“Oh, we get all sorts of people here who want to know about the history of the area. And then there are the ones who think they’re on some kind of house shopping spree and say things like, I’m gonna rip out that tile over there and put in a chandelier made of diamonds and hundred dollar bills up here. And some people who just want to poke through their neighbor’s medicine cabinets.”
Ms. Hernández peered at them as if to decide which of the three categories they belonged in and Oliver tried not to look like a rich asshole or a person with too much curiosity about other people’s meds.
Fay said hastily, “We love the neighborhood. Also, we both have a professional interest.”
“Are you historians?”
“No, we’re urban planners.”
“What’s that all about?”
“Well, we work with city government and developers and community groups to look at how land is used to figure out how to grow and accommodate a community’s needs. We look at zoning and infrastructure. We talk to the residents and community leaders and try to help all these groups figure out what kinds of businesses they need, or if they need more schools, or more bike lanes—”
“No bike lanes. Hard enough for my sister to park already. Every Tuesday and Thursday she has to sit in her car for a half-hour to wait out the street cleaners. She’s read everything by Toni Morrison twice already. Although I suppose it doesn’t sound so bad when you put it that way.”
“We also make recommendations for more affordable housing.”
“Well, I know all about that. I’ve lived in my building since 1969, and if I hadn’t bought early, I wouldn’t be able afford five square feet to myself anymore. A young couple like you, if you want to start a family in this neighborhood, if you aren’t the CEO of something, you can forget about it,” she said. “Urban planner, that’s a real job, huh?”
Fay laughed. “Oh, it’s very real.”
But Oliver noticed that Fay didn’t bother to say that what wasn’t real was Ms. Hernández’s assumption that he and Fay were a couple.
When they were safely out of the house and on their way to the next stop, Fay explained, “There was a lot to unpack in what she was telling us about the neighborhood. It seemed harmless to let that one thing go. Plus, you could have jumped in at any time.”
“I like letting you take the lead.”
She gave him a slow smile that he felt down to his feet. “I like that you let me take the lead.”
She walked off and it was a few seconds before he managed to catch up to her.
A few other people at the next stops made the same assumption, too, and neither bothered to correct them. It was easier to concentrate on other matters: to pause to look up the history of the neighborhood on their phones, to hold up before and after pictures of houses that had been burned-out shells, to hope that more houses had stayed in the hands of Black residents, to pause to argue lightly about the Whole Foods that had sprung up on 125th Street. “I’d forgotten how slowly I move when I’m with another urban planner,” Fay said suddenly, laughing. “But that’s how we earn those billable hours, isn’t it?”
It wasn’t a bad thing; in fact it was a small inside joke. But thinking about his billable hours—his career, his current lack of a job, the fact that her firm had been so slow to respond, the fact that he was living with his brother, well, it put a damper on Oliver’s mood. He could have asked for her number right then. He could have said something about meeting again next weekend to walk through Marcus Garvey Park, which they hadn’t had nearly enough time to explore. But he had no business asking out anyone right now, not when he was a mess, and especially not when he felt that slight thread of unease around the fact that he was in the running for a job with her firm.
But she obviously didn’t remember or care, otherwise, she would have mentioned it.
There was a lot they hadn’t said to each other.
She was still smiling at him. But he didn’t ask for her number. He didn’t ask if he could see her again.
So when she paused, almost expectantly, he said, “I’ll walk you down to your platform.”
And he watched her get on her train.
* * *
Fay was still smiling that evening as she pulled a pot out of the moving boxes in order to make dinner.
On the way home, she’d bought the fancy instant ramen, a bunch of green onions, and a single grilled chicken breast. She shredded some of the chicken and the scallions with her hands and dumped them in with the noodles. Then she found a pair of disposable chopsticks from a take-out bag she’d left on her counter and sat down on the floor cross-legged to eat from the pot. Her mother wouldn’t quite approve of her methods, but at least Ma Liu would be happy that Fay used only half the seasoning packet.
She should have taken that Saturday afternoon to unpack, but she just couldn’t stomach it. She’d moved twice in the last year: once into a sublet when she’d asked her husband for a divorce (he could keep the apartment and its expensive lease), and then into this old, pre-war one bedroom with worn floors and tall windows that rattled when it stormed. But it was hers. She’d bought it with her own money.
It was probably a mistake.
She hadn’t had time to brood about it, though. Her marriage unraveled at the same time that the firm that she’d started with two college classmates had been going through growing pains. But while the extra work had been a welcome distraction, she and her partners were clearly shorthanded and needed desperately to hire someone. She’d thrown herself into putting out fires at work and her partners had been left to hire HR consultants, go through CVs, and interview people.
This was the first weekend she’d taken off in a long time. And now that she had a chance to glance around, the apartment was in rougher shape than she remembered. She had a lot of furniture to buy—she didn’t even have a bed. Her mattress sat on the floor. It seemed too difficult to summon the depth of will she needed to start a new project, to whip it into shape. She wanted something polished, finished. She wanted just one thing—one thing—in her life to be ready for her.
But this was no time to wallow. She was going to hold on to the good mood that Oliver had helped her earn for as long as she could. She tapped on FaceTime and propped her phone up on a box.
“Not wallowing for a change,” Renata said approvingly. “What happened to you today?”
Renata was on the patio of her house in Seattle, sipping something from a tall glass while her kids screamed in the background.
“I had a good time. But I see you’ve started drinking.”
“It’s four in the afternoon on a Saturday, and I’ve already shuttled to and from two kid birthday parties, and my wife’s been on a business trip for the last week. The drinking started hours ago.”