February 1st.
The moving truck arrived at 8 AM. It wasn't a real truck – just Marco's old van, borrowed for the day. Marco drove. Mr. Chen sat in the passenger seat. Leo and Maya sat in the back, surrounded by boxes.
The new apartment was on Crown Street, third floor, walk-up. No elevator. The stairs were narrow. The walls were painted a color the landlord called "eggshell" but looked like off-white.
They carried boxes for four hours.
Maya's arms ached. Her back ached. Her legs ached.
Leo set down the last box in the living room. "We're done."
"We're not done. We have to unpack."
"That's tomorrow's problem."
He sat on the floor. The hardwood was cold. Maya sat next to him.
Marco and Mr. Chen brought up pizza. They ate on the floor, using boxes as tables.
"It's not the old building," Marco said, "but it's nice."
"It's smaller," Mr. Chen said.
"It's ours," Maya said.
They ate in silence. The pizza was from a place on Nostrand. It was greasy. The crust was soggy. Maya didn't care.
---
That night, Maya lay on the mattress – the same mattress from 4C, now on the floor of the new bedroom.
Leo lay next to her.
"I can't sleep," she said.
"Neither can I."
"What are you thinking about?"
"The roof. The garden. The water tank."
"Me too."
Leo turned to face her. "Do you regret leaving?"
"No. But I miss it."
"Missing something isn't the same as regretting it."
She touched his face. His jaw was rough with stubble. "When did you get so wise?"
"I've always been wise. You just weren't listening."
She kissed him. The room was dark. The streetlight came through the window.
---
The next morning, Maya unpacked the kitchen.
The hot plate. The single-cup coffee maker. The lopsided ceramic bowl she'd made in a community class two years ago.
She put the bowl on the counter. It looked out of place. Everything looked out of place.
Leo came in with a box of art supplies. "Where do you want these?"
"The second bedroom. It's going to be my studio."
"You're going to draw again?"
"I'm going to try."
He set the box in the second bedroom. The room was small – barely big enough for a desk and an easel. But it had a window that faced east. The morning light would be good.
Maya stood in the middle of the room. "It's not the roof."
"Nothing is."
"But it's something."
"It's something."
---
She spent the day arranging the studio.
The desk from her old apartment – a door laid over two filing cabinets. The folding chair. The sketchbooks. The pencils. The paints.
Leo had brought the painting – the one of her face, the garden, the water tank, Mrs. Patterson on the milk crate. He hung it on the wall of the living room.
"It looks good there," Maya said.
"It looks like home."
She stood next to him. The painting stared back at her. Her own face. Mrs. Patterson's face.
"She would have liked this apartment," Maya said.
"She would have said the rent is too high."
Maya almost smiled. "She would have been right."
---
That afternoon, Maya called Mr. Delgado.
He answered on the third ring. "Hello?"
"It's Maya. How are you?"
"I'm still here. In the building."
"The building is empty."
"I know. I don't care."
Maya sat on the floor. The hardwood was cold. "The developer is going to demolish it in March."
"March is a long way away."
"Mr. Delgado –"
"I'm not leaving until I have to. And maybe not even then."
He hung up.
Maya stared at her phone.
Leo came in. "What did he say?"
"He's not leaving."
"He's stubborn."
"Like someone else I know."
Leo raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
"You."
He sat next to her. "He'll leave when the building comes down. He has no choice."
"He has a daughter in Ohio."
"Then maybe he'll go there."
Maya leaned her head on his shoulder. "I hope so."