Page 20 of That Fake Feeling

Oh, the unimaginable bliss of being able to focus on study, internships, and my volunteer work free of financial worries.

“Fourthfloor, right?”Icall after him.

“Yup.”Hedoesn’t turn around, just waves his hand over a perfect shoulder. “It’sall yours.”

Heopens a door, walks through it, and pushes it tight shut behind him.

Ilook up at the next flight of stairs.Idon’t stand a chance.

Idrop my suitcase onto its back, unzip it, and grab the three biggest books tucked in among the clothes.IfIhave to do this bit by bit, so be it.

Thefirst painting on the way up the stairs stands out like a bright white square against the gray wall.ButasImove in closer, it becomes clear it’s made up of swirls of the palest pastel colors.Thepaint is thick and textured, and, leaning to look at it from the side,Ican see spikes of paint sticking out all over it.Huh.That’squite beautiful.

Iwander slowly up the stairs, taking in a sketch of a beach, a face that is a collage of other people’s faces, and a watercolor of purple flowers.It’san eclectic collection.

Onthe next landing, a window looks out over a large backyard.Well, large byNewYorkCitystandards—a postage stamp by all others.It’senclosed by a tall brick wall.Along table surrounded by chairs sits on the half that’s a patio.Therest of the backyard is neat lawn.

It’sdifficult to put this house together with the gossip column images ofConnorI’vebeen looking at all week.It’slike it’s the home of a completely different person.

Thethird set of stairs is lined with photographs—they look like family pictures.First, there’s a cluster of photos of young boys, one of them throwing a football around in a park.Anotherphoto features the same boys gathered around a kitchen table, blowing out candles on a birthday cake.There’salso one of them all squished together next to a smallChristmastree.

Upa couple more stairs, there’s the first one in whichIcan recognizeConnor.Helooks like a sulky teenager, with long hair falling in his eyes and down to his shoulders.

Withevery stair, the boys get older.Atall, dark-haired guy stands next to a red race car.Aman with a beard has his arm around a woman as they stand in front of a giant vat that looks like something from a brewery.Aguy with glasses peers up over a laptop, like he’s just been caught off guard.Anda super cool dude stands at the side of a stage cheering on a band, whichIthink might beFourThousandMedicines.

Andthen here’sConnoragain, this time lying on his back in a ball pit, arms and legs in the air, surrounded by kids.Happinessis written all over his face like he’s having the time of his life.Hisexpression is infectious, andIcan’t help but smile.Butit also gives me a sadness in the pit of my stomach.ThefaceI’veseen today looks like it hasn’t been that happy for a long time.

Bythe last stair, the final picture looks more recent.Fourof the guys are lined up on either side of an older couple outside a stunning stone house with a green door at its center.Connorhas his arm around the woman, whoIguess is his mom, his head tilted to rest against hers.

Themagnitude of the family history on this one short stretch of wall is impossible to fathom.

Anyway, ifI’mgoing to get all my worldly goods up these stairs three items at a time,I’dbetter get a move on.Iskip up the final flight, past framed architectural drawings of what looks like this house, and find only two options—a single door or more stairs.Sincethis is the top floor, the stairs must lead to an attic or something.Thedoor must be mine.

Iknock and press my ear to it, just in case.

Nothing.

Ipress the handle and nudge it open. “Hello?”

Nothing.

Sweepingthe door open the rest of the way,Istep in and gasp out loud asItake in the soft blue room.Mybare foot sinks into thick, deep carpet andIkick off the one remaining flip-flop and let all ten toes enjoy the sensation.

Thehuge bed, with a thickly padded headboard, and dressed with pale blue and white bedding and cushions, is crying out for me to starfish myself face-first into its comfiness.

Youcould fit about twenty of my old twin beds in here.

Iplace my books on the bench at the foot of the bed and sweep my hand over the soft comforter asIwander toward the row of three windows casting squares of light onto the carpet.Theylook out over the yard and toward the back of a restored industrial building beyond.

Itake a deep breath and turn back to the room.

Oppositethe bed is a pair of sliding doors.

Theyglide back with barely a touch to reveal a little sitting room in the same blue tones.Twocomfy chairs sit on either side of a decorative white fireplace, and there’s a desk under another window.

Thisis all beyond gorgeous.

Sterlingwasn’t kidding when he said myrooms, plural.There’sanother white sliding door on the other side.