because it was nice to have an upstairs neighbor to hang out with.” Ingrid’s face brightens. “Hey, I have an idea. We should do this every day. Lunch in the park until our time is up.”
I hesitate, not because I don’t like Ingrid. I do. Quite a bit. I’m just not sure I’ll be able to handle her every day. This afternoon alone has left me exhausted.
“Please?” she says. “I’ve been so bored in that building and there’s a great big park to explore. Think about it, Juju. That’s what I’ve decided I’m going to call you, by the way.”
“Duly noted,” I say, unable to conceal a smile.
“I know it’s not perfect. But your name is already kind of a nickname, so that leaves me with limited options. And I know, there’s such a thing as bad juju. But there’s also good juju. You’re the good kind. Definitely.”
I highly doubt that. I’ve had bad juju swirling around me for years.
“But as I was saying, Juju, think of all the fun things we could do.” Ingrid begins to count the possibilities on her fingers. “Bird watching. Picnics. Boating. All the hot dogs we can eat. What do you say?”
She gives me an expectant look. Hopeful and needy all at once. And lonely. As lonely as I’ve felt the past two weeks. Other than Chloe, all my friends seem to have vanished. I don’t know if this is my fault or theirs. Maybe I pushed them away without realizing it. Or maybe it’s just a natural by-product of my downward spiral. That loss inevitably begets loss. First Jane, then my parents, then my job and Andrew. With each loss, more and more friends drifted away. Maybe Ingrid is the person who’ll reverse that tide.
“Sure,” I say. “I’m in.”
Ingrid claps excitedly. “Then it’s settled. We’ll meet at noon in the lobby. Give me your phone.”
I pull it from my pocket and hand it to her. Ingrid enters her phone number into my list of contacts, spelling her name in all caps. I do the same with her phone, typing my name in appropriately meek lowercase letters.
“I will be texting if you try to ditch me,” she warns. “Now let’s seal the deal with a selfie.”
She holds up my phone and squeezes against me. Our faces fill the screen, Ingrid grinning madly and me looking slightly dazed by the encounter. Still, I smile, because for the first time in a long while, things don’t seem so bad. I have a temporary place to live and money on the way and a new friend.
“Perfect,” Ingrid says.
She taps the phone, and with a click, our pact is complete.
11
I spend my first night at the Bartholomew joyfully confounded over how I ended up here. The evening progresses in a sequence of impromptu steps—a happy dance being made up on the fly.
First, I climb the corkscrew steps to the bedroom, take off my shoes, and revel in the plush softness of the carpet. Walking on it feels like a foot massage.
I then fill the claw-foot tub in the master bathroom, pour in some pricey lavender-scented bubble bath I discover beneath the sink, and soak until my skin is rosy and my fingertips are pruned.
After the bath, I microwave a frozen pizza and plop it, sticky and steaming, onto a china plate so beautiful and delicate that merely touching it makes me nervous. I find a box of matches in the kitchen junk drawer and light the candles in the dining room. I eat sitting alone at one end of the absurd gangplank of a table as the flickering candlelight reflects off the windows.
When dinner is over, I open one of the bottles of wine Chloe gave me and plant myself at the sitting room window, drinking as night descends over Manhattan. In Central Park, the lamps along the paths pop into brightness, casting a ghostly halogen glow over the joggers, tourists, and couples that scurry by. I peer through the brass telescope by the window, spying on one such couple as they walk hand in hand. When they part, it’s with reluctance, their fingers extended, reaching out for one final bit of contact.
I empty the glass of wine.
I refill it.
I try to pretend I’m not as lonely as I feel.
Time passes. Hours. When my third glass of wine has been emptied, I retreat to the kitchen and linger there, rinsing the wineglass and wiping down the already-clean countertops. I mull a fourth glass of wine but decide it’s