Back in the Heights, Gabbie resolved to console herself with the only thing she loved more than Dan: crafting. Since the call with Dan, she had faltered on her plan to go out. She hadn’t really meant it in the first place. Did she really want to get all dressed up and go outside just to get drunk and have to take the overcrowded (or worse, empty) subway home in the middle of the night? Did she really want to shower just to get dirty again, when she could instead spend the evening making acorn-shaped name tags for her third graders and trying out a new deep conditioner? Sure, Gabbie’s idea of a fun Saturday wasn’t the same as most twentysomethings’, but maybe that’s because she was fulfilled. She had her kids, all thirty-two of them, and her dream guy, and an apartment in New York that caught an enviable amount of sunlight at peak hours. So it wasn’t quite 66 Perry Street, but she was fine. Besides, twenty-two wasn’t exactly an important birthday.
Gabbie opened up her laptop and started her “***Ultimate Top Twenty Favorite Coldplay Songs For REAL This Time!!***” Spotify playlist, then she put her crafting towel down on her bed and plugged in her glue gun. She’d just started cutting into a piece of brown crafting paper when the lights above her flickered, then went out. She glanced at her laptop battery and groaned. Usually when the electricity went out in her building (which was pretty often), she just rode it out, listening to music in the candlelight. But she only had 3 percent battery left on her laptop, and 8 percent on her phone. She touched the back of her hand to her glue gun in the dark—it was already getting cold. Maybe she should go out. She shut her computer, determined, and strode over to her tiny closet to put together a “going out” look—something she did so rarely that the concept actually intimidated her. She clicked on the battery-operated lights she’d placed in the closet when she first moved in, then shuffled through her clothes before stepping back, discouraged. She had nothing appropriate for going out—just a bunch of classroom-ready outfits, running shorts, and striped T-shirts from Target. And Birkenstocks.
Resisting the urge to pull on a faded Anne Taylor Loft A-line dress—a work staple—Gabbie got down on her hands and knees and sorted through the shoe rack at the back of her closet, reaching through the curtain of skinny jeans and totes she had looped onto hangers. Finally, among her Sperry’s, Toms, and assorted Aldo booties, she found a pair of “nude” patent leather pumps, the brownest pair she had been able to find while shopping for college clothes with her mom all those years ago. She held them up in the light of her room. They looked brand new—she’d worn them only once in her entire college career, at convocation dinner with her parents.
Gabbie slid the heels on, batting away the thought that something she’d purchased almost five years ago might not be the most fashionable choice for the night. She stood back up and was suddenly face to face with an utterly perfect and totally out-of-character black bodycon skirt. “Oh,” she said to herself, her forehead wrinkling in confusion. She could’ve sworn that hanger had been empty just a second ago, and the skirt didn’t look remotely familiar. But there it was, out of thin air, practically begging her to put it on. Jeez, she thought to herself, I really need to get around to organizing this closet. Gabbie took the skirt off the hanger and wiggled it over her hips, watching herself in the mirror. Okay, we’re getting somewhere. After pulling off her T-shirt to reveal a black camisole with thin lacy straps, Gabbie brushed a layer of lip gloss over her matte lipstick. She smacked her lips a couple of times, looked herself in the eyes, and nodded. She grabbed her favorite shrug from the pile of dirty clothes on her desk chair. She was ready.
But halfway out the door, Gabbie realized she’d forgotten to choose a place to go. She dashed back into her apartment and opened her laptop again, quickly muting the lines of “Yellow” that rushed out and pulling up a Time Out article titled “Best Bars in New York.” With her last 2 percent of battery, Gabbie started the slideshow and read the description for the first place on the list, The Bar. It looked cute, but it was way too far downtown. She clicked the white arrow on the right side of the page to get to the next recommendation. When the page finished loading, it was again a picture of The Bar. Gabbie pressed next again: The Bar. And again: The Bar. Then back: The Bar. Refresh: The Bar. Gabbie relented. Either the website was broken or someone at Time Out really, really liked The Bar. She shut her laptop and typed the address into her phone. A bar was, after all, exactly where she’d said she wanted to go.
* * *
Maya had spent just fifty-five minutes getting ready, a personal best. She’d had her birthday outfit planned for months, every item picked out, purchased, and tailored as far back as February. The main piece, which she’d spent weeks hunting for, was a vintage purple mini dress made up of shimmering sequins. The tag had long faded, but Maya suspected it was an old Versace or Moschino. It stopped midthigh, giving Maya just enough mileage to show off her favorite asset: her Victoria’s Secret runway legs. She stepped into the silver strappy sandals she’d gotten from a Brandon Blackwood sample sale, admiring how perfectly her toes, painted glittery blue, complemented her dress. She’d carefully glued down her lace and curled her hair, and her legs were freshly waxed. After packing her metallic pink Jacquemus bag with the essentials, Maya glanced at the copper-rimmed analog clock that hung above the front door of the apartment: 6:56. She had at least thirty minutes to get to dinner, or forty-five if she wanted to arrive on BGT (Birthday Girl Time), which she definitely did. She had more than enough time for a quick drink.
Maya pulled Elise’s old ballerina corkscrew out of the kitchen drawer and inspected it with a raised lip—it was a keepsake of Elise’s, but it was approaching a level of grime that Maya wasn’t sure she could abide. She placed it on the countertop and made a mental note to buy a new one before their housewarming. Kneeling in front of the wine cabinet and pulling strands of her freshly styled hair out of her lip gloss, Maya browsed the labels. She grabbed the bottle of Whispering Angel by its neck. Standing, Maya reached for the corkscrew, jumping back when her hand landed flat on the cold, gray countertop. Maya looked down, confused. She’d just put the corkscrew down. She went over to the kitchen drawer and rifled through the cutlery, but it wasn’t there either. She patted the dress pockets she didn’t have, even searched through her bag. But the corkscrew had disappeared. What? Maya searched the dishwasher and a bunch of cabinets. There wasn’t a single screw top left in the cabinet, and the corkscrew was nowhere to be found. She let out a whine. She was not about to do the shoe trick on her twenty-second birthday.
Well, there would definitely be an array of corkscrews at The Bar, the popular spot that sat directly under her apartment. The Bar wasn’t exactly a destination, but since it was right downstairs, it was often either the first or last place Maya and her sisters stopped on their nights out. Over time, it had become one of Maya’s favorite places to hang out, even when she was sober. She’d planned to go at the end of the night anyway, but she wouldn’t mind seeing the bartenders (who she now considered friends) before she got sloppy drunk. Bottle in hand, Maya grabbed her bag off the kitchen counter and headed toward the door, then stopped. She picked a plastic, bedazzled tiara off the table and studied it. “Birthday Girl” was scrawled across a hot-pink cardboard background in bubbly yellow script. Maya stuffed the tiara in her bag—twenty-two wasn’t too old to be that girl at the club, was it?