June 12, 2020 · 8:27 PM
Apartment 4B — Riverton Tenement, East Harlem.
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River gets home twenty-two minutes after PearlGrove. The city's cacophony still clings to her clothes like static. The apartment, a testament to shared history and finances, greets her like a tired friend who waits with a lukewarm cup of coffee. Two bedrooms, one bath, a couch that has no business surviving another winter, its springs groaning a weary protest, and a smart TV that looks too proud to be on layaway, its screen a silent sentinel. Canvases, vibrant with James's artistic ambition, lean industry-lean against the walls, small explosions of color shoved into corners and on an easel that never seems to be empty, perpetually mid-creation. The place is clean in that anxious way only someone who works twelve-hour shifts can keep it. River herself, with her recent hospital visit and the weight of the city, is the lone chaos.
She kicks off her worn sneakers; the cool tile of the entryway is a small, welcome relief against her tired feet. She lets her messy bun fall, her fingers instinctively raking through the damp, tight curls that spring free, a cascade of dark waves. Then she pads toward the couch, like a woman who knows her exact degree of collapse. She props her feet on the skinny coffee table, wincing slightly as she rubs at sore knees, the echoes of a long day on her feet lingering. With a sigh, she peels off her blazer and blouse, letting the cooler air trace the curve of her shoulders and neck, a small release from the corporate armor. Faint scars map the center of her sternum, old graffiti she reads once in a while when she wants to remember that surviving is not a miracle, but an unforgiving job.
Her eyes close for a blessed, fleeting second, chasing a moment of stillness. A sharp, metallic clang from the kitchen above shatters the fragile peace, making her snap upright, every nerve ending alert, an ear already tuned to crisis.
"Jesus, you moron!" James's roar reverberates down the stairwell, the kind of profanity that, in their apartment, often doubles as a loving, exasperated curse.
River bolts to her feet, a flicker of genuine alarm piercing her exhaustion. "That's not good," she murmurs to herself, then calls up the stairs, her voice steady despite the sudden, hard beat of her heart. "James? Everything alright up there?"
No answer. Only the kind of profound silence that smells faintly of fresh disaster. River pads up the worn wooden stairs, each step a soft thud, her senses on high alert. She freezes at the wide kitchen doorway; the scene unfolds before her like a surreal still life.
James Bordeaux stands over a small, tipped bucket of vivid red oil paint, his posture of tragic resignation and absurd helplessness. The paint spiderwebs across the white countertop, a crimson tide creeping toward the edge, and splatters the cupboards in a chaotic pattern that, if you squint, might almost look intentional. James himself is a figure of sculpted frustration, tall and lean, his shoulders broad enough that his dark ribbed short sleeve shirt strains slightly at the seams, clinging to his torso. His medium-length dark waves brush his collar, catching the dim kitchen light as he tilts his head, framing a short, well-groomed beard that, in this moment, makes his glare look like a personal indictment against the innocent cabinetry. A thin silver chain gleams at the hollow of his throat. His bare toes peek from the rolled hem of his pants, each one smeared red, making every hesitant step a reluctant, accidental signature on the floor.
"Huh. Even when you fuck up, you make art," River says, the corners of her lips twitching upward in a weary, territorial humor. She folds her arms across her torso. "Ready for your first solo exhibition, James?"
James ruffles his paint-flecked hair, exhaling a long, ragged breath, like he's been holding it since morning, caught in this precise moment of artistic calamity. "Do you have to joke, River?" James asks, the question folding into a tired, almost defeated chuckle. "Seriously? Not even a little help?"
River meets his gaze, a half-apology in the slight shrug of her shoulders. "Maybe. Sorry about the paint. But you know I can't touch oil paint. I'd just track it everywhere, make it worse. Besides, you're the master of messy masterpieces, aren't you?"
James turns on the heel of his foot, a fresh fleck of red paint clinging to his forearm, and freezes when he sees River standing by the sink in her undershirt and skirt. His eyes, dark and expressive, track the curve of her waist.
"River, for God's sake, put on your blazer!" James snaps, the scold softening immediately, a familiar warmth bleeding into his tone. "My friends are going to be here any minute." The moment stretches, ridiculous in its current context, yet suddenly private as James's gaze lingers. Not quite in judgment, but in something close to admiration, tracing the geography of River's skin.
"You never had a problem with me in my tank top around them before," River observes, a faint, almost imperceptible raising of one eyebrow, the gray flecks in her eyes doing their subtle, fancy work, mirroring the question in her voice. She knows the unspoken tension this brings.
James sees the shift in River's tone, the quiet challenge. He visibly presses down his frustration. They've been through schoolyard wars and stupid bravado and quiet, late-night promises; grown-up fear is different, more insidious, but it still feels like training wheels, unsteady and prone to falling.
"That's because I used to need to be a human shield for my perverted friends," James says, the words half-joke, half-terrible, defensive truth. He turns back to the spill, grabbing a rag and a bottle of remover like a man who rehearses this ritual countless times.
River leans against the sink, her weight on one hip, watching James wrestle with the spreading disaster.
"I'm not putting on my blazer," River reiterates, her voice a low, almost weary dismissal. "I'm also not getting involved in this paint fiasco. You handle your own art crimes. I'm going to grab clothes and take a shower. I still have to send that work email."
James flinches, the rag stilling in his hand. He flings a hand toward the splattered cupboards, paint flecking his knuckles. "Seriously?" he snaps, his voice cracking between exasperation and a deeply felt hurt.
"Bills do not negotiate, James," she replies, the words clipped, an undeniable truth. She turns and walks out of the kitchen, the scrape of her bare feet on the tile keeping time with James's suddenly rising complaint, a sharp staccato against the silence of their fractured understanding.
James mumbles at the floor, at the relentless cleanup, and then, quieter, a private concession that twists River's gut. "God, that woman," he mutters, the words barely audible.
River, her shoulders hunched, walks back down to the living room, grabbing her laptop on the way. She plugs it in, watching the email client load at a glacial pace, frustration hums in her chest, a dull ache beneath her sternum. Since the emails stubbornly refuse to load, she gives up, heading to the guest bathroom downstairs. She strips again, letting her clothes drop to the floor.
The shower is quick, hot, and aggressively forceful, scrubbing away the lingering hospital scent, the paint smell, and the raw anxiety that clings to her. She pulls on clean, worn sweats and a faded t-shirt, tying her still-damp curls into a fast, loose knot. When she returns to the laptop, the screen still stubbornly reads Loading. She sighs, accepting the delay with a weary resignation.
Her phone, resting on the coffee table, immediately rings, its insistent buzz shattering the fragile quiet. The screen flashes: OBI MURPHY, CEO. River's shoulders tense. This is not a social call.
She answers, already standing straighter, her voice morphing into the calm, controlled tone she reserves for professional crises. "Obi, what's up? I'm off shift, you know that."
"River, thank God," Obi says, her voice strained and clipped, a clear indication of high stress. A flurry of electronic beeps and clicks echo in the background from her end. "Look, I'm getting slammed with calls and emails. That franchise deal. The one you brokered? The team is in a total uproar. They think we sold out and they're all out of jobs, effective immediately. I need you to come in."
River, twenty-seven and already overseeing logistics for a company, tightens her jaw. She can practically hear the panic in the break room. "They're not out of jobs, Obi. They're getting loyalty packages. Generous ones. That's the good news. But I don't want to release that news until the checks drop in their hands physically. We tell them early, we have a bigger problem."
"They're forming a mob, River, and I'm dealing with the lawyers and the new liaison simultaneously from that company," Obi urges, her voice bordering on frantic. "They need assurance, now. Good news is good news, deal or no deal. Please, I need you on the floor. I know you want to move on to corporate, but I need you here. Stay on as GM, just for a few more months. We can talk about a raise, a new title..."
River runs a hand through her damp hair, frustration battling her deep-seated desire to finally move on, to step out of this life she built for her mother and James. "I'm not coming in, Obi. I'll call Victor. He's been there eight years, he can handle the floor. I'll craft an email and send it out to the whole team to explain that the deal is beneficial and job-secure for the immediate future, with details on their packages. That should buy us forty-eight hours."
"God bless you, River," Obi says, her relief audible, but not total. "Just get it done. And think about what I said. We need you." The line clicks dead before River can respond.
River hangs up and immediately calls Victor Blanchard. The phone rings four times, each ring a drumbeat of increasing annoyance, before a clipped, resentful voice answers.
"This better be good, Kennedi," Victor snaps. Victor, eight years on the job, barely tolerates River, the kid who was hired at twelve and now, at twenty-seven, is her General Manager.
"Victor, I need you to run the floor tonight, and tomorrow morning until noon," River says, cutting straight to business, ignoring the venom in Victor's voice. "Since the deal is closed, and the team's panicking. You need to maintain order and tell them an email is coming. Wait for my email before saying anything specific."
Victor's contempt thickens, practically dripping through the phone. "Your email? After your deal, Kennedi? You're the one who sold them out. Why don't you explain it? Or are you too good for the grunt work now that you're hobnobbing with... corporate?" The last word is spat out.
"Because I am handling the paperwork that makes sure their severance checks are correct, and I am the only one authorized to do it," River responds, her voice devoid of emotion. "You run the store. I'll handle the crisis management. This is an order, Victor. And I expect it to be followed."
A reluctant, resentful sigh travels through the line, a clear admission of defeat. "Fine. But you owe me, kid. Big time."
"Yeah, that's not how this works," River says, her voice flat, and ends the call.
She opens a new document to draft the email, but the words escape her. How does she tell people they're suddenly rich but also, effectively, out of a job they've held for years? She stares at the cursor, blinking uselessly against the stark white page, her mind a blank.
Suddenly, her laptop pings, a cascade of notifications. All the delayed emails flood in, a torrent of missed messages and overdue updates. She glances down, ignoring the familiar company rejections and spam, and her eyes lock on one with an unfamiliar, yet imposing domain: @blackwell.com.
"It's here," she whispers. The words are an exhale that tastes like both triumph and terror, a complex mix of emotions she can't untangle.
The sender's name, clear and bold beneath the imposing domain, stabs into her gut, both a validation and a terrifying promise. She reads the subject line once, twice; her heart thrums in her chest. An invitation. A deadline. A terrifying game-changer, the direct path to the corporate journey she finished college for a year ago.
A firm, impatient knock at the downstairs door rips her from the screen, yanking her back to the harsh realities of her evening.
"Who the hell is that?" James's voice floats down from the kitchen, laced with a fresh note of annoyance. "I told my friends not to come by."
River, still reeling from the email, pulls her composure back into place, forcing a mask of indifference onto her face. She pads down the stairs and opens the door just enough to block the small entryway; her body is a silent barrier.
Cassandra 'Cassie' Mallaca stands there. She wears an oversized dark hoodie and large, bulky sweatpants, her usual form hidden beneath layers of fabric. A canvas tote bag is slung across her front, its bulk helping to conceal her midsection. Her face, usually open and expressive, is drawn and pale, but her eyes, those same soft brown eyes James once adored, are now sharp with accusation, fixed on River.
"River," she says, her voice low, tight, and dangerous, laced with years of resentment.
"Cassie. What do you want?" River asks, her voice deliberately flat, not moving to let her in, her heart already bracing for impact. She hasn't seen her in months, not since their last run-in at a Brooklyn bodega.
"I want to talk to James," she bites out, her eyes narrowing. "Or do you still think you own him, after all these years? Do you still think you can decide who gets to see him?" Her words are a sharp, painful jab, aimed right at the heart of their tangled history, a wound that never truly heals.
River feels a familiar ache, a pang of genuine regret for the hurt she knows she carries. She understands her pain, the way James strung her along, broken promises. "Cassie, I don't own James. No one does. He makes his own choices," River replies, her voice softer than Cassie probably expects, completely devoid of the cockiness she accuses her of. "And he chose to be with me. You know that. It hurt you, and I'm truly sorry for that, but it was his decision."
She scoffs, a brittle, humorless sound. "His decision? Or your manipulation? Don't you dare act innocent, River. You always had your hooks in him. But this is important! More important than your little games." She surges forward, a sudden, desperate movement. River, caught off guard, stumbles back as she pushes past her shoulder, her unexpected force throwing her slightly off balance. She regains her footing, glaring, the canvas tote swinging wildly as she stomps into the living room.
She takes one furious step, then stops, scanning the room for James, her breathing ragged.
James descends the stairs, a rag still clutched in his hand, a look of utter confusion on his face, drawn by the shouting. "Cassie? What are you doing here? I thought we—" His words trail off, uncertainty clouding his features.
Cassie ignores River entirely, her gaze locks onto James, a fierce desperation in her eyes. She pulls the bulky hoodie tighter around her, her voice trembling, on the verge of breaking. "The hospital bills, James. They're piling up. The doctor said I owe them. The last test was expensive."
James looks from River, who is now frozen, to Cassie, his face baffled, then back to River. "I owe a doctor money? Cassie, what are you talking about? I haven't seen a doctor—"
She cuts him off, her voice thick with unshed tears. With a desperate heave, she drops the bulky tote bag to the floor, and the thin shield of fabric is gone. She looks right at James, her eyes glistening. "I wasn't going to tell you anything at all," she whispers, the admission broken, raw. "I was going to figure it out myself. But I don't know what else to do. I can't afford this on my own."
The air solidifies, heavy and suffocating. River watches James's eyes, sees them drop to Cassie's midsection, to the slight but unmistakable roundness beneath the cheap cotton of her sweatshirt. She sees the realization dawn on James's face, slow and horrific, wiping away all confusion, leaving only a stark, disbelieving horror. James's jaw goes slack.
"I'm pregnant," she announces.
River feels a cold, sickening lurch in her own gut. She whispers, her voice barely a breath, "Wow. That's a fucking nuclear bomb if I've ever experienced one."
James finally tears his gaze from Cassie's stomach, his eyes wide, pleading, and desperate, fixed on River. He raises a hand, a silent appeal. "River, wait. Please. It's not what it looks like."
River lets out a short, incredulous laugh that holds zero humor, a choked sound of pure disbelief. She looks at Cassie, who is definitely not small, whose secret just exploded in their living room. She looks back at James, who is currently imploding, his carefully constructed world collapsing.
"I don't know, James," River says, folding her arms across her chest again, the gray in her eye doing terrifying, assessing work. "She seems pretty fucking pregnant to me. And somehow, that looks exactly like what it is."
River doesn't wait for the inevitable plea, the broken explanation, the fresh wave of lies. Her hope, the tiny, stubborn flickering flame she kept alive during their year-long break, is extinguished with the finality of a drowned match. She turns from them both. From the distraught, pregnant woman, from the stunned, imploding father-to-be, and walks back up the stairs, the sound of her feet on the worn wood loud enough to cover the shattering of her heart.
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