41. Possibility

I stumble through the apartment door, and it’s like snapping awake after the deepest dream.

After we left Central Park, Roy drove us back to the townhouse. I’d expected I’d say goodbye to Miranda and Patricia on the steps and head for the subway, but before I could open my mouth, Miranda just said,

“Come along.”

So I did.

By the time I’d gone through another round of panic-breathe-accepting, I was sitting in my usual chair in the den. Miranda placed a glass of ice water on a coaster in front of me, then took her usual seat across from me.

My mind and emotions were flying at a thousand frames a second, playing out every version of events that could happen from there. I was moving so quickly on the inside, but I was paralyzed on the outside. The only movement I could manage was tracking a bead of condensation with my eyes as it slid down the side of my glass.

Miranda didn’t seem to notice my temporary paralysis. She just started talking.

That was new.

I mean, Miranda talks. A lot. She’s always listing out tasks to be completed, bemoaning the incompetence of the staff, the designers, and the Starbucks baristas. When we’re alone, she talks about the girls, my writing, the history and politics of fashion. Miranda lectures, but she doesn’t just… talk.

Except that afternoon, she did.

She sat across from me, one leg crossed over the other, and started going on about New Yorker stereotypes, of all things.

“The entire persona revolves around not caring,” she was saying when I finally pulled myself out of another panic-breathe-accept moment. “Except, caring is the only reason anyone comes to the city.”

A small snort had escaped me. “It’s definitely not for the cost of living and mandatory rat roommates.”

As soon as I’d said it, my ears burned. I’d taken a long sip of my water to hide it.

For her part, Miranda just smiled—small and good-natured—and nodded.

“Certainly not,” she said, drumming her fingertips across the armrest of her chair. “And who in their right mind would put up with New York’s particular eccentricities? No, New York isn’t for the sane, it’s for the ones who care so much they go mad. Mad enough to believe living with rats and having a jerryrigged shower in the kitchen is good enough because they’re this close to it all being worth it.”

“Maybe that’s why the New Yorker stereotype is all about not caring,” I’d said, before I could second-guess myself. “Everyone cares, so much, all the time, but only about their things, with little room for someone else’s issues. In a city of over eight million people, everyone lives in their own little world.”

As far as I could tell, there wasn’t any point to the conversation. We tangent around, over, and back, going down whatever rabbit holes we stumbled on.

It was… nice.

In all the times I’ve talked with Miranda, whether for a few minutes or a few hours, there’s never been that sense of meandering before. There’s no end goal, no problem to fix, no decision to make, no list of action items. Just… talking.

And it wasn’t careless or too casual, either. It wasn’t a minute of superficial chit chat over a sip of champagne at an event, or conversational filler during a lull at a dinner party.

It was something else.

It felt surreal in the moment, so pretty on par with the rest of the day. But thinking back on it, now lying back on the couch, glass of wine tucked close to my chest, and watching the shadows dancing in a square of moonlight on the floor, the day doesn’t feel so much like a fairytale. Still wonderful, still unexpected, but less otherworldly. No, today felt like a possibility. 

I feel that little drop of hope growing in my chest, pressing up against my heart, making it beat just that little bit faster. I need a distraction. 

I turn on the TV, careful to make sure the volume isn’t loud enough to wake up Doug. 

My fingers seem to move on their own until I’m watching a suave woman make her way toward the young woman at the counter of a toy store, a few days before Christmas Eve. 

Nearly two hours later, I’m clutching the throw blanket to my chest, leaning forward on the couch, totally engrossed in the screen. 

Carol and Therese sit across from one another, their roles reversed. Carol, timid and a bit unsure, and Therese harder, not the naive counter girl from so many weeks ago. 

“Anyway,” Carol says. “The apartment’s a nice enough one - big enough for two. I was hoping you might like to come and live with me, but … I guess you won’t.” A beat, before she adds, “Would you?” 

The cautious hope in her eyes brings tears to mine. 

All focus turns to Therese, and I bite my lips to keep from chanting “Come on, come on, come on, come on!” out loud. I can’t stop the chanting in my head, though. 

“No. I don’t think so.”

Those five words hit me directly in the chest, sending me falling back into the couch cushions with a gasp, my wine nearly sloshing out of the glass. 

No? She said no? How?! Why?!

I curse the writers as Carol leaves, and Therese mingles at a party. This can’t be how it ends! 

Therese slips out of the party, and starts meandering down the street. Her pace picks up, and she starts walking with purpose. That ridiculous puddle of hope swells again, trying to pull my heart into its depths, probably tumbling into Wonderland for good. I clutch at my chest, trying to hold my heart steady as Therese brushes past the waiter at the restaurant. 

“I’m looking for someone,” is all she says. And she’s off, scouring the tables, searching for that face, and then-

Their eyes meet. I’m holding my breath, waiting for Carol’s reaction. A slow, pleased smile spreads over her face at the same time I feel a tear hit my cheek. 

A happy one this time. 

I brush it away, my hands shaking a bit from the emotional whiplash. 

Thank god they ended up together, is all I can think as I stumble from the couch and toward my own bed. I really needed them to end up together. 

The last thing I see before exhaustion finally pulls me under is a woman wrapped up in a coat, her hair blowing slightly in the wind. Except her hair is more white than blonde, and it takes me a second to remember which story I’m in.