Reaching for it, she saw Gabe’s name on her call display.

“Hey, babe,” she said, her voice still throaty with sleep.

“Did I wake you?”

“No, I’m up. I was just going to make coffee.” She didn’t mention the eggs, suddenly feeling guilty for being so familiar in his kitchen.

“How’d you sleep?” He was driving. She could hear the hum of the freeway, could tell his attention was divided.

“Great. But I was lonely here without you.”

“I spoke to a real estate agent,” he said, getting down to business. “He’s going to find some apartments in Manhattan. Somewhere small but comfortable and close to school. Are you around this week for viewings?”

“Of course.”

“I was thinking Chelsea or the West Village. They’re safe areas and there are a few rent-stabilized buildings.”

“Sounds good.” But her voice trembled.

“What’s wrong?” He sounded surprised, mildly perturbed.

“Nothing,” she said, but found her throat was clogged with emotion. “I’m just . . . grateful.”

And she was. But she was also disappointed. Without articulating it to herself, she had hoped Gabe would invite her to stay with him. For good. Some naive, overly romantic part of her had longed for an offer to become a permanent part of his life. His live-in girlfriend. It was a delusional concept. It was way too soon; they barely knew each other. But she’d allowed herself to believe that all the drama—Cole, her roommates’ confrontation—had happened for a reason. She had hoped it meant they would be together.

“It’ll be great to have you living closer,” Gabe said. “It’s been a pain in the ass having to schlep you back and forth to Brooklyn.”

Like she was a parcel. A document. An annoying child whose divorced parents shared custody.

His words, so businesslike, so matter-of-fact, forced a sudden burst of clarity. Gabe did not consider her live-in girlfriend material. He viewed her as a sex partner, a companion, paid to keep her physical and emotional distance. She was an escort. It was stupid and pathetic to try to turn their debauched relationship into something real. She was desperate and needy, clinging onto her older lover because of her daddy issues.

But, no . . . Gabe had protected her from Cole, had rescued her from homelessness. He had told her he loved her. True, it had been said in the heat of passion, after numerous glasses of Scotch. But he’d said it. And the way he looked at her, the way he touched her . . . What they shared was real. It had to be.

“It’ll be a lot more convenient,” she said, forcing an upbeat tone. “I’m excited.”

30

The Studio

Nat’s new apartment was in a four-story building situated on a leafy street several blocks from the School of Visual Arts. It was a studio, barely big enough for the double bed and plush sofa Gabe had had delivered. Nat had scoured thrift shops and secondhand stores, cobbling together a fun, kitschy collection of furnishings. The space had a cool Southeast Asian vibe thanks to a hand-carved teak coffee table she’d discovered, some brightly colored jacquard throw pillows, and a decorative Buddha next to the beaded turquoise lamp.