Emerging onto the street, the wind greeted her with an icy slap to the face. She had a short walk straight up Third to the Twenty-Third Street campus. Huddling into her wool coat, she hurried along the avenue, head lowered against the chill blast. With her gloved hands tucked into her pockets, she felt her phone vibrate. Extricating it, she read the text from Miguel.

Hang out tonight?

She removed her gloves then paused, her thumbs hovering over the keyboard. No thanks, she should have texted. This is casual. Friends with benefits. Nothing more.

But she couldn’t deny how nice it would be to go to Miguel’s apartment, to curl up beside him on his ratty sofa, and study. Later, they might watch Netflix or a movie. They didn’t have to make out, didn’t have to end up in bed together. Miguel could be her buddy, her pal, her refuge from the toxicity permeating her apartment. She didn’t need him, she just . . . enjoyed him. She typed:

kk

Shoving the phone back into her pocket, she hurried to campus.

3

The Penthouse

Nat had naively envisioned art school as full-time drawing classes, but apparently there was more to creating a marketable artist than studio time. The illustration faculty demanded several credits in the humanities, sciences, and art history. Nat understood that the study of past cultures was valuable in developing her artistic point of view, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. As the Western civilization professor droned on about Voltaire, Nat slouched in the tiny desk, her mind fixated on her upcoming bills. She was forecasting her next week’s salary and tips and applying them to her current bank balance, when the instructor’s nasal voice, appropriate to his nebbish appearance, jarred her from her calculations.

“Don’t forget the midterm on Thursday.”

“Shit,” Nat muttered, as she closed the neglected notebook on her desk. The impending test, combined with her financial shortfall, made her chest constrict. She struggled to take a breath.

“You okay?” It was Ava, a gifted artist, seated across the aisle. The two young women had several classes together and had been study partners on occasion. They were friendly but not friends. Nat had very little time to socialize. And Ava was . . . different. She lacked the edge that most art students had. Her clothes were sexy, designer, new—unlike the alternative, secondhand threads worn by most of their peers. Ava’s blond hair was expensively cut and highlighted, her skin buffed and lightly tanned. She had long acrylic nails, mink lashes, and microbladed eyebrows. And, she had no visible tattoos or piercings, which made her an art-school anomaly. Nat, with the tiny gem in her nose and only two holes in each ear was conservative by art-school standards.

Nat smiled at her classmate’s concern. “I’m fine. Just a little stressed.”

“Me, too.” Ava stood, gathering her books and her big YSL satchel. “I consistently zone out in this class. I’m going to have to cram like crazy, if I’m going to pass the midterm.”