Wicked Obsession

Anastasia

The photograph is old enough that the edges have started to curl, the corners softened from years of being tucked into albums, moved between drawers, handled by hands that are no longer here to touch it. I hold it carefully between both of mine, my thumbs resting near the bottom as though the slightest pressure might somehow damage what is left of that moment. In the picture, I couldn’t have been any older than seven. I am sitting on my father’s shoulders with my legs hanging down over his chest and both of my little hands tangled in his hair, my smile so wide that nearly every tiny tooth in my mouth is visible. My dad is grinning just as hard beneath me, one hand wrapped securely around my ankle while the other rests against my shin, his eyes narrowed from the brightness of the sun. Mom stands beside him, pressed close against his side with one arm wrapped around his waist, and instead of looking directly at the camera, she is looking up at me. Her mouth is caught somewhere between a smile and a laugh, the same expression she always wore whenever Dad was doing something she considered a little too reckless with me. The three of us look warm. Happy. Untouched by anything ugly. I stare at their faces long enough that the room around me begins to blur, and the ache beneath my ribs slowly stretches open again.

Grief has become a strange thing to me over the last six months. Before this, I thought grief was mostly sadness. I imagined tears, sleepless nights, missing someone so deeply that their absence hurt, but I never understood that grief could become something physical, something that settled inside your body and refused to leave. There is a hollow place inside my chest now, a gaping space that feels too large for something no one else can see. Some days I can live around it. I can wake up, shower, answer my phone, eat without being reminded that Mom used to tell me I needed to stop skipping breakfast, and even laugh without immediately feeling guilty afterward. Other days the hollow stretches until it feels as though it has swallowed everything else inside me, leaving nothing but an ache I cannot soothe no matter how hard I try. Today feels like one of those days. My throat tightens as I look at my mother’s face again, then my father’s, and I wish more than anything that photographs came with sound. I would give almost anything to hear his laugh again, or the soft hum Mom always made when she was moving around the kitchen, or even one of their tiny arguments over something that had never mattered enough for either of them to stay angry about.

Everyone says time makes loss easier to carry, and maybe that is true, but six months doesn’t feel like enough time for anything. Half a year sounds long when you say it aloud, but somehow it also feels like no time at all. I still reach for my phone sometimes because I see something I know my mother would like, only to remember before I can find her name. I still hear things in my father’s voice, little sayings he repeated so often that they’ve become permanently stitched into my memory, and sometimes the sound of him in my head is so clear that for half a second I forget there will never be another new memory to replace it. Those are the moments that hurt the most. Not the large things, although those hurt too, but the small ordinary pieces of having parents that I never thought would become precious. I miss knowing there were two people somewhere in the world who would always pick up when I called. I miss knowing there was a house I could walk into without knocking. I miss knowing that somewhere, there were people who had known every version of me, even this little seven-year-old girl sitting on her father’s shoulders with absolutely no idea what life would someday ask her to survive.

My vision starts to blur and I blink slowly, breathing through the pressure gathering behind my eyes. I don’t want to cry right now. It isn’t because I think crying is weak or because I haven’t cried enough already, because I have, more times than I could ever count. I simply don’t want today to begin this way. Today is supposed to be the beginning of something new, even if I don’t know what that something is yet. With that thought, I force myself to look away from the photograph and take in the guest room around me. Boxes and suitcases crowd almost every available inch of space, stacked along the walls, wedged between the dresser and the closet, scattered around the bed in a way that makes simply crossing the room feel like navigating an obstacle course. A suitcase sits open near my feet with several shirts spilling over the edge, and a second one remains completely untouched beside it. Half of my shoes are still boxed. My toiletries are somewhere beneath a stack of towels. A bag containing several sets of scrubs is tucked far enough beneath everything else that I don’t have to look at it, and I’m grateful for that.

I know I should keep unpacking. That was the entire point of sitting down in here in the first place, but somewhere between opening the third box and finding this picture buried beneath a sweater, my body simply stopped cooperating with my intentions. I have been sitting on the edge of the bed for long enough that my legs are beginning to feel stiff, yet I still can’t convince myself to move. Maybe it is because unpacking makes everything feel real in a way packing didn’t. Packing had been movement. It had given me something to do with my hands while I tried not to think too hard about the fact that I was taking apart the life I had spent years building. I quit my job, packed my apartment, donated what I didn’t want to carry with me, and moved halfway across the country to New York City six months after losing my parents. There was no carefully thought-out plan behind it, no exciting opportunity waiting for me once I arrived. I just knew I needed a change, something different enough that I wouldn’t recognize every street corner and grocery store aisle. California had become too full of memories, and I was tired of walking through places that reminded me of everything that was gone.

Leaving nursing had been harder than I expected. I loved being a nurse, or at least I had once. I loved the feeling of being useful, of being able to sit beside someone who was frightened and explain what was happening until I saw some of the panic leave their face. I loved caring for people, even on the long shifts when my feet hurt and I was running on coffee and stubbornness. For years, nursing had been part of how I saw myself, something I worked toward and earned, something I thought would always be there. Then somewhere along the way, walking into the hospital began to feel impossible. I couldn’t focus the way I used to. I couldn’t keep carrying other people’s pain when my own already felt so heavy. So I stepped away. I still don’t know if stepping away means I will eventually go back or if it means that part of my life is over, and I try not to think too hard about the difference.

A soft knock against the bedroom door pulls me from my thoughts, and my shoulders tense only slightly before I recognize Sol’s voice from the other side.

“Stas?”

The door opens just enough for a head of light-brown curls to appear through the gap, and she peers inside with a cautious smile.

“Can I come in?”

I glance at the door, then at her, and despite the weight in my chest, the smallest smile touches my mouth.

“You’re already halfway in.”

Sol looks down at herself as if she has only just realized this and then shrugs.

“I was giving you the illusion of choice.”

My smile grows a little.

“That’s not how asking permission works.”

“It is in my apartment.”

She pushes the door open the rest of the way and steps carefully around one of my suitcases.

Soleil has always been beautiful, but there is something about New York that seems to suit her in a way it never has me. She stands five-seven, several inches taller than I am, with the long, lean body of someone who has spent most of her life inside dance studios. Even doing something as simple as stepping over a box, she moves with a kind of natural grace I couldn’t imitate if I tried. Her shoulders sit straight, her posture effortless from years of correction and repetition, and everything from the way she turns her head to the way she plants her feet seems controlled without looking stiff. Her skin is a warm shade of brown that looks almost golden beneath the soft bedroom light, and freckles scatter across the bridge of her nose and over her cheeks beneath almond-shaped hazel eyes framed by long lashes. Her curls are lighter than mine, a soft brown that catches gold where the light touches it, and today they fall loosely around her shoulders, slightly fuller at the ends from the humidity. When she smiles, dimples appear in both cheeks, making her look sweeter than she is whenever someone manages to upset her.

She isn’t smiling now. Her gaze drops to the photograph in my hands, and the change in her expression is so small most people probably wouldn’t notice it. I do. Her eyes soften first, then her mouth.

“You okay?”

I blink once, glance down at the photograph, and place it gently back inside the box.

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

The answer comes too quickly, and I know that she hears it in the same moment I do. Sol studies me for a second, her eyebrows lifting just enough to let me know she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t say that. She doesn’t tell me I can talk to her if I need to or remind me that she understands, because after six months, she knows those words don’t always help. Instead, she bends down, picks up a sweater from the floor, and holds it up.

“Closet?”

I stare at her for a moment before nodding.

“Closet.”

“Good. One box down, approximately seventy-five to go.”

A soft laugh slips out of me before I can stop it.

“There are not seventy-five boxes.”

“That sounds like something a woman with seventy-five boxes would say.”

“You don’t have to help me.”

“I know.”

“You were probably doing something.”

“I was.”

“Sol.”

“Stasi.”

The way she says my name back to me makes me smile again, and she points the hanger at the closet.

“I’m helping. You can either accept it gracefully or make this difficult for both of us.”

I shake my head, finally standing from the bed.

“You’re stubborn.”

“So are you.”

“I don’t think I am.”

Sol gives me a long look, and I sigh softly.

“Maybe a little.”

Unpacking with both of us in the room quickly becomes a strange little dance because there simply isn’t enough space for two grown women, several open suitcases, and what suddenly feels like far too many boxes. Sol’s entire apartment is like that, small and tight in a way New York apartments seem to be unless someone has more money than sense. The hallway is narrow enough that two people passing each other requires one of them to turn slightly. The kitchen has barely enough counter space for the coffee maker, dish rack, and a ceramic container filled with wooden spoons. The living room fits a couch, a small coffee table, a television, and a little dining table pushed against the wall so tightly that one of the chairs can only be used if everything else is rearranged. One wrong turn and your hip catches the corner of a side table or your elbow nearly knocks over a lamp, and I have already learned that crossing the apartment in the dark is something I should avoid unless I am particularly attached to the idea of bruised toes.

Still, Sol has done everything she can to make the apartment feel warm. Browns, creams, muted oranges, and soft beige fill the space, from the knitted blankets folded over the couch to the pillows arranged so carefully that I know she spends more time fixing them than actually using them. Small lamps cast pools of golden light instead of the harsh overhead fixtures she hates, and framed photographs fill most of the available wall space. There are pictures from dance performances, pictures of us together over the years, pictures of friends, pictures of family. Several plants crowd the windowsill, some healthy and thriving, others looking as though they are surviving solely because Sol refuses to admit defeat. The apartment almost always smells faintly of vanilla, coffee, or whatever candle she recently bought, and although none of it is expensive or extravagant, it feels lived in. Welcoming. Like someone took very little space and carefully filled every corner with things that made them happy.

I’ve visited Sol here before, usually during summers when both of our schedules somehow allowed enough room for one of us to travel. Even then, I always stayed in a hotel. Sol complained about it every single time and insisted I could sleep here, but the apartment was already small and her schedule was always chaotic, and I never wanted to feel as though I was taking up room she didn’t have. Truthfully, I preferred when she came to California anyway. New York has never felt like my kind of place. I like space. I like driving without hearing someone honk every few seconds. I like grocery stores with parking lots and quiet mornings where I can open a window without immediately hearing half a city beneath it. New York always feels as though everything is moving at once, people walking quickly, cars squeezing between each other, conversations happening in every direction. It is loud and crowded and impatient, which makes the fact that I chose it for my fresh start feel a little strange. Maybe that was the point. Maybe I needed somewhere that felt nothing like the life I left behind.

“What are you smiling about?”

Sol asks from the closet, and I realize my mouth has curved without me noticing.

“Nothing.”

She leans out just enough to look at me.

“That was a thinking smile.”

“I have different kinds of smiles now?”

“You have different kinds of everything.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It makes perfect sense to me.”

I shake my head and continue folding one of my shirts, laying it carefully in the dresser as she disappears into the closet again. For a few minutes, there is only the quiet rhythm of us working together, the rustle of fabric and the scrape of hangers against the metal rod, and I let myself settle into it. It is nice having something simple to focus on. Nice being around someone who doesn’t seem afraid of saying the wrong thing.

“Okay,” Sol says after a moment, dragging the word out in a way that immediately makes me suspicious. “Before you say no—”

I look toward the closet.

“No.”

Her head appears around the doorframe so fast it almost makes me laugh.

“I didn’t even ask you anything.”

“You told me not to say no, which means you already assumed I would.”

“Or maybe I know you.”

“That isn’t making me feel better.”

Sol steps out of the closet with several empty hangers looped over her fingers and gives me a smile that is far too pleased with itself.

“I got you an interview.”

My hands pause over the shirt I’m folding.

“An interview?”

“For a hostess position.”

“Where?”

“The Velvet.”

I blink at her.

“Your job?”

“My job.”

“Sol, I just got here.”

“I know.”

“Today.”

“I also know that.”

There must be something in my expression because she laughs softly and lifts one hand.

“I’m not trying to put you to work tonight. It’s just an interview.”

I lower my gaze to the shirt in my hands and smooth one of the wrinkles from the fabric even though it doesn’t need it.

“I don’t know.”

Sol’s voice softens a little.

“The pay is really good, Stas. Good enough that you wouldn’t have to rush anything else. You could work there for a while, get settled, save some money, and then figure out what you want to do when you’re ready.”

She doesn’t say nursing, but the word sits between us anyway. My fingers still. The thought of going back feels far away, like something belonging to another version of me, and I don’t know whether that makes me sad or relieved. Sol notices my silence and, as always, chooses not to force anything out of me. She turns back toward the closet and continues talking instead.

“Some of the members can be rude, but you learn who not to take seriously. Most of them aren’t terrible. And if you smile enough, people tip well.”

I glance over at her.

“Hosts get tips?”

“At The Velvet, everybody gets tipped.”

“What kind of place is this?”

Sol laughs quietly.

“Fancy.”

“That tells me nothing.”

“Fine. It’s private. Membership only.”

I wait, and she sighs as though I am making her work too hard for information.

“You can’t just walk in and sign up. It’s hard to get a membership unless you’re old money, you know the right people, or you have business with the Morellis.”

“The Morellis?”

“The family that owns it.”

I nod slowly, the name meaning absolutely nothing to me. Sol keeps going, explaining that I should wear black to the interview, something simple, and that the hiring manager is easy enough to deal with. There is something odd in the way she says the last part, but before I can ask about it, she has already moved on to scheduling and how flexible the hours can be.

I try to listen, and for a while I do. My hands stay busy folding clothes, and Sol keeps talking enough for both of us, but slowly my attention begins to drift toward the open box beside the bed. The photograph is still visible beneath the sweater I placed over it, only a small corner showing now. I can see part of Dad’s shirt and the edge of Mom’s hand, and the hollow in my chest opens just enough to remind me it never really went anywhere. My fingers slow over the blouse in my lap, and I am staring at that tiny piece of the photograph when three loud knocks suddenly hit the front door.

The sound tears through the apartment so sharply that my entire body jerks before I can stop it. The blouse slips from my hands and lands on the floor, but I barely notice. For a second, all I can hear is the echo of those knocks and the violent thudding of my own heart as it suddenly begins racing beneath my ribs. My shoulders draw tight. My breath catches halfway into my chest and refuses to go any deeper. I know where I am. I know this is Sol’s apartment, that I arrived only hours ago, that people knock on doors every day and there is nothing strange about it, but my body seems to forget all of that at once. The room feels smaller. The doorway looks farther away than it did a moment ago. My eyes move toward the hall, then the window, then back again, scanning without permission, measuring distances I don’t need to measure and searching for something I don’t know how to name.

“Stasi?”

Sol’s voice reaches me, but it sounds slightly muffled beneath the pulse roaring in my ears. I don’t answer right away because I’m trying too hard to breathe. My fingers have curled around the edge of the bed, gripping it tightly enough that the pressure aches along my knuckles, and my palms feel damp. I force myself to inhale, but the breath comes in shallow and leaves too quickly, making my chest tighten even more. There is someone outside the apartment. That’s all. Just someone outside the apartment. I repeat it silently, trying to make the thought settle somewhere inside me, but fear has already moved faster than reason. My gaze jumps to the bedroom door again. The tiny room that felt warm and safe only seconds ago now feels filled with corners and exits and too many things between me and the front door.

Sol moves into my line of sight and stops several feet away from me.

“Stas.”

Her voice is lower now, gentle enough that I have to focus to hear it.

“Look at me.”

I try, but my eyes flick back toward the hallway.

“Hey.”

She doesn’t come closer.

“Just look at me for a second.”

Slowly, I pull my gaze toward her. Hazel eyes. Freckles. Light-brown curls. Familiar. Safe. Sol’s face is calm, but I can see the concern beneath it.

“There you go. You’re here with me.”

I nod even though the movement feels stiff. Another knock comes from the front door, quieter this time, and my breath immediately catches again. My fingers tighten around the edge of the mattress. Sol glances toward the hallway for only a second before looking back at me.

“It’s okay. Whoever it is is outside. The door is locked.”

I swallow, trying to pull in a deeper breath.

“I know.”

My voice comes out smaller than I want it to.

“I know, I just...”

The rest disappears because I don’t know how to explain something my own mind understands but my body refuses to believe. Sol doesn’t ask me to. She stays exactly where she is, giving me space while somehow making it obvious that she isn’t going anywhere.

“You don’t have to explain it. Just breathe with me.”

Her chest rises slowly as she takes in a deliberate breath, and I watch her, trying to match it. The first one trembles on the way in. The second makes it a little farther. By the third, my lungs finally seem to remember how to fill properly, although my heart is still beating much too quickly. I look down at my hands and realize they are shaking. Embarrassment rises warm along my neck, and I fold them together in my lap as if that might hide it.

“I’m sorry.”

Sol’s expression softens immediately.

“For what?”

I shake my head because I don’t really have an answer. For reacting this way. For making her worry. For arriving in her apartment with boxes full of clothes and grief and too many things I don’t know how to fix.

“I don’t know.”

Sol gives me the smallest smile.

“Then you definitely don’t need to apologize.”

Something in the simplicity of that makes my eyes sting, and I look away before she can see it. After a moment, she steps closer, slowly enough that I have time to tell her no if I want to. When she reaches out, she doesn’t grab me. She only holds out her hand. I look at it, then place mine in hers.

Her fingers close around mine, warm and steady.

“You’re safe here.”

I want to believe her. More than anything, I want those words to feel simple again. I look toward the hallway, then back at her.

“You can’t really promise that.”

My voice is soft, not accusing, and Sol’s eyes change in a way that makes something in my chest ache.

“Maybe not. But I can promise I’m not letting anybody walk through that door and hurt you while I’m here.”

Despite everything, the smallest smile touches my mouth.

“You’re going to fight them?”

Sol lifts her chin.

“Absolutely.”

I glance at her long, dancer’s frame.

“You’re very confident.”

“I have strong legs.”

A shaky little laugh escapes me before I can stop it, and Sol smiles when she hears it.

“See? That’s what I thought.”

For a few seconds, we stay like that, my hand wrapped around hers while my heartbeat gradually slows. The fear doesn’t disappear completely. It never seems to disappear as quickly as it arrives. It lingers beneath my skin, leaving me too aware of every sound in the apartment, but the edges soften enough that I can breathe without thinking about it. Sol glances toward the hallway again.

“Do you want me to leave it?”

I know she means the door. For a moment, I consider saying yes. She would. I know that without having to ask. But something about hiding from a knock makes my chest feel even tighter, and I don’t want fear making every decision for me here too. I shake my head slowly.

“No. It’s okay.”

Sol studies my face.

“You sure?”

I take another breath and nod.

“Yeah.”

She squeezes my hand once before letting go.

“Alright. Stay here for a second. I’ll see who it is.”

I nod again, watching as she turns toward the bedroom door. My heart is still beating faster than it should, but I can feel the room around me again now, the boxes, the open suitcase, the soft glow from the lamp beside the bed. Sol reaches the doorway and looks back at me once more, silently checking. I give her a small smile I hope is reassuring enough. Apparently it is, because she gives me one in return before stepping into the hallway.

Then she goes to answer the door.

I stay where I am for another few seconds, listening to Sol’s footsteps fade down the narrow hallway while I focus on slowing the last of the nervous fluttering beneath my ribs. My hands aren’t shaking anymore, but I can still feel the remnants of fear lingering beneath my skin, leaving everything around me a little too sharp. The hum of the air conditioner. The distant traffic slipping through the closed window. The soft creak of the apartment floor beneath Sol’s steps. I lower my gaze to my lap and rub my palms against my jeans, reminding myself that I am here, in New York, in Sol’s apartment, surrounded by half-open boxes and clothes that still smell faintly like the detergent I used back home. Nothing about the room has changed because someone knocked on the door. Nothing dangerous has suddenly appeared simply because my body decided there might be. I repeat that thought until my breathing settles into something that feels natural again.

The sound of the front door opening reaches me a moment later, followed almost immediately by a man’s voice so loud that I can hear every word from the bedroom.

“Where have you been all day? I’ve called you four times.”

There is so much accusation packed into the question that I blink.

Sol’s response comes muffled from farther down the hall.

“I have a life, Theo.”

“Apparently one that doesn’t include answering your phone.”

Another voice follows, deeper and considerably calmer.

“You called her twice.”

“That is not the point, Elias.”

Despite myself, the corner of my mouth lifts.

I recognize the names.

Theo and Elias.

Sol has mentioned them often enough over the years that they don’t feel entirely unfamiliar, even though I’ve never actually met either of them. I’ve seen their faces too, scattered throughout her Instagram posts and stories. Birthday dinners. Dance celebrations. Random blurry pictures taken somewhere after midnight. Theo appears in almost every photo looking as though he has personally appointed himself responsible for making everyone else laugh, while Elias is usually somewhere nearby with the patient expression of a man who has already accepted that whatever nonsense is happening around him is now somehow his responsibility.

Their voices overlap again, Theo saying something about being abandoned and Sol telling him he is being dramatic, and I find myself listening from the bedroom doorway before I even realize I’ve stood up.

For a second, I hesitate.

The safety of the guest room suddenly feels tempting again.

I could stay here. No one would think it was strange after what just happened. Sol would probably invent an excuse for me without blinking, and judging from the brief look she gave me before leaving, I know she wouldn’t let either of them come wandering back here without asking first.

But they are Sol’s friends.

Important ones, apparently.

And I don’t want my first days in New York to become a series of closed doors I am too afraid to walk through.

I take a breath, glance once at the photograph tucked into the open box, and step into the hallway.

Their conversation becomes clearer as I move toward the living room, although Theo seems to be doing most of the talking.

“I brought supplies, Sol. Do you understand the level of betrayal happening right now?”

“I didn’t ask you to bring half the store.”

“You say that now, but watch who comes begging when the sour candy is gone.”

“Nobody is begging you for anything.”

“That’s rude.”

I reach the end of the hallway before I can talk myself into turning around, and the first thing I notice is the grocery bag.

It is enormous.

A brown paper bag practically overflowing with snacks is balanced in the arms of the man standing closest to the door, with brightly colored candy packages, two bags of chips, microwave popcorn and what looks like at least three different kinds of cookies sticking out of the top. A bottle of wine is tucked carefully against his chest, and there is another one visible inside the bag. The sight is so unexpectedly normal after the panic that rattled through me only minutes ago that something inside me relaxes before I even properly look at the person carrying it.

Then I do.

Theodore Rivera is even more striking in person than he is in pictures, mostly because photographs don’t capture how much energy seems to surround him. He’s tall, easily six-three, with a lean frame that fills out the simple T-shirt and jeans he’s wearing without making him look overly built. His skin is a warm tan, and loose brown curls fall around his forehead in a way that looks slightly careless but somehow suits him perfectly. Long lashes frame brown eyes that seem naturally bright even while he’s pretending to glare at Sol, and his mouth is already pulling toward a smile before anything remotely funny has happened. When it finally appears, dimples settle deeply into both cheeks, giving him an almost unfairly charming face. There is something immediately open about him, something warm and easy that explains why so many of Sol’s pictures with him look as though they were taken in the middle of laughter.

The man beside him is different.

Elias D’Angelo stands only slightly behind Theo, but there is nothing about him that feels secondary. He is around the same height, maybe six-three as well, with a lean, muscular build beneath a dark long-sleeved shirt pushed casually to his forearms. His complexion is lighter brown, warm beneath the apartment’s soft lighting, and sandy-brown curls sit short around his head without being shaved tight along the sides. His eyes are what catch my attention first, though. They’re light green, startling against his skin, and a darker birthmark spreads around his right eye in an irregular shape that should draw attention away from everything else but somehow makes his face more distinctive instead. Handsome isn’t quite enough of a word for either of them, though in completely different ways. Theo has the kind of face that invites you closer. Elias looks like the person you’d instinctively search for when something has gone wrong.

The second thing I notice about Elias is that he’s already watching me.

Not suspiciously.

Just carefully.

Theo follows his gaze, turning away from Sol, and his expression changes the moment he sees me standing at the mouth of the hallway.

Sol looks over too.

“Oh.”

Something almost guilty crosses her face, as though she momentarily forgot that three people arguing loudly in a tiny apartment tends to attract attention.

She gestures toward me.

“Guys, this is Stasi.”

Theo’s eyebrows lift in immediate recognition.

“The cousin.”

Sol gives him a pointed look.

“Yes. My cousin.”

She steps closer to me, and something about her being there settles the last of my nerves.

“Stasi, that’s Theo.”

Theo shifts the giant bag to one arm long enough to give me a little wave.

“And that’s Elias.”

Elias gives me a small nod.

“Hey.”

I return the smile as best I can.

“Hi.”

Sol leans a hip against the back of the couch.

“She’s going to be staying with me for a while.”

There is something subtle in the way she says it. Nothing particularly unusual about the words themselves, but I see the glance she gives them immediately afterward. It lasts no more than a second, her hazel eyes moving from Theo to Elias with a warning that is apparently clear enough without needing to be spoken.

Don’t ask.

Theo’s mouth closes around whatever question might have been forming.

Elias’s eyes flick briefly toward Sol before he gives a nearly imperceptible nod.

The exchange happens so quickly that I might have missed it if I weren’t already paying too much attention to everything around me.

I don’t miss it.

And silently, I’m grateful.

There are so many questions people can ask when they hear that someone has packed up their entire life and moved across the country with no job, no apartment of their own and no real plan for what happens next. Questions that are innocent enough but still require answers I don’t feel like giving. Why New York? Why now? What happened to California? What happened to nursing?

Neither man asks any of them.

Theo simply looks me up and down once, not in a way that makes me uncomfortable but as though he’s considering something extremely serious.

Then his dimples appear again.

“Well, welcome to New York. Give it about three weeks and you’ll stop noticing the dirty air.”

A surprised laugh slips from me.

“The dirty air?”

“Don’t listen to him,” Sol says.

Theo looks offended.

“I’m helping her adjust.”

“You just told her the air is dirty.”

“It is. She’s going to find out eventually.”

I smile, and for the first time since walking into the living room, I don’t have to remind myself to.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You should. Also, don’t make eye contact with anyone on the subway unless you’re prepared for whatever happens next.”

“Theo.”

“What? That’s valuable information.”

Elias shakes his head, though the faint pull at one corner of his mouth tells me he is used to this.

“Ignore about sixty percent of what he says.”

“Only sixty?”

“On a good day.”

Theo turns to him with a wounded expression while Elias looks back at me.

“But seriously, if you need anything while you’re getting settled, let Sol give you my number. If she’s busy or you get stuck somewhere, need a ride, whatever, call me.”

The offer is simple, delivered without the slightest hesitation, and something warm presses against the hollow place in my chest. He doesn’t know me. Not really. I’m simply Sol’s cousin standing barefoot in an apartment full of moving boxes, and somehow that is enough for him to extend himself anyway.

“Thank you.”

I mean it more than I know how to explain.

Elias nods once.

“Of course.”

Theo suddenly shifts the bag in his arms, and the movement draws my attention back to it. Up close, there is even more inside than I originally thought. Gummies, chocolate, pretzels, popcorn, several little boxes of candy I haven’t eaten since I was a teenager, and enough wine to suggest none of them intended on going anywhere for a while.

I glance toward Sol.

“Should I ask why he brought an entire convenience store?”

Theo gasps softly.

“Finally. Someone appreciates the effort.”

Sol looks at the bag and then closes her eyes.

“Oh no.”

Theo’s smile disappears.

“What do you mean, oh no?”

“I forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

Sol opens one eye.

“Movie night.”

For the first time since arriving, Theo looks genuinely horrified.

“You forgot movie night?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You forgot our monthly movie night.”

“I’m sorry.”

“We have done this every month for almost three years.”

“I said I’m sorry.”

Elias takes the bottle of wine from Theo before it can slip as he becomes increasingly animated.

“He’s going to make you apologize at least four more times.”

“I deserve four more.”

Sol runs a hand over her face before looking at both men.

“Can we move it to next week? Stasi just got here, and I still have to help her unpack.”

Theo stares at her.

“No.”

Sol blinks.

“No?”

“Absolutely not. There are traditions, Soleil. Civilization collapses when people stop respecting traditions.”

A laugh slips from me before I can hide it.

Theo immediately turns toward me as though he has just found an ally.

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t say I agreed with you.”

“You laughed. That’s basically legal consent.”

“That is not how anything works,” Elias mutters.

Sol looks at me.

“Ignore him.”

I glance from the ridiculous amount of snacks to Theo’s wounded face and then toward the guest room behind me. The boxes will still be there tomorrow. So will everything I haven’t figured out yet. Maybe that is part of what I’ve forgotten over the last six months. That not everything needs to be solved before I allow myself to enjoy something.

“You should still have it.”

Sol’s brows pinch together.

“Stas, you don’t have to—”

“I know.”

I give her a small smile.

“I’m okay. Really. We can finish tomorrow.”

Theo presses the bag dramatically against his chest.

“I knew I liked you.”

“You’ve known her for thirty seconds,” Elias says.

“And I’ve made excellent use of them.”

Elias looks at me, something amused settling into his expression.

“You should join us.”

I glance at Sol.

She smiles.

“Only if you want to.”

Before I can answer, Theo steps forward.

“Please say yes. I need another person here because they gang up on me.”

“We do not gang up on you,” Sol says.

“You both just disagreed with me within the same sixty-second period.”

“That’s because you’re usually wrong.”

Theo looks back at me.

“See?”

I laugh again.

This one comes easier.

“Okay. I’ll stay.”

Theo gives a triumphant little nod.

“Perfect. You’re already my favorite Jones.”

Sol’s mouth falls open.

“Excuse me?”

I smile as Theo brushes past her toward the kitchen, apparently deciding the conversation has ended now that he’s gotten what he wanted.

“I’m not getting involved.”

“Smart,” Elias says quietly.

Movie night takes over the apartment surprisingly quickly. Theo unloads enough food onto Sol’s coffee table to feed twice as many people, while Elias disappears into the kitchen and returns with glasses, napkins and a bowl after apparently deciding nobody else could be trusted to organize anything properly. Sol changes into an oversized shirt and leggings before tossing me a pair of fuzzy socks from her room, and I settle into one corner of the couch with my legs tucked beneath me while Theo occupies most of the floor despite there being room beside Elias. They spend nearly ten minutes arguing over what to watch, even though I eventually learn that the entire argument is pointless because they rotate who chooses each month and this month belongs to Elias.

His choice is The Breakfast Club.

Theo complains that it is “emotionally manipulative propaganda from the eighties,” then proceeds to quote half the movie before the characters on the screen can say their lines.

Somewhere along the way, I stop feeling like the outsider in the room.

Maybe it’s because none of them treat me like one.

Theo offers me snacks without asking if I want them first, simply tossing a bag of gummies into my lap and announcing that they’re the best kind. Elias makes sure I have a glass of wine but doesn’t comment when I only take a few small sips. Sol keeps glancing at me from where she’s curled into the opposite corner of the couch, checking without making it obvious that she’s checking, and each time I give her a little smile to let her know I’m fine.

And for a while, I actually am.

Halfway through the movie, while Theo is loudly arguing that Bender would have been “insufferable in real life,” Sol suddenly sits upright.

“Oh. I got Stasi an interview.”

I look away from the television.

Theo pauses with a handful of popcorn halfway to his mouth.

Elias’s reaction is smaller, but I notice it immediately. His expression tightens.

“Where?”

Sol reaches for her wine.

“The Velvet.”

The popcorn stops before it reaches Theo’s mouth.

Elias looks at Sol.

“You got her an interview at The Velvet?”

Sol rolls her eyes.

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything.”

“Your face is.”

“My face hasn’t moved.”

“It doesn’t need to.”

I glance between them.

Elias leans back in the armchair before turning toward me.

“Good luck.”

The way he says it makes me narrow my eyes slightly.

“That sounded ominous.”

Theo finally eats the popcorn.

“It was.”

Sol points toward him.

“Don’t.”

He raises both hands.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to wish her well.”

“No, you weren’t.”

Theo looks at me with complete seriousness.

“I was going to tell you that the Morellis may take your soul, but the employee benefits are apparently excellent.”

My eyebrows rise.

Sol grabs one of the throw pillows and tosses it at his head.

“Theo, shut up.”

He catches it easily, laughing.

“What? She should know who she’s working for.”

“I’m hosting at a club, not joining a cult.”

Theo and Elias exchange a glance.

That does nothing to reassure me.

I sit a little straighter.

“Okay. What am I missing?”

“Nothing,” Sol says immediately.

Elias looks at her.

“That’s not exactly true.”

She sighs.

“You’re both making it sound worse than it is.”

“Worse than what?” I ask.

Sol’s fingers circle the stem of her wineglass for a second before she looks at me.

“The Morellis are just... a lot.”

Theo snorts.

“A lot.”

Sol ignores him.

“They’re one of those families everyone in New York knows, even if they’ve never actually met them. Old money, real estate, hospitality, investments, private clubs, whatever else they’ve got their hands in. They’ve been here forever.”

Elias’s mouth pulls slightly.

“They’re involved in more than ‘whatever else.’”

Sol gives him another warning look.

He lifts his glass.

“I’m just saying.”

I look between the three of them, curiosity slowly replacing my confusion.

“So they’re rich.”

Theo lets out a quiet laugh.

“Rich is having a penthouse and a driver. The Morellis are the kind of rich where people stop asking what they own because the answer gets ridiculous.”

Sol reluctantly nods.

“He’s not completely wrong. They have connections everywhere. Restaurants, hotels, buildings, charities, businesses. Half the people at The Velvet either want something from them or already owe them something.”

There is something about the way she says it that makes the family name feel heavier than it did when she mentioned it earlier in the bedroom.

Morelli.

I’d thought it was simply another wealthy family with an exclusive club.

Now, judging by the way Elias’s expression changes every time they’re mentioned, I’m beginning to think I underestimated them.

“Who’s actually your boss?” I ask.

“Nicolò Morelli owns The Velvet.”

“Nico,” Theo adds.

Sol shoots him a look.

“What?”

“You said Nicolò like you’re his grandmother.”

I hide a smile behind my wineglass.

Sol ignores him.

“Nico is the oldest Morelli. He runs most of the family’s companies now.”

Elias makes a quiet sound beneath his breath that sounds almost like a scoff.

Sol’s eyes narrow.

“Elias.”

“What?”

“You know exactly what.”

He looks toward the television.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Theo, apparently incapable of letting silence live, leans toward me.

“Nico Morelli is an asshole.”

Sol closes her eyes.

“Theo.”

“What? You were going to say it.”

“I was going to say he’s difficult.”

“That’s the polite version of asshole.”

My lips twitch despite myself.

“What makes him so bad?”

For once, Theo doesn’t immediately answer.

That surprises me more than anything he’s said so far.

He looks at Sol, then Elias, and something unspoken passes between the three of them.

Sol is the one who finally shrugs.

“He’s just... intense. He doesn’t really talk to people unless he has a reason to. He expects everything done exactly the way he wants it, and nobody at The Velvet likes being the person who gives him bad news.”

Theo points toward her with a piece of licorice.

“Because he’s an asshole.”

Sol snatches the licorice from his fingers.

“Thank you, Theo.”

“You’re welcome.”

Elias looks at me.

“The good news is he rarely comes in.”

Something about his tone suggests he genuinely considers that good news.

I tilt my head.

“If he owns it, why doesn’t he come?”

“He has people who run it for him,” Sol explains. “Management handles the day-to-day stuff. Nico has... other businesses.”

“Everywhere,” Theo mutters.

Sol ignores him again.

“So you’ll probably never even meet him. I’ve worked there for a while, and I’ve only seen him a handful of times.”

“That’s reassuring, I think.”

“It should be.”

Theo gives me a look that suggests it absolutely should not be, and Sol kicks his leg from the couch before he can say anything.

Elias takes another sip of wine.

“What about Luca?”

Sol groans.

“No.”

Theo immediately starts laughing.

I look between them.

“Who’s Luca?”

“Nico’s younger brother,” Elias says.

Sol’s mouth tightens slightly.

“And equally annoying.”

Theo points at her.

“See? That’s personal.”

“It is not personal.”

“Very personal.”

Sol turns toward me.

“Luca Morelli likes irritating people for entertainment. That’s all you need to know.”

Theo looks delighted.

“Correction. Luca Morelli likes irritating Sol for entertainment.”

“He irritates everyone.”

“Not like he irritates you.”

Sol gives him a look sharp enough that Theo wisely reaches for more popcorn instead.

I smile into my glass, already filing that information away for later.

“And there’s a sister too, right?”

The effect is immediate.

Sol’s expression changes.

Not dramatically, but enough that I notice.

Theo notices too.

His grin grows.

“Oh, here we go.”

Sol points at him.

“Don’t.”

I look at her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Elias gives her a sideways glance.

“Bianca.”

Sol sighs through her nose.

“Yes. Bianca.”

The name is familiar, although I can’t immediately place why until I remember seeing it in one of Sol’s posts from a ballet event months ago.

“The dancer?”

Theo claps once.

“She knows.”

“Of course she knows,” Sol says. “She follows me.”

I glance between them.

“So you know her?”

Sol’s lips press together.

“We dance at the same company.”

Elias looks amused now.

“They compete.”

“We do not compete.”

All three of us look at her.

Sol pauses.

“We don’t officially compete.”

Theo nearly chokes on his wine.

I laugh softly.

Sol turns toward me with a betrayed expression.

“You too?”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“Your face is.”

I lower my glass, still smiling.

“What is she like?”

Sol considers the question longer than I expect.

“Talented.”

Theo’s eyebrows shoot up.

“That hurt you.”

“It did not.”

“You almost pulled a muscle saying it.”

Sol throws the stolen piece of licorice at him.

“She’s very talented,” she continues, looking at me instead. “She’s also spoiled, blunt, irritating, and has been treated like ballet royalty since she could walk.”

Elias nods.

“That sounds accurate.”

“But,” Sol adds after a second, almost reluctantly, “she works hard.”

That catches my attention. There is something complicated beneath the irritation in her voice, a respect she clearly doesn’t enjoy having.

Theo grins.

“Translation: Bianca Morelli is the only person at the company who can actually make Sol nervous.”

“I am not nervous.”

“Threatened?”

“No.”

“Consumed by rage?”

“You’re very close to being kicked out.”

Theo smiles and leans back against the couch.

I watch the three of them for a moment, letting their conversation wash over me as the movie continues forgotten in the background. The Morellis seem almost unreal based on the way everyone speaks about them. A family wealthy enough that their name opens doors most people can’t even approach, influential enough that everyone seems to know them and uncomfortable enough that even Elias, who doesn’t strike me as someone easily intimidated, becomes visibly displeased at the mention of their business.

Nico Morelli.

Luca Morelli.

Bianca Morelli.

Three siblings whose names apparently carry enough weight to change the mood in a room.

And tomorrow, or whenever Sol arranged this interview, I am supposed to walk into a building that belongs to them and smile at their guests.

Wonderful.

As if she can read the sudden uncertainty on my face, Sol bumps her foot gently against mine.

“Don’t let them scare you. The Velvet is a job, Stas. That’s it. You go in, you work, you come home. You probably won’t even see a Morelli.”

Theo opens his mouth.

Sol points at him without looking.

“Not one word.”

He slowly closes it.

I smile.

“I wasn’t scared.”

Elias gives me a small look.

“You looked a little scared.”

“Concerned.”

“That’s fair.”

Theo reaches across the coffee table for the gummy candy.

“If you do meet Nico, just don’t insult him.”

Sol groans.

“Why would she insult him?”

“I’m covering possibilities.”

“I don’t usually insult strangers,” I say.

Theo looks at me seriously.

“Perfect. You’re already ahead of most New Yorkers.”

That makes me laugh again, and whatever strange tension had formed around the Morelli conversation slowly dissolves as Sol presses play on the movie and tells everyone to stop talking. They don’t. Not really. Theo lasts less than four minutes before whispering commentary that isn’t actually quiet enough to count as whispering, Elias tells him to be quiet three different times, and Sol threatens to confiscate the popcorn after he spills a handful across the rug.

By the time the credits begin rolling, the apartment has changed.

Or maybe I have.

Empty wineglasses sit among open candy wrappers and half-finished bowls of popcorn on the coffee table. Theo is stretched across the floor with his head against the couch, arguing that the ending of the movie is overrated while Elias insists he says that every time they watch anything remotely emotional. Sol is curled beside me beneath one of her cream blankets, her curls piled messily over one shoulder as she fights a yawn.

And I’m smiling.

Not the careful smile I’ve learned to give people when they ask how I’m doing.

Not the small one I use to reassure Sol that she doesn’t need to worry about me.

A real one.

My cheeks actually ache a little from laughing.

I look around the tiny apartment and something warm settles inside me, finding its way carefully around the hollow space grief has carved beneath my ribs. The hole is still there. I don’t think it is going anywhere anytime soon. I still miss my parents with an ache so deep that sometimes it frightens me, and tomorrow I will probably wake up in an unfamiliar room and need a few seconds to remember that California is thousands of miles away.

But tonight wasn’t terrible.

Tonight, for a few hours, I wasn’t thinking about everything that came before New York or everything I still don’t know about what comes after it.

I was sitting on my cousin’s couch watching an old movie with two men who had known me for less than an evening and somehow already made space for me as though I belonged there.

Theo twists around from the floor and looks up at me.

“You’re coming next month, right?”

I blink.

“To movie night?”

“No, to help me rob a bank.”

Elias sighs.

“The movie night, Stasi.”

Theo rolls his eyes.

“Obviously the movie night.”

I laugh softly.

“If I’m invited.”

Theo looks genuinely offended.

“You ate my gummies. You’re committed now.”

“They were in my lap.”

“Exactly. Bonding.”

Sol groans from beside me.

“Please don’t encourage him.”

I look around at them again, at Theo’s ridiculous grin, Elias’s tired amusement, Sol’s familiar face resting beside mine, and for the first time since I packed everything I owned into boxes, New York doesn’t feel quite as enormous.

Maybe this is what a fresh start is supposed to feel like.

Not waking up one morning and suddenly becoming someone untouched by everything that happened before.

Not leaving grief somewhere behind you and pretending it didn’t follow.

Maybe it’s smaller than that.

A new room.

A job interview.

A movie you’ve seen before.

People who don’t ask questions you’re not ready to answer.

A place at the end of somebody’s couch.

I glance toward the dark window, where pieces of the city glow between buildings outside, and let myself imagine that maybe moving here wasn’t the worst decision I’ve ever made.

Maybe somewhere inside all this noise and crowded sidewalks and apparently questionable air, there is room for me too.

Maybe I really can start over here.