I run my finger over the bumpy metallic surface. “It’s like he wanted to leave his mark on the neighborhood.”

“Yes,” Sabrina says. “That’s what I think too. The Village has become home to condos and fancy restaurants, but this is a sort of homage to days gone by, when this place was an artist’s enclave. And this craftsman, whose business could have been kicked out or shut down, has turned his storefront into a sculpture.”

“Found art, like found math in nature,” I say, musing on the possibilities.

“Or maybe a reminder of change? The artists who used to live in the Village can’t afford it anymore. Hardly anyone can afford to live in Manhattan.”

Her observation raises another question—how can she afford it?

I don’t even have to ask. The question must be in my eyes, because she jumps in. “If you’re wondering, I can only afford to live in Manhattan because I’m staying in my cousin’s apartment. She’s gallivanting around Europe, and she lets me stay there for basically a nickel, and God knows I need her generosity.”

The money talk again. I tense, a bolt of worry slamming down my spine as she mentions the very thing that often separates people. Money is a dividing line. Is she trying to figure out how it divides us? How money changes what people want from you?

Once again, I’m left wondering if it plays a part in her wants. That warning voice speaks louder, a reminder that trust must be earned.

Fully.

“I love that you’re kind of obsessed with what New York was. Its past,” I say, so I can dodge the thorny subject of incomes, and how I can afford to live in New York twenty times over and how she’s living off her cousin’s kindness.

“I am, and it’s probably a pointless obsession. We can’t really cling to the past. God knows I’ve had to move on from so many other things.”

That’s an issue I don’t want to dodge though. I want to know what holds her back, beyond work. I want to understand where that sadness comes from. “Do you mean ex-boyfriends or family?”

“Both,” she says heavily. “My ex was pretty much the worst, and my mother is pretty much the worst too.”

“The ex—he’s totally out of the picture?”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “He’s so far out of the picture he lives in China. We were supposed to be married, and he left me two days before the wedding.”

“Jesus,” I mutter. “He’s not fit to pick up the potato chip bags you walk on.”

She smiles. “I know. And I’m glad I’m over him.”

A warm, golden feeling spreads through my chest, blatantly ignoring my concerns about trust, overtaking them, even. “I’m glad you’re over him too.”

* * *

The next day, Jennica pops into my office. “Any chance you’d want to talk to Kermit?”

I remember the halo from the party, and him hard pitching me on an interview, then commenting on the halo, like he knew what had happened.