“Okay,” Ava said, opening her textbook. “Let’s talk about Nietzsche.”

4

Strike Two

Later that night, pressed against Miguel’s warm, naked body in his twin bed (Oops), Nat’s mind returned to Ava’s luxurious apartment. Miguel lived in a walk-up studio with mice, crumbling walls, and plumbing that screamed when a neighbor took a shower—entirely appropriate to his student status. As she stared at a mushroom-shaped water stain on her lover’s ceiling, she recounted her day’s experience.

“I went to study at a friend’s apartment in Chelsea today. She lives in an amazing penthouse.” Nat described the view of the Empire State Building, the elegant furnishings, the original Freud as a birthday present.

“She must have rich parents.”

“No, her parents are working-class.”

“Rich boyfriend?”

“She never mentioned one.”

“Maybe she’s a hooker?”

Nat was defensive. “No way.”

“Not like a streetwalker,” Miguel clarified. “Like an escort. Or a sugar baby.”

Nat propped herself up on an elbow. “Are you serious?”

“It’s not uncommon here,” Miguel said, sounding sage. He had grown up in the Bronx, had moved to Brooklyn when he started at St. Joseph’s College. Unlike Nat, he was a true New Yorker. He’d seen it all and was unfazed.

Of course, Natalie had heard about high-end escorts, about sugar babies—she was from Blaine, not Mars. She’d seen reality shows, Instagram feeds, online clips of vapid girls with lip injections, breast implants, and closets full of shoes and bags. These girls were spoiled and materialistic, willing to trade sex for money and toys, trinkets and tropical holidays. They weren’t talented art students who crammed for midterm exams. They weren’t like Ava.

“She doesn’t seem the type.”

“I’m not sure there is a type, anymore,” her worldly partner said. “You’d be surprised how many girls have a sponsor. Desperate times and all that.”

Nat suddenly felt claustrophobic in the tiny bed. “I should go.”

Miguel pressed himself against her. “Stay.”

She should have felt warm and safe and desired, but instead she felt crowded, sweaty, itchy. She wouldn’t sleep well in this single bed. And spending the night was too intimate, too much like a relationship, which this wasn’t. It was friendship. It was sex. It was not a romance.

“I can’t.” She threw the blankets off her and reached for her underpants on the floor.

“I’ll walk you home. It’s late.”

“I’m fine. It’s only a few blocks.”

But Miguel was already getting dressed.

They strolled through the darkened streets, past the row houses, their regal history defaced by paint, stucco, or vinyl siding. Conversation was light, gossipy, revolving around their colleagues at Donnelly’s, the bar where they both worked. By the time they reached Nat’s building, it was almost 1:00 A.M. They faced each other at the bottom of the steps for an awkward moment. The whole friends-with-benefits scenario got a little confusing when it came time for a good-night kiss. Leaning in, Nat gave him a quick peck on the lips that Miguel tried to segue into an open-mouth kiss. She turned her face away, but he missed her cue.