He slides the coin back into his suit pant pocket, followed by his hand, and he stands there, relaxed, like he’s got all the time in the world to dedicate to this pointless conversation with a stranger outside a sparkling water fountain. I’m guessing he isn’t from the city. Most New Yorkers don’t take the time of day to say “excuse me” when they push past you on the sidewalk, let alone offer a replacement quarter to some woman they’ve never met.
“So you were just … throwing money into a fountain for … no reason?” he asks.
“Basically.” I sling the strap of my bag over my shoulder, sensing the heavy weight of his stare, and then I turn to leave.
The Jasper on Fifth has been my home for three weeks this Wednesday and it still feels like some unfamiliar vacation rental I’m only inhabiting temporarily. Mom keeps reminding me it won’t feel like home overnight and that I need to keep “feathering my nest,” but I’ve already filled it with all the things that no longer remind me of the life I left behind the day I signed those papers, things that help me remember the girl I was before I became the girl I grew up to be. But so far I can’t help but feel like an impostor in someone else’s clothes, in someone else’s home, existing in someone else’s world.
I imagine it’ll get better with time.
“Hi, Raymond.” I greet the nightshift doorman with a small wave as I pass through the lobby.
“Ms. Aldridge.” He nods, offering me a smile stained with compassion.
Everyone thinks they know what happened.
They think they know my story.
They think they know me.
They know nothing.
“Good evening, Mr. Warner,” Raymond says a second later.
Reaching for the elevator call button, I catch a glimpse of the man who walked in behind me, staring at his expensive shoes and ending with his messy, sandy blond mane and those thick frames that mask the mysterious eyes I met only a moment ago.
The handsome stranger from the fountain stands beside me.
Had no idea he was a neighbor, but then how would I? No one’s taken the time to introduce themselves, to welcome me to the building, or to nosily scope out my place under the guise of delivering a tray of Neiman Marcus cookies.
Not that it comes as a surprise.
New York isn’t really known for its warm, fuzzy population, and I’m just some woman they read about on Page Six from time to time thanks to my ex.
Clearing my throat, I stare at a set of silver elevator doors emblazoned in monogrammed J’s, waiting for the soft chime to tell me this awkward moment will be over soon enough.
One thousand one …
One thousand two …
One thousand three …
One thousand-ding.
The doors part and an older woman carrying a white toy poodle under her Chanel-jacketed arm squeezes past us, placing her dog on the tile floor once she’s through. The bells on its crystal-studded collar tinkle as it scurries toward the exit.
Raymond pretends to give the dog directions to the nearest restroom. The woman doesn’t laugh, but the stranger does.
Stepping inside, I clear my throat, press the button for the seventh floor, and clasp my hands in front of my hips. Staring straight ahead, I avoid eye contact as he takes the spot beside me, unmoving.
“Which floor?” I ask, still staring ahead.
“Seventh. Same as yours.”
Interesting. I’ve been here three weeks and I’ve yet to see him around because I definitely couldn’t forget a face like that.
“Did you just move in?” I ask.
“Few days ago actually.”
The elevator deposits us on the seventh floor and the stranger motions for me to step out first. Turns out my generous benefactor is not only my neighbor, but a gentleman to boot.
“Have a nice night,” I say, turning down the left hall.
Reaching into my purse, I retrieve my apartment key and head to the last door on the right, only once I get there, I sense a presence behind me. From the corner of my eye, I watch the handsome stranger retrieve his key and slide it into the lock of the door directly across the hall.
“I didn’t catch your name,” I say. I can’t complain about the people in this building being cold and unfriendly and then do the same thing to him after he’s been nothing but polite to me.
He turns to face me, capturing my gaze for a moment. “Jude Warner. And you are?”
“Love Aldridge,” I say. I’m still not used to going by my maiden name. I’ve been a LeGrand for almost the entirety of my twenties—the better part of my adult life thus far. But Love LeGrand doesn’t exist anymore. I signed her death warrant by way of divorce papers last month, hardly sorry to say goodbye to a poor soul, stuck in the shadows of a disgustingly rich husband who broke every promise he ever made. “Welcome to the building.”