Page 28

First Class

Declan

“Are you seriously FaceTiming me?” she asked as she answered my call.

Abi’s face popped up on my phone screen and she appeared very different from the young professor she’d looked like when I left her.

Her hair was in a braid, she appeared to have some sort of powder—I had to assume flour—on her glasses, and she was wearing a neon-orange T-shirt that read YOUR MO GOES TO COLEGE .

She asked, “Are you even allowed to use your phone on a plane?”

“First class has boarded but everyone else is still getting on so I’ve got a few more minutes.”

“And you were dying to see me? I’m trying to make noodles here, Powell.”

She set the phone down so I could now see that she was standing in front of my stove.

“Well, you seemed very interested in first class,” I said, watching her use a table fork to stir the pasta. “So I thought I’d give you a little tour, starting with the wet towel.”

“You have one?” She appeared to be half listening while she watched her noodles, which for some reason fascinated me. There was something about seeing her move about in her world—in my apartment—that I found mesmerizing.

I wanted to know more, to sit and watch what happened next.

“This is the hot towel,” I said, holding it up. “And you just put it on your face like this.”

I covered my face for a few seconds, then removed the towel.

“But, like, wouldn’t that just smear your makeup?” she asked.

“Do I look like I wear makeup?” I replied.

“Well, no, but then that’s a sexist benefit because no women could use the hot towel without ruining their face.”

“ That’s sexist, assuming all women are wearing makeup when they travel.”

She scowled. “You’re not allowed to call me sexist when you’re a man.”

“Is that right?” I asked, and her nose crinkled when she smiled into the camera.

“Shut up and show me the rest,” she said, shaking her head.

I turned the phone around and showed her the business class seat and how it all worked. I was so used to traveling all the time that it was inconceivable to me that there were people unfamiliar with planes.

“So you can literally lie down with a blankie and go night-night until you land in New York?” she asked incredulously.

“Well, I could, but I’m not tired,” I said.

“If I was given a comfy bed on a plane I would absolutely sleep.”

“I can see that about you,” I said, wondering if she knew just how filthy her glasses were. “I really should go now, but I just thought you’d want to see it.”

“That was very thoughtful of you,” she said, moving her face a little closer to the phone. “Seriously. I can’t believe you called just so I could see. That’s really nice.”

“I was bored,” I lied.

“Well, thank you,” she said with a grin. “You just keep surprising me with the fact that you aren’t always a jackass.”

“Oh, I am. I just have moments of decency.”

“Well, I’m thrilled to have witnessed one of those moments.”

I didn’t mean to, but I thought about Abi on the entire flight to New York.

And I came to the unexpected conclusion that when I was ready to actually jump into dating, I might want to consider looking outside my existing social circles.

Abi was so smart and real and funny, so different from the last few people I’d gone out with, and the thing I liked most about her was that she was fun.

Fun.

I hadn’t had fun with anybody in a very long time.

After I got into the SUV that would take me to my condo, I sent her a text that simply said: landed.

I was unsure if she’d respond because we were officially done with our collaboration, but she replied with: You’re probably busy working on your phone or computer, but if not and you’re bored, you should FaceTime me.

I texted: Miss me already?

Abi: You wish. I just want you to turn the camera around so I can live in New York City vicariously through you.

I didn’t respond but just hit the FaceTime button.

“Yay,” she said when she answered, and the way she grinned at me made it impossible for me to not smile, too. She’d obviously just taken a shower, because her hair was damp and wavy and she was wearing those stupid pajamas with her face on them again. “You have no idea how excited I am.”

“Well, I live to excite you,” I said, feeling a little safer about teasing her now that we weren’t together with that in-person chemistry buzzing between us.

“Okay, so show me the city,” she said.

I held my phone up to the window and pointed out where we were as the driver headed in the direction of my apartment.

“Are you in a taxi?” she asked.

“No, I have a driver.”

“Ooh, you have a driver . Like there is literally someone on your payroll whose job is just to chauffeur you around?”

“That’s the actual job description of a chauffeur, but he isn’t just mine. He’s been the driver for my family and CrashPad employees for years.”

“Not Hathaway?”

“No, Leonard started working for Nana Marian back in the day, and he’s been exclusive to our family since then.”

“Does he open doors for you?”

“No, I know how to open a door,” I said.

“Does he give you sage advice while looking at you through the rearview mirror?” she asked.

“Quit being a dumbass,” I said.

“Is it weird that the second you held up your phone and showed me a random New York City street, ‘Empire State of Mind’ by Jay-Z featuring Alicia Keys started going through my head?”

“Somehow this does not surprise me about you,” I said, but the truth was that everything about her surprised me.

She was so different from the people in my life.

She chattered like that through the entire drive to my place, which was a lot more entertaining than reading email or staring out the window and barely noticing these familiar sights that were new and magical in her eyes.

When I finally reached my place, Abi squealed over the fact that it was in SoHo, that I had a doorman, at the shiny silver walls of the elevator, and the music I’d never noticed that was coming from the speakers.

Abi seemed to love everything about my place.

It was fascinating, seeing my life through someone else’s eyes.

I loved New York and this apartment—it’d always been one of my favorite places—but Abi’s enthusiasm was next level.

“Okay, so I need the entire tour,” she said as soon as I unlocked my front door. “And you can’t just say this is my apartment and leave it at that. I want to see everything.”

“Creeper,” I muttered as I dropped my keys on the entry table.

“No.” She laughed. “It’s not because I’m a creeper and want to see where you sleep, it’s because I want to feel like I’m there.”

“Like a creeper.”

“Again, not because I’m a creeper but because I want to live vicariously through you.”

“Still a creeper,” I said pointedly, but paused and gave her a wink. “But I’ll allow it for my biggest fan.” I slipped off my shoes and started walking farther into my apartment.

“How gracious,” she said, deadpan.

“This is my apartment,” I said, turning in a slow circle so she could see it all.

“Oh, my God, look at those windows,” she squealed, and she wasn’t wrong. One of my favorite things about the place was that it had more windows than walls. She made a noise and said, “Declan, your house is beautiful .”

“Thanks,” I said, happier than I probably should’ve been that she approved.

She made me give her a full tour, then she made me take her out on the private terrace.

“I have to go to Benny’s now because I got called in, and that makes me so sad,” she said. “I want to force you to sit on the balcony for hours so I can just watch the street below like a dog with his head out the window.”

“Sorry, kiddo,” I said, walking over to the stack of mail on the kitchen counter.

“Hopefully my car didn’t get towed; I parked it down the street yesterday and forgot all about it.”

“Why don’t you take mine?” I asked. “You’ve got the keys and it’s in the nice, warm garage; you should take it.”

“No,” she said. “I’d feel like I was taking advantage of you, and I would die if something happened to it.”

“It’s not taking advantage of me because I’m the one who offered in the first place, and nothing’s going to happen to it. And if it does, well, that’s why we’ve got insurance.”

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I am constantly amazed by how little money means to you,” she said, her eyebrows all bunched together again. “You don’t care about stuff at all.”

“Stuff is just stuff,” I said, absolutely meaning it. “I told you that.”

It drove Nana Marian crazy, the way I was unfazed by money, but the difference was that she grew up without it. She still got excited by every expensive purchase she made, even after all this time, and she loved to tell me exactly how much things cost.

My grandmother said to me on a weekly basis, Can you believe how rich I am?

And she didn’t mean it in an arrogant way. She just literally could not believe, even after all these years, that she was rich.

I was the opposite.

We’d had money and expensive things my entire life.

I mean, my parents made me work for things I’d wanted when I was growing up, to teach me about priorities, and I’d always witnessed their generosity to others.

And I was grateful for that.

But when you grew up in a house where your father had an entire garage full of expensive sports cars, you weren’t really impressed by expensive sports cars anymore.

I’m not even sure I realized that level of privilege until I met Roman.

Through a glitch in the system, I ended up with Roman as a college roommate, even though I’d signed up to have a dorm room to myself. I didn’t mind because Roman was cool as shit and I had a blast with him, but he didn’t play it casual like everyone else always had.

He didn’t act like having money was normal, and he kind of acted like it was disgusting.

Somehow in a nonjudgmental way.

He’d been considering joining the Peace Corps when I met him, and he was super into social issues. He opened my eyes to so many things and kind of completely changed my way of looking at the world.

By the end of my sophomore year, I wanted to quit school and join the Peace Corps myself.

But then Roman said something important to me.

You can do more good with money than without it , he’d said. Why would you leave this life and join the Peace Corps, where you could help a few people, when you could graduate and get a job at Hathaway and make millions of dollars that you could give away?

We talked about it a lot, and by the time I was a senior, we’d formulated a plan.

He loved number-crunching and had intended on finding a job in finance or accounting with a nonprofit.

I loved business. I loved the challenge of finding new and exciting ways to grow a company and make more money. I wanted to work for Hathaway and move up in the ranks.

We found a way to merge our interests.

My career goals remained unchanged, but my plan for what I was doing with my money had changed.

On the surface, I operated like everyone else in my family. I used my income to buy and maintain two great apartments, nice cars, and great clothes.

And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like nice things.

But instead of investing all my excess income to become richer, I invested so I had more to give away.

My family didn’t know (Nana Marian would fucking disown me), my friends didn’t know; it was only Roman and me working our asses off to distribute funds to those who needed them via our anonymous and extremely confidential partnership.

It was complicated and more time-consuming than either of us had imagined, but we also saw it as a priority. This was probably the tea that Abi had wanted and I was unwilling to share—especially not at this juncture of our efforts.

“Please, take my car, Abi,” I said, gazing at her face, scrunched in worry. “I want you to.”

“Okay, maybe I will,” she said, and I could tell she didn’t know if she was actually going to do it or not. “I promise to be super careful if I do.”

“I know,” I said. “Have a good night at work, Mariano.”

“You too, Powell.”