On the opposite side of the station, a subway that isn't ours comes screaming along the tracks.
A dozen or so board it. Less than a minute later, it's screaming again and echoing down the darkness of the tunnel.
The subway's lights fade away soon after.
Leaning against one of the platform's painted blue pillars, I watch the subway tunnel until I can't hear a whisper of the train anymore. I only glance to Maven, who stares onward across the tracks, before returning my eyes to the tunnel.
It's past eleven now, after the half-mile walk from Shade's apartment that got us here. To a subway station beneath Little Italy, same as all of the others in the city with its dirty tiles and fluorescent lights.
Same as the one I came from on my way here, same as the one Maven followed me from. Regardless of what Shade says, my body finds the air cold, the air of this underground subway station colder.
When I returned to the foyer and told Maven we had to go, he seemed almost reluctant, caught up in some sort of logistical conversation—security codes and key card access, I heard—with Farley and Ada. He was right between the two of them at the kitchen island, drawing homemade blueprints of his father's office in the Calore's downtown building, spouting out passwords and numbers that he knew off the top of his head. Though I still saw that quiet numbness in his eyes as I bid the Street Fighters goodbye, gave my brother a hug, and pulled him out of the apartment building.
We walked fast, and I explained Evangeline's situation on the way over. She and some other girl were in a car accident right off the highway at the edge of the Upper East Side, though Cal didn't tell me any more about what caused the crash. The girl managed to get off with a few cuts and mild whiplash, though Evangeline tore a knee ligament and gave herself a concussion on the steering wheel. It was enough of a conversation to keep me and Maven busy talking on the way here, but now that we have nothing to do but wait, both of us have gone silent.
I want to say I'm sorry, even when a part of me at large doesn't regret what I did today. I want to hold his hand, ask him if he's okay after everything he learned tonight. But the silence, the cold . . . they freeze me in place.
My betrayal was vindicated by Farley's mother and sister, but that doesn't change the fact that I went behind Maven's back. And I'll never forget that.
I can't decide if I'm happy that we're nearly alone in the station. A couple of women wait down the way, and a boy and girl, no older than me and Maven, hold hands near the end of the platform. A man by himself watches something on his phone not far from us, and a woman descends the steps on the station's other side. But none of them speak. None of us speak. The subway's strange in that way, how one hour it can be the loudest place you've ever seen and the somberest, most noiseless the next.
But I'm still staring at the tunnel when Maven comes around the pillar, leaning his back against it next to me. His hand brushes mine as he bows his head to my ear.
"I didn't know you had a MetroCard." Humor laces his whisper.
At least he's talking. Squeezing the card in between my fingers, I turn to him so that my shoulder's against the pillar. "I bought it this weekend." Stupidly, I might add, after having this idea that taking the subway to see my family would become a regular thing. "I didn't know you rode the subway."
"Only on special occasions."
I laugh, but just for something to do. Maven's eyes implore mine, begging me not to look away and back towards the tracks. There's a desperation in them that I haven't seen before, along with too many other emotions. His hand brushes mine again, but this time it stays when his fingers interlace with mine. They're cold, far colder than this subway station.
On instinct, my fingers tighten around his. It's the second time I've held his hand, the first at the restaurant on Sunday. And though I called it friendly then, I remember that blush. So I don't know what to make of this now, Maven and I inches apart and holding hands. But I don't think I mind whatever it is either.
"I'm sorry," I mutter, shaking my head. Those two words might as well mean anything, considering what's happened in the last two hours. Though it's best that way, me leaving what I say up in the air for Maven to interpret as he'd like. Because I could spend all day apologizing otherwise.
Maven shakes his head right back at me. "No. You don't ever have to say you're sorry to me. Not about this. Never about this."
I don't understand how I'm angrier with myself than he is with me. It doesn't feel right, and yet I can't find anything incriminating in his eyes, exhausted and full of promises all at once. I've never trusted anyone the way I did with Maven tonight, and it's that, I think, that terrifies me more than Farley's rage and Tiberias Calore himself.
It's the fact that I actually believe in him that has my heart racing.
"Well I'm sorry that Farley almost shot you in the head," I mutter with a grin, unable to keep it from popping up. "You have to let me say that."
Maven scoffs. "That woman is terrifying."
"Really? Because you stared right through that pistol and neck tattoo and negotiated no problem." Barely over twenty and already a gang leader, Diana Farley is nothing short of a menace. But Maven stood his ground tonight and talked a good game. "You had her convinced in a matter of minutes."
"If you think that, then you should've heard all of the things she whispered at me during my interrogation. The worst of it came when you were outside with your brother."
I chuckle at the image of Farley sitting in the kitchen with Maven, gun on her hip. I can only laugh about it now, when Maven's out of that apartment building. "Terrifying and crazy, then."
Though as the rumble of the subway filters into the air, Maven narrows his eyes and gives me a look. Terrifying, but not crazy.
I know it too. I say it to make light of what happened in that apartment, but everything that woman does is done for a reason, not because she's crazy. If anything, Farley was holding herself back tonight.
The train lights flood onto the tracks, and Maven and I push off the column.
"Whatever happened this evening," Maven murmurs, keeping his voice quiet, "I don't want anything to change between us. I still want to go out on weekends, and I still want to talk to you about everything."
In spite of how simple it sounds, what he says sends chills skittering down my spine. It's Maven who's kept me sane these weeks, with no family or Kilorn in my life anymore. He's kept me from spending entire weekends at the Academy rehearsing ballet alone, and he's . . . been there to talk to. He knows everything about me there is to know, and against my better judgment, I'm glad for it.
"I still want to talk to you about everything too," I say, the subway pulling into the station and sliding to a halt.
We stand there for a moment, staring at one another. The kindest boy in all of Manhattan, rich-as-shit and smart as hell and an ex-pickpocket, holding hands and staring at each other. It's not a likely combination, but we have our similarities. I have a feeling Maven has just as much to lose if we were to end our weekend outings and chats. He's the second child, the shadow, the boy that nobody's especially interested in when there's Cal to look at. He's muttered enough about his father over the weeks that I can understand why he feels so little emotional attachment towards him, how tonight sickened him enough for him to betray his own name. And I get that more than he knows.
The subway doors glide open, and we step forward together. There are more people on the subway than there are in the station, but we're lucky to find two seats far enough from anybody else.
Maven never lets go of my hand.
The doors close, and the station falls away into darkness.
"Huh."
I turn to Maven and see he's pulled out his phone. "What?"
He smiles. "You know those three with the dyed hair that I was too zoned-out with eavesdropping to notice coming up the stairs?"
"When you put it like that, I guess so."
"They're street dancers. They have like thirty-million followers on TikTok."
Bursting out with laughter, I lean in closer towards Maven's phone.
"I still don't understand why you have to see Evangeline," I say, stomping up the subway steps.
Running a hand through his hair, Maven sighs. "The Calores and the Samoses are old friends, though my being there is just a formality. I barely know Evangeline, honestly."
Night air greets us again as we ascend the last of the steps, and I'm confronted with a scene I stay away from at all costs: the Upper East Side. Classical and upscale it might be, but I prefer to call it plain-snobby. This place shares the eastern edge of Central Park with East Harlem, but I don't kid myself in thinking that the similarities go any further. While my neighborhood is for the poorest of New York, the Upper East Side is for the posh and rich, renowned for its shopping avenues and museums. Though its glamor and glitz fade away somewhere around Ninety-sixth Street, as designer stores and fine dining become the discount outlets and ordinary diners of East Harlem.
In my days of pickpocketing, I more often than not cut through Central Park just to avoid the Upper East Side, though I could've made a hell-of-a profit. Even now, all I see in the brick high rises that surround me are millionaires and privilege and—
Maven's hand is at my back, urging me forward when he's realized I intend to pause and stare.
"I hate the Upper East Side," I mutter, though I pick up my feet.
"Of course you do. Now remember: restaurant with the name we can't remember in SoHo, and I was in the bathroom."
"And why did you miss the first two calls?" I tilt my head and raise a brow, though it's a waste of our time. After I couldn't handle any more of Ella, Tyton, and Rafe's—those are the names of the three famous TikTokers, apparently—street dance videos, Maven and I spent the rest of the ride coming up with a comprehensive cover story, though it was for fun more than out of necessity. Nobody's actually going to care why a teenage boy didn't answer his phone twice.
"I was in a restaurant and figured I could return the call when I got out." Maven says, mockingly rolling his eyes. "When I was in the bathroom, Mare got annoyed at my brother's tenacity and picked up for me."
"Good." It's all I need to say.
Soon enough, we're beneath an awning that extends to the street and turning left for the automatic doors of an emergency room.
Another set of sliding doors and we're in a lobby that's all too cold. Though I haven't been to a hospital in years, I remember begging Mom to go with her and Dad to his first checkup after the accident. I only know that day so well because it was the day I found out Dad wouldn't walk for the rest of his life, and the feeling of that frozen hospital room stuck with me for hours. When I asked Mom why it was so cold in the hospital, she only said it had something to do with keeping things clean.
Only naturally, Evangeline ended up at one of the nicest emergency rooms in Manhattan, its lobby decorated immaculately. Pale blue couches and chairs stand on grey vinyl to my right, backdropped by windows that reveal the street we were just on. Atop black coffee tables, little stone fountains that spew water perch, and the far wall is made up of a massive aquarium, sporting a volley of rainbow fish.
To my left sits a receptionist desk, and ahead is a broad hallway leading to what I can only assume is the actual hospital. Down it, a number of figures stand. Cal's back is to me, along with his father's and Elara's as they speak with two others. Though I have to squint, one of them is a man who has grey hair and black eyes. Evangeline's face is written all over his.
"Unless you plan on paying Evangeline your respects, Lucas is over there," Maven says to me, pointing towards the sitting area. Lounging in one of the chairs that faces the window, Lucas stares straight out it.
"She's not dead," I mumble before crossing my arms. "And I'm the last person she'd want to see. I don't even know her."
"Neither do I," Maven hisses back with a smile. "Goodnight, Mare."
I stand there for a moment, watching my partner. And in his face, I find no shadow, no lie, no regret. It's the only reason I'm able to say what I do.
"Goodnight, Maven."
I trust him.
I trust Maven Calore.
With nothing left to say, I turn my back on him and make for Lucas Samos, the man with the papers I came all the way to the Upper East Side for.
I could've waited until tomorrow to get my new contract, but I wanted to see my new salary on paper. Cal told me that Lucas would bring it over if I was interested, and I could hardly say no to that.
Once I'm over there, I slump into the chair next to Lucas, throwing all posture to hell.
"Long night?" Lucas asks. He should talk, with tired eyes to rival Maven's.
Still, he looks outside, through the window panels that face Seventy-seventh Street. So do I. There isn't much traffic now, and I don't see a single person outside. Brick buildings and pretty trees stare back. A rather boring view, if you ask me.
"You could say that. How's Evangeline?"
Lucas's plain expression twists into somewhat of a frown, and he readjusts in his chair. But my words get him to look at me, black eyes affixing to my own. "Her concussion wasn't as bad as they thought at first, though her newest X-ray shows she broke two ribs. It's the knee that she's going to have to worry about."
He's her cousin, and he wears a somber expression, yet his voice carries little sympathy. Maybe he thinks Evangeline deserved what came to her tonight. "She won't be able to return to the Academy for a year, and that's if she's lucky. I think her mother and father are pissed, more than anything."
Trained to dance for the Calores.
Her mother wanted for Evangeline to become Cal's partner, for whatever reason. Now she can't dance at all.
I don't dare a glance at that hallway again.
"Was it her fault?"
Lucas shrugs. "She said something about not being able to brake at the intersection when they first brought her in, but since then she's been in and out of consciousness. No one really knows, I guess."
As though he forgot why I came, Lucas's eyes widen a bit, and the guard grabs the manila folder resting between his body and chair arm. "I suppose you came here for this, though. Excited?"
I take the file to deposit in my own lap. "Yeah. I am."
"I'm not convinced."
It's a little late for this type of conversation. Swallowing, I look to the street.
Too occupied with Maven and the Scarlet Street Fighters on my mind, I've barely stopped to think about my promotion.
The circumstances aren't ideal, for one. I don't care what Cal said about a promotion next season when his partner tore her meniscus, and Maven and I are only taking their place because of that. It doesn't feel right, and it feels . . . it feels like I'm stealing something that isn't mine. That I don't deserve. I would've been fine dancing in the Corps—the choreography of which is still buzzing in my head—for a season, for the experience. And now I'm being shoved right into the spotlight.
However long it lasts. My time at the Calore Dance Academy is fleeting, I realize now. It will end in one of two ways, one good, one bad. I don't like to think about the bad one.
"Don't let yourself think you don't deserve it, Mare," Lucas says, shaking his head.
I don't respond.
Instead, I crack open the file, paging to where my annual pay was in my Corps de Ballet contract.
My finger lands on a six-figure number.
To that, I only say, "I think I'm going to take a taxi back to the Academy."