The Dirty Ones

There’s a staircase leading up to a second floor and a grand living room beyond the foyer. My whole body turns to take it all in. To picture her here, all these years, writing.

“Where’s your office?” I ask.

“Down that way.” She points, then squeaks out a surprise as Hayes leans down to kiss her. “Be back soon,” he says, and gets back in the elevator. “I’m gonna go find Connor and Bennett. Kiera, don’t forget. You need something to wear this weekend.”

Right. The party at Louise’s house.

I’ve never been there. I wonder if it looks more like Hayes’ museum? Or Sofia’s penthouse?

Then I start thinking about how different Hayes is from when I first met him at school in senior year. Back then he was wild. A party guy. Always drinking, and smoking pot, and driving fast and doing shit rich-boys with no fucks to give do.

But over the years he’s mellowed a lot. Turned back into the boy his parents raised instead of the one who rebelled.

I like all his parts. The bad ones, the good ones, the wild ones, the mellow ones. And I like the fact that I know him—have known him—all the ways I know him. Because even though everyone else ghosted on me—or maybe I ghosted on them? Not quite sure about that—he was always there.

At first it was kind of like dating. Except we didn’t kiss, or fuck, or anything like that. We just met up, or went out to lunch, or went to dinner, or a movie, or a gallery opening.

Mostly it was in Burlington not New York.

I realize that Hayes Fitzgerald has been the only constant thing in my life for the past ten years.

Well, that and writing.

Sofia and Camille were there online, but that’s different. It’s much less personal. I didn’t get to smell their perfume, or see their home décor change over the years, or help them decide if a guy hitting on them at a party or a bar was worth their effort.

And now all that is gonna change. I know Connor didn’t say we’re gonna be together, and Sofia and Hayes didn’t say we’re gonna be best friends, but we are. I know it.

Once Hayes leaves Sofia and I stare at each other in the large foyer.

We will be best friends, right? We already have so much in common.

“So…” Sofia says.

Oh, God. Please. Do not let this turn into one of those awkward we-have-nothing-in-common moments.

“Wanna see the office?” Sofia offers.

“Yes,” I breathe. Relief flooding through my body.

Because my fear is stupid. We have a ton of things in common. Writing, for one. Books, offices where we write books… Connor. Hayes. Sex. Books. Writing. Camille and Bennett. School. Books. Writing. Sex…

I don’t know about this. The whole idea seems crazy now that we’re alone at her place. Like an unobtainable dream.

“It’s down here.” She leads me through the large living room, past the gleaming stainless steel chef’s kitchen, to a hallway that goes both directions once we reach it. We turn right and head towards the side of the building that faces the park.

I know before we even step inside that she has that same view. And she does.

The New York skyline sweeps out before me. Her walls on either side are lined with navy blue painted built-in shelves with a splash of gold peeking out from behind the books. They climb all the way up to the vaulted ceiling. An elegant writing desk, painted to match the built-ins, sits in the middle of the space. It’s very art deco with an oval top and skinny brass legs that taper to a point on the floor. Laptop closed up on top and a gold velvet armchair tilted to one side, like she just got up to take a break, but will return to work soon. It’s a corner room, and the other window faces a side street, not Fifth Avenue. There’s a large sectional couch the same gold velvet as the chair pushed up against the window on that side. Almost a perfect square.

Sofia notices me looking at the couch and says, “Camille lives right across the street in that building there.” She points and I look out at the terrace just a short distance away. “Sometimes we write together. Well, not together. I sit here on my couch and she sits there on her couch and we write.”

“Wow,” I say, unable to stop the awe in my voice. “I write on my couch too, laptop propped up on a pillow, wearing leggings. But it’s nothing like this. I bet you even get dressed every day, don’t you.”

“You’re stupid.” She laughs. “But no. I mean, yes. I do get dressed everyday. But I don’t always write in here. Sometimes I write in bed. Especially when… you know. Those scenes come up.”