New York Nights: Shaken and Stirred

“I wanted to talk to you about the test,” said Tessa, giving him the opening to immediately correct her grade.

He gave a long look at the clock, as though he was ready to take off, and then started drumming his pencil eraser on the desk. Too bad, buddy.

“There’s not much to say, Miss Hart. You stumbled over key concepts. Allowance for Doubtful Accounts and Inventory Flow, and you made a mess of the Statement of Changes in Financial Position. I was horribly disappointed in your work. Substandard. Are you sure you studied?”

“Didn’t everyone do equally bad?” she asked, because she had spent three days going over formulas and she could feel her blood pressure elevating, possibly in anger but probably in pure ice-bitten anxiety.

“Actually, the average was quite high. Eighty-three.”

Which meant no curve, which meant she still had a D. Damn. Her blood pressure notched up higher.

“Look, I don’t think you understand,” she said, trying to keep the quiver out of her voice. “I can’t make a C in this class, much less a D. It’s A or B all the way, because if I come out of community college with anything less than a three-point-oh, I’ll be screwed at getting into anyplace else. And at this juncture in my life’s journey I really need to be thinking beyond a two-year degree. I need a future. I need a career.”

“I feel your pain.”

Oh, I bet you do. Typical scotch drinker, always thinking of yourself.

“Can I make this up with extra credit? An assignment, a paper, something, anything?”

“Study hard for the final, Miss Hart. That’ll clean your grade up nicely.”

Tessa shoved the paper low in her book bag. “Thanks,” she murmured through clenched teeth and headed outside.

COLLEGE WAS NOT supposed to be this hard. She had aced high school, graduated with honors. This was college. A community college. Not even a four-year program. Everyone had told her that it’d be easy. Sean had told her she would finish with flying colors—summa cumma whoma. So why was she having problems?

Tessa considered going back to Gabe’s place, but she wasn’t in full control yet. The test was burning a hole in her bag. She was going to have to convince him that everything was peachy. So she did what she always did when she wanted to regain control: she took the Manhattan apartment tour.

She started by heading south down Fifth Avenue, the setting sun glinting on the windows. Her favorite building was the San Remo, with the two white finial-topped towers that stood guard over Central Park. The building was all 1930s art deco and class, the grand dame of co-ops in the city. Old, with a history that was older than Carnegie.

The board was rumored to be less fussy than the one at the Dakota, but they had ixnayed Madonna as a tenant back in the eighties, so they did have some minimal standards. There was a full-time doorman, a plethora of classic six and seven floor plans and a stunning limestone cartouche that rose above the entrance like a magnificent eagle.

Two blocks south was the Dakota, “the” address in New York. People who lived here were looking for an address, a destination in life. Personally Tessa thought it was overrated because the old building looked like a medieval prison instead of a home. There was no personality, only accoutrements out the wazoo. By the time the sun had quit the day, she had walked past the Beresford, 740 Central Park West and the Ardsley. These were the apartment buildings that defied gravity in the real-estate market.

The buildings weren’t for her—they didn’t have the simple charm of Hudson Towers—but they were symbols of the resolution of the city. The roots that had been laid down so long ago, that no man would ever put asunder. Staring at the limestone facades that had seen so many years, so many changes, Tessa felt the calm return.

She was here. She would make it.

She would survive.

It was time to go home. As she was entering Gabe’s building, her cell rang again. This time it was her brother, Robert.

Now Tessa was starting to get suspicious, so she took the call from a chair in the lobby. Yes, her family could be overly protective at times, but they weren’t overly chatty.

“Why are you calling a mere three hours after our mother?”

“No reason. Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be fine, Robert? Why do you think I shouldn’t be fine?”

“Can’t I call my sister to see what’s up?”

“No, because you don’t like to talk. You’re uncommunicative—unless it’s an emergency. Why is this an emergency?”

She heard the long sigh, which meant she was getting closer. “It’s nothing.”

“Tell me exactly what nothing is.”

“Fine. It’s Denny.”

Denny. Ex-live-in-boyfriend Denny. No big deal.

“His girlfriend’s pregnant. They’re going to get married.”

And now ex-live-in-boyfriend Denny was going to be Daddy Denny. No problem that he hadn’t wanted a ball and chain or kids four years ago. But now? Oh, now his sperm was flying all over the planet, happily procreating at will.

“That’s great,” Tessa said, knowing that he expected her to say something—or else fall apart.

“You’re taking this well.”

“Of course I’m taking this well. It was four years ago, Robert. Time heals all wounds, and my wounds are closed, scars are faded. I’m getting on with my life. Did Mom tell you that I moved today? It’s a great place. Two-bedroom. Doorman. Nice location on the Upper East Side. I haven’t lived here before, never really thought I was upper east side material, but I think I’m going to like it.” She was rambling now, but Robert wouldn’t know any better.

“Okay, then. We were worried.”

“About me? Pshaw. Stop worrying,” she said and hung up before her face splintered into a million pieces.

For the last four years she had kept her focus on one thing only—supporting herself. She didn’t have time for men or relationships, it wasn’t in her plan. And off in Florida—happy, carefree Florida—there was Denny, who was having tons of sex with women, happily supporting himself and now a new wife and kid.

It sucked.

She waved happily to Herb as she boarded the elevator and was tempted to go out alone somewhere, anywhere, to have a good time, to see what she’d been missing, but she was tired, she wanted to lie down and she needed to climb into her bed and possibly never come out again.

At the apartment, Gabe was nursing a beer and watching the Yankees win. The all-American singleton life. A man who didn’t have to worry about accounting tests or failed relationships and in general treated life as if it were a soufflé to be whipped into shape.

“How was class?”

“Great,” she answered and trotted to her room where she closed the door and collapsed.

She wasn’t going to cry, because crying was for people who were lost or homeless or lived alone. When you had roommates, you learned to suffer in silence, listening to the awful pounding of your heart, knowing the tears hovered close to the surface but you had to master them and control them. She took out her accounting book, but the tears started to spill onto the pages, and a water-damaged textbook certainly wasn’t going to help her grade.

She hated Denny Ericcson with a passion. Hated him for letting her think that her life was taken care of for forever and then ripping the rug right out from under her a mere three years after the fact. She peeled away the waistband of her jeans and saw the permanent proof of her idiocy: a tattoo on her butt. D-E-N-N-Y inked in cute red letters with a curlicue at the end.

Argh.

Instead of celebrating their third year together, she’d ended up starting all over. It was a time when most women had their lives all mapped out. Tessa wiped her face. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of tears. Not anymore. Of course, no way was she going to face her roommate, her cheeks warm and no doubt stained rosy-red.

She crept along the soft carpet of the hallway, soundlessly heading for the safety of the bathroom. Tessa looked up, met Gabe’s eyes and then made a clean run for the lavatory, slamming the door behind her.

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