they were kittens in need of a home. The city was Nate and Emily’s playground. They ate out nearly every night and made a habit of regularly charging meals they couldn’t afford. That was excusable back then. They had no kid, no responsibilities; it would all work out in the end. New relationships were expensive, always, and Nate had paid most of the time anyway.
That summer had been dreamy, full of warm weather and ridiculous plates of food and giddy midafternoon sex and truckloads of we’ve-got-the-the-world-on-a-string attitude.
We had the world on a string,
Emily thought now as she eyed the nautical-print curtains in the Viking’s suite. Four years after that summer in the city, two days after the Barbers’ party, she and Nate were hanging on by a thread. She’d seen the looks of pity in the eyes of Anna and Randy’s guests. Poor Nate and Emily, financially evicted from Manhattan.
Nate leaned against the suite’s minifridge and flipped open his phone.
“Please,” she said, “don’t call New York.” They’d been gone from the city for less than a day. She felt dizzy and nauseous and closed her eyes briefly, trying to focus on the colorless void behind her lids. Sometimes she thought she should have kept her stupid job—the pay had been paltry, but it was something. Of course, post-tax, it would barely have covered daycare for Trevor. “Don’t call the city.”
“Really?” he asked, his phone still open.
“Really.”
He eyed her skeptically.
“Seriously, Nate. Don’t call. I mean, who are we going to contact? And to say what? ‘Hey, buddy, can you wire us a thousand bucks from your upcoming bonus so we can afford our stay at the Viking?’” Emily wanted to throw up at the thought. She imagined the gossip about their Jeep theft, their lack of cash, making the rounds with the same speed as the Rufino-theft news. Even Nate, who usually lay far out of the gossip loop, had heard about the painting. Sam Tully left him a message this morning and Nate picked it up when they stopped for gas outside New London. “I don’t get it,” Nate had said to Emily. “Someone took Randy’s Rufino.” Emily had nodded, said she’d gotten the same message from a few people already. “It’s not like Anna and Randy needed any more art,” Emily had said to Nate.
“I don’t think people wire money anymore,” Nate said now. “It’s done online.”
“Right,” Emily said, realizing, as she spoke, that a thousand bucks most likely wouldn’t be enough to cover their suite for three nights anyway. Of course the thing to do with that hypothetical thousand would be to
leave
the Viking, to buy new air mattresses and a change of clothes and the essentials they’d need to move into their new house—but the suite was so nice, and they could make it until Tuesday on $84.16 if they handled it right, and it wouldn’t bankrupt them (or bankrupt them more) to live in luxury so briefly.
“We look desperate already, moving here,” Emily said. “Could we at least save face and not alert the masses that, two hours in, we’re carless, homeless, and bankrupt?” She needed to take deeper breaths, to keep the oxygen coming into her lungs. They
were
desperate. “We’ve got eighty-four bucks. Add in whateverwe can charge to our room, and it’s more than enough for three days.”
“Okay,” Nate said. He sounded hurt. She’d implied that they were losers, that he was a loser for landing them in this state. Trevor rolled over and crushed a slew of one-dollar bills under his splayed legs.
“Em, you’ve got to stop doing this,” Nate said, picking up a wadded twenty-dollar bill. She had a tendency to crumple up her cash, condensing it into small balls. Nate’s bills lay flat and new, straight from the cash machine to his wallet to wherever they went next. It was like a symbol of their relationship, the kind of obvious trope that Emily would have derided as an undergrad. Technically she and Nate weren’t wed,
That summer had been dreamy, full of warm weather and ridiculous plates of food and giddy midafternoon sex and truckloads of we’ve-got-the-the-world-on-a-string attitude.
We had the world on a string,
Emily thought now as she eyed the nautical-print curtains in the Viking’s suite. Four years after that summer in the city, two days after the Barbers’ party, she and Nate were hanging on by a thread. She’d seen the looks of pity in the eyes of Anna and Randy’s guests. Poor Nate and Emily, financially evicted from Manhattan.
Nate leaned against the suite’s minifridge and flipped open his phone.
“Please,” she said, “don’t call New York.” They’d been gone from the city for less than a day. She felt dizzy and nauseous and closed her eyes briefly, trying to focus on the colorless void behind her lids. Sometimes she thought she should have kept her stupid job—the pay had been paltry, but it was something. Of course, post-tax, it would barely have covered daycare for Trevor. “Don’t call the city.”
“Really?” he asked, his phone still open.
“Really.”
He eyed her skeptically.
“Seriously, Nate. Don’t call. I mean, who are we going to contact? And to say what? ‘Hey, buddy, can you wire us a thousand bucks from your upcoming bonus so we can afford our stay at the Viking?’” Emily wanted to throw up at the thought. She imagined the gossip about their Jeep theft, their lack of cash, making the rounds with the same speed as the Rufino-theft news. Even Nate, who usually lay far out of the gossip loop, had heard about the painting. Sam Tully left him a message this morning and Nate picked it up when they stopped for gas outside New London. “I don’t get it,” Nate had said to Emily. “Someone took Randy’s Rufino.” Emily had nodded, said she’d gotten the same message from a few people already. “It’s not like Anna and Randy needed any more art,” Emily had said to Nate.
“I don’t think people wire money anymore,” Nate said now. “It’s done online.”
“Right,” Emily said, realizing, as she spoke, that a thousand bucks most likely wouldn’t be enough to cover their suite for three nights anyway. Of course the thing to do with that hypothetical thousand would be to
leave
the Viking, to buy new air mattresses and a change of clothes and the essentials they’d need to move into their new house—but the suite was so nice, and they could make it until Tuesday on $84.16 if they handled it right, and it wouldn’t bankrupt them (or bankrupt them more) to live in luxury so briefly.
“We look desperate already, moving here,” Emily said. “Could we at least save face and not alert the masses that, two hours in, we’re carless, homeless, and bankrupt?” She needed to take deeper breaths, to keep the oxygen coming into her lungs. They
were
desperate. “We’ve got eighty-four bucks. Add in whateverwe can charge to our room, and it’s more than enough for three days.”
“Okay,” Nate said. He sounded hurt. She’d implied that they were losers, that he was a loser for landing them in this state. Trevor rolled over and crushed a slew of one-dollar bills under his splayed legs.
“Em, you’ve got to stop doing this,” Nate said, picking up a wadded twenty-dollar bill. She had a tendency to crumple up her cash, condensing it into small balls. Nate’s bills lay flat and new, straight from the cash machine to his wallet to wherever they went next. It was like a symbol of their relationship, the kind of obvious trope that Emily would have derided as an undergrad. Technically she and Nate weren’t wed,
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