if it isn’t with me. I have enough connections to arrange for a perfect steal of an apartment I’ll secretly help pay for to fall into her lap, even if she’s so hurt after my reveal that she never wants to talk to me again.
“Anthony?” she asks, a lilt in her tone that makes me suspect it isn’t the first time she’s said my name.
I shake my head. “Sorry. Lost in thought.”
“About?”
“You walking home through this neighborhood at night. I don’t like it.”
“It’s not so bad, just a little rough around the…” She trails off as we pass two men passed out in an empty storefront with urinesoaking the front of their pants and a needle on the ground not far from the cardboard they’ve slept on.
“And maybe I can afford to live somewhere else,” she adds as we move on. “I’ll have to see how the numbers shake out.”
“I’ll shake them until they work for a charming studio in Chelsea,” I say. “Where you’ll be surrounded by adorable restaurants, museums, and gay men.”
She arches a brow. “Oh yeah? And why would you want me surrounded by gay men?”
“You know why.” I wrap an arm around her shoulders.
“Yeah, I think I do,” she says, looping a matching arm around my waist. “You know, I thoughtyoumight be gay when I met you.”
I frown. “What? Why?”
She shrugs, grinning as she says, “You’re too good-looking and dress too well. Back home, only gay men wear clothes that actually fit or have fancy hair that falls just so.”
I laugh. “Fancy hair? I don’t have fancy hair.”
“You do,” she says. “Very fancy. If that isn’t at least a hundred-dollar haircut, I’m the queen of whatever country still has a queen.”
It’s a two-hundred-dollar haircut, actually—outrageous, but I can afford it, and Charmain really does work miracles with a pair of scissors—and Maya’s getting closer to the truth about how much capital I have at my disposal than I realized.
I’m so distracted by thoughts of my double life that we’re less than a block from the apartment building when I see the aging man standing by the curb. It’s Dave Mackey, in his usual uniform, right down to the battered boots, dark brown work pants, and Red Hook Raiders baseball cap. He’s scrolling through his phone outside Maya’s building, his inspector clipboard tucked under one arm.
Ice instantly floods into my veins.
He isn’t supposed to be here. I called yesterday and the woman at the office said Kyle Mitchell was assigned to Maya’s account. Kyle, a recent hire, who I have never met and would have no idea who I really am.
So, what happened? Is Kyle sick? Need to swap shifts?
Did Dave, being the pappa bear he’s always been, decide he should come watch over the small-town girl buying a property in a rough part of town personally? Something like that wouldn’t surprise me, but it doesn’t really matter how this switch came to be.