"Stop smoking in the store." Two skinny fingers reached and snatched the cigarette from Milo's mouth. She was wedged in the doorway of the bookstore blowing smoke through the crack.
"I'm not in the store." she snapped "God dammit Jimmy, do you know what a pack of smokes fucking costs in this city? You just wasted at least fifty cents."
She turned, shut the door with her foot, and flipped the lock. She narrowed her eyes at her box, a short fifty something with ugly round glasses and too much hair.
Jimmy snorted and turned around. "Move to Jersey. Look, I don't fucking care. Just finish inventory and get the hell out." His voice faded as he weaved through the shelves.
Milo worked in a bookshop. Not a charming, creative, meet the love of your life type of shop. More like a dingy, outdated, pushed to the brink of death by Barnes and Noble kind of place. Jimmy's father had opened the shop in the seventies and Jimmy's familial guilt kept it alive. Shoved in the cracks between Hell's Kitchen and the Upper West Side, the shop doors only really saw tourists and the butts of Milo's cigarettes.
Milo rolled her eyes and popped open the tin of mints she hid behind the register. She rolled it between her back teeth and scanned the inventory checklist Jimmy had printed. It was eight thirty and her shift ended at nine. She pushed her weight off the counter and turned to grab her coat.
"Looks good, Jim!" Her right arm through the sleeve.
"Did you double check historical fiction?"
Left arm. "All perfect!"
"You didn't unpack the new King books like I asked."
Yanked up her zipper. "Uh huh. Everything's squared away." Pulled her knit beanie over her head.
"Amelia! It's not even nine." His voice moved closer.
She darted to the front. "Milo, thanks. You have a good weekend, too! See you Monday." And with a twist on the lock and a hard shove, Milo was out, met with the biting city wind. It was March, not quite winter cold, definitely not spring warm.
She threw her hand out, hailed the closest cab, and threw herself inside. She lived in Greenwich, not quite her father's sprawl at 443, but a striking brownstone, nonetheless. She always took cabs; she was raised to hate the trains.
She tipped the driver and pushed the door shut with her foot. The lights were already on when she walked through the front door. Her friend, Leo, sat cross-legged on her couch, grapes from her kitchen in hand. He grinned as she hung up her coat.
"Your emergencies only key works well I see." Milo muttered.
"I got you a new top for tonight." He pointed to the Barney's bag on the hall table. Milo quirked an eyebrow and dug into it, retrieving a red tank top.
"Lots of cleavage." She noted. "Wouldn't expect anything less."
Leo snorted a laugh. "Go get ready, I told them we'd be there at ten." It was already just passed nine. Milo climbed the stairs to her second floor, tossed her new shirt onto her bed. She stripped herself of her work clothes and shed them into the hamper.
"Quinn's coming, right?" Milo called through the open door as a she yanked on a pair of slouchy skater jeans.
"Is he? I don't care." Leo called. Milo smiled and rolled her eyes.
Leo was the closest thing Milo could call to a best friend. They fought like siblings. They'd met in high school at Dalton and both went to Columbia. Leo graduated early; Milo dropped out.
"So, you won't be waking up in his bed tomorrow morning?"
"Definitely not. He never lets me stay the night."
Milo quickly filled in her eyebrows and dabbed perfume on her wrists. Leo stood from the couch as she re-entered the living room.
"It looks good on you." he remarked.
"Duh. You picked it out."
They were headed to a hole in the wall bar in Soho, much to Leo's chagrin. He was more of a lounge off Fifth Avenue type. So was Milo, by birthright, but she liked to pretend she wasn't raised with a bedroom overlooking the reservoir. And, so, when it was Milo's night to choose their venue, they prowled open mics in lower Manhattan, never stepping a hair above the Flower District on twenty-eighth.
They took a cab and bickered until it stopped. Milo hopped out first and rubbed her arms, wished she had brought a jacket.
"Head in, I'll join in a few." she said, yanking her cigarettes out of her back pocket.
Leo scrunched his nose. "Gross."
When he disappeared into the bar, Milo leaned against the wall beside the door. She watched people rush by ahead of her and popped a cigarette into her mouth. She cupped her hand around the end to shield it from the wind and flicked her lighter.
"'Scuse me, but can I steal a light?" A man interrupted. She looked up and quickly lit her cigarette. He was tall, wore a black hoodie and sunglasses. He had on a yellow baseball cap that read "Free and Easy" and his brown hair stuck out from underneath. Milo didn't say anything, just lifted her hand to offer the lighter. He took it and moved to lean on the wall beside her. He lit his own cigarette and handed it back.
"They say smoking's pretty bad for you." He said. He had an accent that Milo thought might be British.
"Whatever kills me the quickest." she said. She exhaled the smoke through her nose and watched the cars drive past.
"You don't mean that." he said. Milo could see him watching her out of the corner of her eye. "Or else you would've done it yourself."
She snorted and pushed herself off the wall. She dropped her half-smoked cigarette and pressed into it with her heel. She smirked at the man as she walked to the door of the bar.
"Don't tempt me."
She left him there, in the cold, and dove into the sea of sweat and beer inside the bar. Some poor girl had the microphone, singing a sad rendition of Bob Dylan, and the rest of the room talked over her. Milo's friends were crammed into a corner booth and she elbowed her way through the crowd to reach them. Leo was already seated across the table from Quinn.
They were an interesting group. Leo, Quinn, Vivienne, Max, and Milo. Max was like Leo and Milo, Manhattan trust-fund babies. Born and bred on the upper east side. Max and Milo hooked up for years, through their years at Dalton and into college, but it never really meant anything to her. He was too blonde, too nice for her to fall in love with.
Viv's parents were Brooklyn wealthy. The Park Slope townhouse, vacation home in Hudson instead of the Hamptons type. The group had picked Vivienne up at Columbia and she'd stuck around ever since. As for Quinn, Milo didn't mind him, but she didn't much like him. She let him stick around because, eventually, he and Leo would stop hooking up and admit they were in love with each other.
Milo slid into the booth next to Max. He threw am arm around her shoulder and passed her a drink with the other.
"Vodka soda." he shouted over the noise. In response, she downed it in one go. "Easy, tiger."
She scoffed and took his drink from his hand. "Fuck off."
"How was work?" Vivienne asked, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Viv was Greek, olive skin and thick eyebrows, and she never shut up about it.
Milo shrugged. "Usual."
"Can you please fucking quit already?" Vivienne moaned. "It's not like you need it."
Milo shook her head. "I need something to do every day or else I'll go insane."
"Columbia." Max drawled from beside her. Milo rolled her eyes and finished his drink.
Milo had dropped out of Columbia as soon as she realized that she didn't know why she was there. Sure, an English degree, but then what?
Classic literature had been her mother's thing. Elizabeth Whiteford had headed boards for historical literature societies and hosted annual charity galas for the New York Public Library. Growing up, Milo wanted to be just like her.
But then, in the middle of Milo's junior year of high school, her mother killed herself. Left Milo's father's birthday party complaining of a headache and went to bed with an entire bottle of Xanax in her stomach.
Milo tried desperately, then, to continue her mother's legacy. Accepting awards in her mother's honor, putting on fake smiles and accepting condolences at all the same galas. Then one day, two years into Columbia, she woke up. Her mother was dead, a legacy was bullshit, and she fucking hated Shakespeare anyway.
Milo shook her head, breaking the thought. She smacked her hand on the table and stood up.
"Whatever, I'm not talking about this. I'm going to get another round."
By midnight, Leo had left with Quinn. Vivienne was on a guy's lap next to the bar, Max was making puppy-dog eyes at Vivienne from across the room, and Milo was finally drunk enough to take the microphone.
The owner knew Milo well enough to introduce her. She only sang late in the evening, once everyone in the room was drunk enough that they didn't really pay attention. She'd borrowed a guitar from the owner and strummed it a few times before the crowd. Most people in the room didn't even glance her way, just as she liked it. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and began to sing.
It was an original. The songs she sang in these stale bars always were. She was a good singer, but her songs were better. The song she'd chosen tonight had been one she'd written right after she dropped out. She'd been drunk one night on the roof of the building she grew up in. As she sang, swaying slightly from the vodka, she swore she could smell her mother's perfume.
She always kept her eyes closed as she performed. She didn't perform to be seen. She did it because it was the only time she ever felt normal, like her chest didn't weight a thousand pounds. She did it for herself.
There was a quiet applause when she finished, drowned out by conversation. She opened her eyes and scanned the room. Her booth was empty, except for Max. When she looked to the bar, her gaze was met with the stranger that had borrowed her lighter earlier in the night. He stood beside the bar, shot glass in hand, this time without the sunglasses.
Milo looked away and handed the guitar back to the bar owner. He patted her on the shoulder, offered her a "good job," and she nodded in return.
"You were great." Max told her after she elbowed her way back to the table. She slid into the booth, across from him this time.
"Shut up." she said, smiling. "Should you be making a move on Vivienne or something?"
Max barked a laugh. "Low blow, Amelia. But you're right, it does look like she needs another drink." He stood.
"Call me by my real name again and you're uninvited out next week."
"Ah, but Amelia, next week is my turn to pick!" he called over his shoulder has he walked away.
Milo rolled her eyes but couldn't fight the smile growing on her lips. She loved Max, in her own way. She was never in love with him, certainly never would be, but she loved him.
"Whose song was that?" A voice broke Milo's focus. The stranger from outside slid into the booth across from her and passed a glass across the table.
Milo's eyebrows knit. "What is that?"
The man glanced at the glass. "Scotch. My question?"
She picked up the glass and swirled it around. "Do you think I'm fucking seventy?"
"Where did you get the fucking song?" he said, calmly. Milo could tell her was irritated, however, by the way he drummed his fingers on the table. They were long, covered in rings.
She studied him for a moment. He wore a black button down, half undone with sleeves that rolled above his elbows. He still donned the cap. He was hunched over the table, pupils dilated.
She leaned back and downed the glass of scotch. "Hope you didn't put anything in it. Anyway, do I know you? You look sort of familiar." She crossed her arms over her chest and pressed the empty glass to her lips, contemplating him.
"I asked first."
Milo sighed. "I wrote it."
"How the hell did you come up with it?" he asked, looking at her eagerly.
Milo sat the glass down and leaned forward. They were both hunched over the table then, staring at the same level. The alcohol left Milo feeling playful.
She clicked her tongue. "My question."
"We don't know each other."
"Not what I asked." she shot back.
He hesitated. "You may know me. I don't know." he finally said, slowly. "Who taught you to write songs like that?"
Milo could barely hear him over the noise of the room. She looked at him for a moment and he cocked his head.
"No one." she said.
"It was incredible. Your words, your rhythm. You're talented." he said. "I want you to write songs for me."
Milo laughed. "That's got to be one of the worst pick-up lines I've ever heard.
His brows furrowed. "What? No, that's not-" he sighed. "Look, I'll pay you."
Milo snorted a laugh again. "Fuck, I didn't think I gave off that energy. I mean, hey, I'm sure there are plenty of lovely women in this city whose company you can buy, but I am not one of them." She moved to stand.
He slapped a hand to his face. "Fucking hell, that's not what I-"
"Lovely meeting you. Thanks for the drink." And with that, she disappeared into the crowd. As she pushed through sweaty bodies, she heard the man shout behind her. She sped up then. While she initially thought the encounter to be funny, she didn't want to be chased. She began to feel panicked.
She broke through the crowd and shoved open the door, intending to jump into the first cab she saw, but was met instead with flashing lights. She froze brought up a hand to shield her face. She was surrounded by shouting, by a lot of words she couldn't understand. She felt someone come up and stand behind her.
"I didn't mean to apply you were a prostitute. I wasn't coming on to you." It was the man from inside. She whipped around to face him, dumbfounded.
"Harry! Harry, over here!"
"Harry, who's this?"
"What the fu-" Milo began.
"Follow me." he commanded, quietly. "Stick close. I'm sorry."
Overwhelmed and confused, Milo obliged. He led her through the pack of a dozen or so photographers that cluttered the sidewalk and stopped at a black SUV on the curb. Milo kept her hands in front of her face.
"I'll explain everything. Let me at least drive you home." His voice was muffled by the shouting photographers.
She dumbly nodded and he opened the back door of the car for her. She climbed in and he followed. Once the door was shut and the car was quiet, Milo's anger settled in.
"What the hell was that?" she snapped. "Who are you?"
He pinched the bridge of his nose and winced. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm harry."
"Sort of fucking gathered that much."
As the car began to move, Milo relayed her address to the driver over the center console.
"I'm a musician. Mainly a singer." he said. "That's why I asked you about your song, not because I was fucking hitting on you."
"What's your last name?" she asked, her tone accusing. Harry leaned back, his body sprawled across the seat, and covered his hand with his face.
"Styles." he muttered.
Milo had heard of him. The dots began to connect in her mind. Vivienne would play his music at her loft from time to time. Milo stared out the window, watching the late traffic. Her anger simmered and was replaced with irritation.
The drive to her brownstone was short. When the car stopped, Milo muttered a quick thanks to the driver and hopped out. As she approached her front staircase, she heard the car window roll down.
"Hey," Harry called. "So?"
Milo turned around. "So what?"
He lazily leaned his head out the window to stare her down, his sunglasses back on his face. "Will you write songs for me?"
Milo laughed in disbelief and turned around. "No." she called over her shoulder as she climbed the steps.
He scoffed. "I said I'd fucking pay you."
Milo paused as she opened her front door. "The last thing I need is more fucking money."
Before he could respond, she entered her townhome and slammed the door shut behind her.