This isn’t the touristy part of Coney Island, so even though it’s a gorgeous summer day, it’s not too crowded. Technically we’re in Brighton Beach, except the beach part is still called Coney Island, which makes about as much sense as keeping that name when Coney hasn’t been an actual Island for a hundred years. Anyway. We’re at this end of Coney Island for a reason, see. From here, you can see a long stretch of Staten Island. There’s not much to it—mostly flat on this side, trees and elevated houses, the island’s low profile interrupted by the occasional industrial crane or cell signal tower. Pretty. Boring.
All of this, however, sits in a deep well of gloom. There are no clouds overhead. No satellites, no eclipses. No one’s reported on it in the news, though we’ve seen a few people commenting on it in social media, as a curiosity more than anything else. Only we can see it easily, us and those others throughout the city who have been granted the gift/curse of its sight. No big deal. Just a huge, perfectly circular—Brooklyn took a helicopter ride across the harbor and told us that part—shadow over Staten Island.
Yeah. It’s like that. She has betrayed us more completely than we ever believed she could.
Paulo straightens away from the railing. “My flight leaves in a few hours. I’d best head to the airport.”
It’s out of nowhere. I knew it was coming, of course; he only came here to see me through the change, the next-youngest city helping the newbie, and now his duty is done. Still. I bite the inside of my cheek and try not to show how hurt I am.
“My sublet is paid through the end of the month,” he continues, “if you want to remain there. Just leave the keys and close the door when you go. Try not to make a mess.”
I sigh. “And after that.” Back out on the street. At least it’s summer.
“After that,” he says, looking meaningfully from me to the people sitting on the beach before us, “you have five other selves to take care of you, instead of me.”
It’s gentle. I’ve had worse breakups. This probably doesn’t even count as a breakup. Still. I fold my arms on the railing and prop my chin on them, trying not to resent my other selves. Take care of me, Paulo said.
“They need you,” Paulo says. This, too, is gentle.
“To live.”
He shakes his head. “To be great. I’ll see you in Paris.”
Then he takes out a cigarette, lights it up, and walks away. Just like that.
I gaze after him and don’t miss him, and then I gaze at the others and don’t want to be with them. But we’re all New York. New York is so full of shit sometimes, and nobody knows that better than New York.
So Queens comes over first, laughing and dripping from the sea, to grab my arm and complain that I must be too cool to walk on sand like everyone else, until I finally give up and let her pull me off the boardwalk. And then Jersey City—she prefers Veneza, so we use that name, but she’s also Jersey City—runs over and hands me a foil-wrapped sandwich of some kind, because, she says, “I’m sick of feeling how hungry you are. You need to eat more.” She pulls me across the sand to the blankets. (The sandwich is good. Chicken kebab. I’m not supposed to get hungry anymore, Paulo said, but New York is always hungry.) When Jojo flops down and sprinkles all of us with water, Brooklyn wryly hands me a paper towel to wipe my face. Then Bronca tells me to lie the fuck down because I’m shadowing the sun, and she’s trying to soak up enough light and warmth to get her through next winter even though that’s like six months off. When I sit down, Manny moves aside to make room for me—but he stays bodyguard-close. Also near enough to touch, if I want. When I’m ready.
“Welcome back,” he says, handing me a Snapple from the cooler. Pink lemonade. Probably just chance that it’s my favorite flavor.
“No place in the world that can compare,” I say, and we all smile with the magic of this truth.