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  “Beginning this fall, the doctoral students in the psychology department here at NYU will have the opportunity to partake in the counseling program for work-study. Only a select few will be chosen, the best and the brightest, of course.” He rung his hands together and smirked. “We wouldn’t want anyone in there talking to the younger cohort if they didn’t know what they were doing.”

  I cocked my head to the side and opened my mouth just a bit, but then quickly closed it. I wanted to make sure I phrased, what the heck are you talking about? in the most respectful way possible.

  “Sir,” I said, crossing my right leg over my left. “I’m not exactly sure what this has to do with me.”

  Dr. Greenfield had a frustrated look on his face. “As part of their requirement to graduate, the psychology students have to conduct psychoanalysis on individuals to prove they have a great enough understanding of the knowledge they’ve obtained while they have been studying here. There are a few ways to get volunteers for this treatment.” He stood up and slowly began pacing the room. His steps were small for a man of his height, and he kept his head down the entire time. I began to wonder if something was bothering him, but didn’t dare ask.

  “Treatment?” I whispered the word, unsure of what he was getting at.

  “It’s really a win-win situation,” he stopped pacing and looked at me. “You would come in twice a week for about forty-five minutes a session, and one of the senior-level doctoral students would analyze you. They would get the credit and experience they need, plus a little extra money, and you would get free analysis.”

  Without noticing, I shot up from the chair. “I don’t need analysis. I’m not crazy.” I immediately sat back down and folded my hands in my lap. So much for coming across as professional or not seeming crazy.

  Dr. Greenfield shook his head. I could almost hear him mentally wish he had a glass of scotch at that very moment. “Just the fact that you think analysis is only for the clinical population proves how far behind you are here, Amalia.” His eyes were narrowed and he had an undeniable look of disappointment on his face. I lowered my head in embarrassment. Shame crept through me like the kind of goose bumps you’d get when you had a fever. I didn’t know which was worse, the fact that I had been recommended for psychological treatment by my professor, or that said professor just confirmed my fears that I wasn’t doing well in the program.

  “This isn’t something I feel comfortable with,” I said, shrugging, reaching my arms around my stomach, this conversation suddenly feeling vexatious, “I am afraid I’m going to have to decline.”

  “That’s a shame, Ms. Hastings,” his voice was low and wry. But I should tell you, if you don’t partake in this portion of the work-study program, then you can no longer work on my project with me.” I saw a small smile tug at the side of his lips, or maybe I was imagining that.

  “Excuse me?” I uttered, trying to keep an even tone. “Since when did going to analysis become a requirement for working on your project?” I had read the forms thoroughly before signing – at least I thought I had.

  “You’ve shown me how irresponsible you can be, and how little effort you are willing to put in to further your education, and ultimately, your career. I asked you this a while ago, Miss Hastings, and you didn’t have a good answer for me then and I doubt you have a good answer for me now. What do you want to do when you graduate with your Master’s from NYU?”

  I was speechless. The truth was, with everything going on in my life over the past few years, just handling things day to day felt like a constant struggle. The future seemed so far away when I first moved into that West Village apartment, but isn’t that how it always goes? One day you’re imaging your future, then in the blink of an eye, it’s here.

  But now, the cushy idea of “future Amalia” having to make these decisions was gone. The time was now. I only had a little over a year left here and I had to start making some serious plans for my future.

  I looked down at the floor. The old, slightly torn, carpeting mirrored my feelings of uselessness. Maybe going to therapy wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  Without further consideration, I backed down.

  “You’re right,” I conceded.

  “What was that?” he took a step closer to me and turned his head slightly as if to indicate that he wanted me to speak louder.

  My feelings of dejection slowly melded into ones of anger. I felt my hands ball in fists. The man was getting way too much enjoyment out of this.

  “I’ll stay in your program,” I enunciated each word through gritted teeth. “I need the money. So I guess that means, starting in the fall, I will be going to analysis.”

  “It will begin at the end of October.”

  I nodded, unsure of what else to say.

  Dr. Greenfield stared at me for a moment. The wrinkles around his eyes looked more pronounced today than usual, and for a moment I felt sorry for him. What did I really know about this man? His arms were folded across his chest and I noticed he didn’t wear a wedding ring. I let my shoulders sink a bit and relaxed. There was really no point in me getting all worked up about this. One more year in this hell hole, and I’d be out. Might as well make it as easy on myself as I could while I was here.

  I took a deep breath. “Is that all, sir?” I kept my face poker-straight, unwilling to take any more criticism.

  He looked at me for a beat longer and then said, “Yes, that’s all.”

  I turned on my heel and headed toward the door, chewing on the bottom of my lip the whole time.

  “Oh and Miss Hastings,” he called out to me just as I was turning the doorknob. “When you get here Monday morning, do not be late again. This is your final warning.”

  I merely turned to him and nodded, unable to speak out of fear I would curse him out.

  Eight – Olivia

  Three months later

  It was fall again in New York, which means you could expect to see lots of Burberry scarves, black tights, pumpkin spice lattes, and fingerless gloves. Here in the city, and in most of the northern states, fall lasts for about two weeks until the harsh, oppressive winter begins. It was September 14th and classes had been going on for nearly three weeks. Our cohort only had four classes left to finish our requirements for graduation. Two this semester and two in the spring. Of course, our senior seminar class was being taught by Dr. Greenfield. There was just no escaping that man. We could all at least take solace in the fact that senior seminar was a core class and was only held once a semester. We would all be taking it together. The other class that Alex and I chose this semester was called “Cell Biology – the Nucleus and Beyond.” Alex pointed out that the class would stand out more on our doctoral applications than any of the other courses being held. I thought it sounded like a Star Trek episode and agreed to enroll.

  Deep breath.

  I sipped my green tea grabbed from a local café near Union Square and slowly walked to my biology class. I wanted to savor the beautiful weather while I could. It was a little after two-thirty and my building was about ten minutes away. I had plenty of time to make it to my three o’clock class. I took another deep breath as a pair of two teenage girls walked passed me, giggling as they scarfed down cupcakes from one of the artisan food trucks parked by the curb. They looked so happy and full of life. Even at twenty-four, a considerably young age, I felt deflated.

  I hadn’t spoken to my mother much since the day she told me about the picture. The picture of Alex hugging another girl. She had sent me a couple of follow-up texts asking me if I’d confronted him yet. I asked her in the politest way possible to butt out. Not because I necessarily wanted to be nice to her, more that I didn’t want to engage with her in a conversation about nonsense.

  I shook my head, putting thoughts of her out of my mind, and took a soothing sip of my tea. Eight more months and then we would graduate on May 17th. Graduation this year, like most years, was being held at Yankee Stadium, which is located in the Bronx. I would have prefer
red it been anywhere else. Preferably somewhere inside with air conditioning that wouldn’t take me nearly an hour to get to from my and Alex’s apartment on Roosevelt Island.

  The summer hadn’t helped to calm me down at all. While most people were sunning themselves in the Hamptons or on Fire Island, I was filling out applications and gathering letters of recommendations for the programs at NYU, Sarah Lawrence College, New School University, and Hunter College. In between all of that, I was constantly flipping through bridal magazines and meeting with vendors for the wedding. It was astonishing how far out in advance everything had to be booked. Not to mention I spent two weeks in August moving out of my apartment in Brooklyn and moving into Alex’s place on Roosevelt Island.

  I was mentally wrecked by everything that was going on. Even with the support I had from my father and from Alex, my mother’s lack of positive interest in my wedding was really starting to take a toll. She was bent on getting me to break it off. I shouldn’t be surprised; our relationship had always been strained. But for some reason, getting married really makes you realize who’s truly there for you and who isn’t. It is, arguably, the most important thing you will ever do in your life. If someone can’t make the time for you while that’s going on, they’ll never be there for you.

  On top of everything else, quitting smoking was a total bitch. I was constantly tempted to sneak a cigarette whenever Amalia wasn’t looking.

  My wedding was less than a year away, and I couldn’t even enjoy being engaged because of all of my schoolwork. I thought about what Alex had said to me, that I’m missing it. I shook my head once more, trying to drown out the anxious thoughts that had planted roots in my mind.

  I had to drop out of Greenfield’s lab because there just wasn’t enough time to get everything done. For now, at least, I didn’t have to worry about paying rent. Since we were engaged, Alex’s father had agreed to let me live in Alex’s apartment and not pay rent. I was relieved for the time being, but after the wedding there was no way I was allowing Alex and me to be trapped under his father’s thumb. No matter what, we had to find a way to pay for the apartment ourselves. Or move into a smaller place.

  One thing was sure, neither one of us wanted to leave New York. And considering that all of the school’s we were applying to were here, moving somewhere else wasn’t even an option.

  As I walked up to the building, a group of students was outside smoking. All other thoughts in my mind suddenly shut down and all I could think about was how badly I wanted to smoke. A chorus of nicotine-withdrawn voices flooded my head like a swarm of bees to a hive.

  Ask them for a cigarette. You’re so stressed out. One cigarette isn’t going to hurt.

  I pressed the palms of my hands to my eyes and could feel warm tears from stress building up behind them.

  Just fucken do it. Who cares? Oh my God, let go and smoke.

  Smoke! Smoke! Smoke!

  “Oh my God,” I uttered. I stood perfectly still, afraid if I moved even an inch, my body would shatter from pressure.

  “Olivia?” a soft voice came from behind me.

  Startled, I wiped my eyes quickly and dropped my hands to my sides. They made a slapping sound as they hit my jeans.

  “Babe?” Alex asked, concern in his eyes. “Are you alright?”

  I gave him the best smile I could muster up. “Cigarette craving,” I shrugged, leaving out the other half of my internal meltdown.

  Alex gave me a sympathetic grimace. “I know exactly how you feel.”

  “Probably,” I whispered, a cold breeze rustling through my hair.

  “Come on,” he reached for my hand. “Let’s get to class. This nucleus isn’t going to study itself.”

  “I don’t even know how to respond to that,” I laughed, as I took a step past the group of smokers who were extinguishing their respective cigarettes.

  “I made you laugh, though,” he pulled me in for a kiss. There was one strong advantage to us having quit smoking. Our kisses had never been better. For one, I never really noticed how Alex tasted before. Our mouths had always been coated, but now it was like our senses were coming back to us. Even his smell was stronger than ever. His cologne, his aftershave, his shampoo, I could smell it all as he softly pressed his body against mine and ran him fingers through my hair. This new high I got from kissing was better than smoking and after a few seconds my nicotine craving had vanished. I pulled away, flushed even though it was only fifty degrees outside.

  “Let’s go to class,” I mumbled begrudgingly. I looked up at him through my lashes, my mind on other things.

  He leaned down and kissed my forehead. “I love you,” he whispered. “You love me, right?”

  As we passed by more students and faculty members, something struck me as familiar.

  A girl, with long red hair, talking to one of the professors. I scanned down her frame and noticed a pair of black high heels. I felt the color drain from my face, but immediately began fighting the doubt.

  Washington Square Park is a very popular area of Manhattan. Lots of people, from all over New York, come here just to embrace its beauty. It doesn’t mean that’s the same girl from the picture.

  It doesn’t mean he’s cheating on you.

  “Of course I love you,” I stood on my toes to reach his face. “To the moon and back.”

  Nine – Amalia

  Heavy waves of rain hit the floor-to-ceiling windows of Michael’s apartment, making the inside feel more of an aquarium than a home. I was sitting on his couch, scanning over the paper work for enrolling in the work-study analysis program. Michael stood over the stove, with his sleeves rolled up to show off his forearms. A part on the male body I also happened to like. He carefully sprinkled salt into his mixture, perfecting his mushroom risotto.

  In true eleventh-hour fashion, I was filling out the new work-study papers that were due Monday. Monday was tomorrow. I rubbed my blurry eyes and resolved to get this finished tonight.

  In case of emergency contact __________

  I looked up at Michael for a moment and smiled, but wrote down Olivia Davis, including her phone number and new address with Alex.

  “What are you doing over there?” Michel called over the sounds of the stove-top fan. Lightning struck and illuminated the entire apartment.

  “Whoa,” I jumped back on the couch, covering the forms with a book from school. “I’ve never seen lightning like that before.”

  Michael turned off the exhaust fan, the gas stove, and let out a mocking chuckle. He transferred the contents of his food from the wok he was cooking in to a ceramic serving bowl, and carefully placed it on a trivet on top of his pristine granite counter tops. I watched him as he set the table, perfectly. Methodically.

  “I’m sure you have seen lightning like this,” he tossed a dishtowel over the left shoulder of his burgundy button-down. “Just never at nearly forty stories up.”

  “It was still scary,” I rolled my eyes and gathered my books into a pile on his coffee table. Smoothing down my jeans as I stood, I made my way over to the small bistro table near the kitchen. Thankfully, the table wasn’t near any windows.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” he stated, handing me a piping-hot bowl of food. “What were you working on while I was cooking?”

  I was actually caught off guard by Michael’s interest. Whenever he asked me personal questions, I just always assumed he was being polite. Trying to seem supportive, but not necessarily interested in what was going on in my life.

  “I was just going over some notes from last week’s lecture,” I lied. I didn’t want to tell him the truth. That Dr. Greenfield was making me enroll in psychoanalysis two days a week, out of fear he might grill me about therapy every week. Or worse, that he might think I am unstable.

  “Getting a head start on midterms this semester?” he smiled, pouring a glass of pinot noir for us both.

  I nodded my head, “Something like that.” I desperately wanted to change the subject. “Thank you for cookin
g dinner, it smells amazing.” I looked up at him through my lashes, giving him my best “aren’t I adorable?” look. “You’re such a good cook, baby.”

  “Thank you,” he smiled, pulling out his chair. He let out a sigh as he lowered himself into the seat.

  “Getting old?” I joked, picking up my wine glass. If he was getting old, he definitely didn’t look it. He looked just as gorgeous as the day I met him. Even more so now that he was a few years older and his looks had matured a bit more.

  “Yes,” he responded with a straight face. “Twenty-four is killing me. Or maybe it’s just being in this program.”

  I swallowed my wine. “Or maybe it’s living in New York,” I spat out.

  I felt my eyes widen. It was completely out of my control. Whoa! Where did that come from?

  He gave me an uneasy smile and took a bite of his risotto. He breathed in, as if he was about to say something, but then stopped himself.

  Shaking my head, I forced a fast smile. “I don’t know why I said that,” I tried, laughing it off. I pursed my lips and shrugged my shoulders. “I love living in New York.”

  Michel paused for a minute and looked at me. “Do you?” he leaned forward, pushing the risotto around the bowl.

  “Of course I do!” I answered with as much enthusiasm as I could muster up. “I probably just don’t like living in Murray Hill.”

  He raised his eyebrows and chuckled slightly. “Well, I can’t blame you for that.” Resuming his normal demeanor he turned his attention back to his dinner.

  I twirled my food around with my fork for a moment before taking a bite.

  “Let me ask you a question,” I uttered softly, suddenly nervous about his answer. “Do you ever think about moving out of New York?”

  “No,” he shook his head. He answered quickly and confidently. “All of the doctoral programs I applied to are here in New York. The furthest one is Hofstra University in Long Island. It’s not in the city, but it’s only about an hour on the train.