Free How Many Letters Are In Goodbye? by Yvonne Cassidy

drink from last night. The light is bright, reflecting off the glass of one of the buildings, and I don’t know if that’s making me dizzy or if it was the way he spun me around or both. I take his hand off my shoulder, make a space between us. “Come on, let’s not talk right outside, she’s probably watching us.”
    He pulls the piece of paper from his pocket. “830 Park Avenue, Apartment 78A. That’s the Upper East Side, Rhea! Park Avenue! You’re rich, Irish bullhead!”
    I need to breathe, find my voice. “Serg—”
    â€œLet’s walk over there now, check it out.”
    â€œSerg, it’s all the way on the other side of the park. It’s going to take us an hour to get there, more.”
    â€œOkay, so come on, let’s go!” He’s walking backwards, facing me, his arms outstretched. “The longer we hang around here, the longer it’ll take.”
    My feet won’t move. I want to get away from this building, from the girl and her computer, but it’s like the day they wouldn’t move to take me inside the gate—now they won’t move to let me out.
    â€œWe don’t have time,” I go. “You’ve to meet Michael at six? Remember?”
    Sergei frowns. “So, I’ll be late. He’ll wait.”
    I raise my eyebrows. “Serg, you told me he had somewhere specific he wanted to take you. He’s already pissed off after last night.”
    He makes a face, blows his curls from his forehead. “So what?”
    â€œSo, Michael’s is the only security we have right now. Don’t blow it, Serg, please.”
    He kicks his runner out to swipe the edge of the grass border, his face a frown. I’m pretending this conversation is about Michael, but it’s not, it’s about something else. I just don’t know what yet.
    â€œOkay, then.” Sergei sighs, folds his arms. “I’ll be a good little boy and be on time for Michael. So we can sleep at the apartment tonight and go there tomorrow. Early, though, okay? I don’t want to hang out for hours watching dumb American TV.”
    â€œOkay.”
    I smile, relief floods in. He gives me a high five and I high five him back. We’d started doing it the week we met, taking the piss out of some people we saw at the Y doing it for real, but now I think we both like it.
    We take the subway back together. It’s too crowded to talk, and I’m glad we don’t have to. My stop is before his, 42nd Street.
    â€œYou going for pizza to the usual spot?” Serg goes.
    I shake my head. “I’m going to change it up tonight. I’m going to Grand Central.”
    â€œSee you back at Michael’s, come over early. We won’t be late tonight.”
    That’s the last thing he says before the doors close and I wave at him through the glass even though he’s already turned away. I let myself be carried by the flood of people over to the S line. I like the S, because it only has two stops and because there’s always a train there and because it only takes a minute.
    When I get to Grand Central, there are signs to the 4, 5, and 6 trains, the green ones that go up the east side of the park. I could take one of those trains—I’m in the station already, I wouldn’t need another token. I’d get out at 68th or maybe 77th and I could walk over to Park Avenue and walk right up to number 830, the building where you used to live.
    And after all this time, after all this waiting, I don’t know why I don’t. Except I want to stay here in the station and sit down, and eat a black and white cookie, one of the big ones, even though the prices are a rip-off, even though it won’t fill me up like the pizza would. And after all this waiting, what does waiting another day matter anyway? I don’t think it matters at all.
    Rhea
    Grand Central Station, New York
27th April 1999
10:12 p.m.
    Dear