“I have to find her,” I tell Aaron.
He nods. “Any idea where she might be?”
I shake my head. If someone wants to hide, New York City is the perfect place. “She could be anywhere.”
“Red Hook?” Aaron asks, and I shake my head, doubtful that she’d go back to her apartment. Too easy. “I’ll text Jamie,” he says, pulling his phone from his back pocket. “We need to divide and conquer.”
Aaron shoots a message to Jamie and I mentally run through all the places she might go. Central Park. The library. Jamie’s apartment.
“Jamie is headed home,” Aaron says, reading the text message she must have sent him. “She thinks she might be headed there.”
“I’m going to check Central Park,” I tell him. “It’s her favorite place in the city.” I grab my jacket off the coat rack and slide into it as I take off out the door. I hear Aaron behind me, but I don’t wait for him. I have to find Gracie and make this right; that’s the only thing I care about.
Twenty-Four
Hot tears sting my cheeks as I walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. It’s been a long time since I’ve walked across this bridge, but walking has given me time to think about all the decisions I have to make for me and my baby. I spent the afternoon in Battery Park before walking the waterfront to the Brooklyn Bridge. The sun is setting and the sky darkening when I finally make it across and into Dumbo. I weave through the busy streets and make my way to the nearest bus stop. It’s been a while since I’ve taken the bus, but ease temporarily settles inside me as I fall back into the routine that I was all too familiar with…before Drew.
This is my life—buses, not private cars and drivers. Red Hook, not Chelsea. I was only fooling myself thinking Drew could love someone like me, and he proved that today. I take a seat on the bench at the bus stop, my aching feet breathing a sigh of relief.
Twenty minutes later, I’m exiting the bus in Red Hook, a short three blocks from my apartment. Familiarity hits me here and something inside me stirs. A sense of comfort and ease suddenly envelop me. The smell of the Mr. Pirelli’s pizza place on the corner makes my stomach growl and the sight of the bodega I used to frequent once a week calls to me.
I stop at the bodega and grab a can of soup and a bottle of water, knowing I have nothing in my apartment—not that I ever did. As I get about a block from my apartment, I hear a car slow down next to me, but I ignore it and continue walking. From my peripheral vision, I can tell it’s a Town Car. Fucking Drew and his Town Cars.
“Grace,” the voice calls to me, and I realize it’s Aaron, not Drew. Figures he’d send his brother to do his dirty work.
“Leave me alone,” I call back to him, fumbling with my purse to get my keys out as tears sting the back of my eyes.
“Give me five minutes, Grace.” The car continues to follow me until I hear the brakes squeak and it finally stops in front of me. A car door closes and I see Aaron jogging up next to me.
“I don’t want to talk right now,” I tell him, picking up my pace. My apartment is just coming into view down the street.
A strong hand grabs my arm, stopping me. “Please, Grace. I’m not here to apologize for my brother being a dick…because he needs to do that.”
He’s more than a dick, but my throat is tight and I don’t have it in me to argue right now. I’m tired, both emotionally and physically. I shake my head and feel new tears forming in my eyes. I used to be so strong. I was able to bury my emotions. I never cried, but something inside me broke today and I no longer care about being strong. That’s what I get for opening up my heart.
“I don’t want his apology,” I choke out.
“Fair enough,” he says. He reaches for the bag in my hand and takes it from me. “Just let me make sure you get home safely.” He starts walking beside me. I can see him taking in the surrounding sights of my street in Red Hook. Much like Drew did that first day he came to my apartment, in silent judgment.
“I’ve walked these streets for two years and I’ve always been fine. Tonight won’t be any different,” I tell him, swatting away the now falling tears from my cheeks.
Aaron keeps pace with me but remains silent, simply carrying my bag. When we reach my building, I stop and turn to him, reaching for the bag with my soup and water.
“Please just give me five minutes, Grace,” he pleads with me, holding the bag away from me. “I promise. There’s just some things I need to share with you.”
I sigh, and he reaches for my keys. Reluctantly, I release them into his waiting hand and he opens the door to my building. We walk the stairs to the third floor, the old wood creaking under our feet, and the musty smell hitting us as we ascend and finally reach my place.
As I take the keys back from Aaron and open my apartment door, dark, stale air greets us, a realization that I haven’t been here in weeks. As I flip on the overhead kitchen light, Aaron drops the bag on the kitchen counter and walks over to the old thermostat on the wall to turn on the heat.
“Good luck getting that to work,” I mumble. The temperature doesn’t rise above sixty degrees in the fall and winter.
“It’s freezing in here,” he says, rubbing his hands together while taking in the sight of my dingy old apartment. An apartment I was once so proud of, but I’m sure Aaron is judging me for it. He doesn’t say anything, but I notice the way his eyes take in the stark space, all the furniture I’ve collected from thrift shops and painted or tried to restore on my own.
“You have five minutes starting now,” I tell him, wanting him and his judgment out of my apartment.
He joins me in the small kitchen that really isn’t much of a kitchen; it’s a miniature stove, a tiny fridge, and sink. There are two small cupboards and a tiny free-standing cart that doubles as a kitchen island. Another thrift shop find that I sanded and re-stained.
He pulls a sauce pan from the shelf under the cart and sets it on the stove, then reaches for the bag with the soup. “Can opener?” he asks as he pulls the aluminum can from the bag. I reach into a drawer and pull a handheld can opener out and hand it to him. While he works on opening the can of soup, he begins talking.
“I’m assuming Drew hasn’t told you much about our life growing up,” Aaron starts, glancing at me. I shake my head and hand Aaron a wooden spoon. “Everyone assumes that Drew and I had the perfect life growing up.” He pauses as he dumps the chicken noodle soup in the small pan and slowly stirs it. “But it wasn’t all that great,” he continues. “I mean, our mom was the best.” His lips pull into a smile as he speaks of his mom. “She kept the wheels on our family cart, so to speak.” Drew rarely spoke of his family, but when he did, it was always of his mom. I always wondered about his father, but I didn’t want to appear nosy. I was so thankful I got to meet Rose when we went to Napa, even though our trip was cut short.
He sets the spoon on the spoon rest I have on the counter next to the small stove. “But what no one knew was the anger Drew and I developed growing up in that house.” He turns to me and rests his hip against the kitchen cabinet. “See, my dad was busy building an advertising empire—the one Drew owns and I work for—and we should be thankful for it, but it came at a cost. We lived a pretty cushy life in Napa, while our dad spent most of his time at his other home in San Francisco. He never attended one of our football or baseball games. He never once attended parent-teacher conferences or took us driving when we finally got our driver’s permits.” His eyes hold a sadness I’ve never seen before and he swallows hard before continuing once again.