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with models all day, every day. It’s clear that any attraction felt was strictly one sided. I tug a hand through my hair to jar me from the embarrassing realization. Enough.
    Before my brain can protest, I jump up and throw on my black capri leggings and my blue Lululemon Runners pullover and lace up my sneakers. I’ve got to get out of here. I’ll check my mail and then see if Mrs. Jenkins is awake. She’s always eager to chit-chat, especially when I agree to eat some coffee cake with her.
    …
    The red line is empty when we board at the Greenwich Village stop. Naomi and I plop down next to each other on a pair of orange, plastic chairs. She always lets me have the window seat so that I can stare out and watch the dark tunnel whip by.
    “I hate you, did I mention that already?”
    Breaking my trance, I smile over at her and pretend to look up toward the subway’s worn metal roof in recollection.
    “Umm, once when I dragged your ass out of bed. Then again when I literally had to tie your sneakers for you. And a third time when a tiny tear rolled down your cheek as you realized that today we have to run an extra mile to make up for last week.”
    Naomi has quite the flare for the dramatic. I secretly think she has to act so normal at her accounting job that she bottles up all of her craziness and unloads it all at once as soon as we’re together.
    My sassy list makes her crack a smile though, and she wraps an arm around my shoulders, bringing me toward her for a side hug.
    “I think that should suffice then,” she quips happily, apparently done with her pity party for now.
    “I should just let you get fat,” I tease, leaving my head against her shoulder.
    “Impossible. My mother’s English and my father’s Swiss and Nigerian. Due to my lack of fatass American genes, I will have this killer bod until the day I die.”
    I shake my head because sadly, I know she’s right. Naomi is sickeningly gorgeous. Her lightly tanned skin and warm, brown eyes are the kind that every girl covets.
    “Leave it up to the Swiss to produce a baby as cute as you,” I tease, pinching her cheek.
    She shoots me a playful glare and I sigh, happy to be in this element with her. Naomi makes me feel light, like nothing bad has every happened or will ever happen. I soak up her happiness like a sponge, hoping it’ll fuel me long after we’ve separated for the day.
    We sit in silence for a few minutes as she checks her phone and twists a finger through her glossy ponytail. As we get closer to Central Park, the subway steadily fills and once again, I find myself daydreaming out of the square window. The memory of Mrs. Jenkins’ cinnamon swirl cake from earlier almost puts a smile on my face, but then I remember what was waiting for me in my mail this morning. On the very top of the stack of bills and junk, lay a thick, eggshell white envelope engraved with my mother’s initials in swirly calligraphy.
    I guess I’d lost track of time. U sually I expect her “quarterly check-ins” a few days in advance, but her letter had caught me off guard this morning. Her notes wouldn’t come at all, except for the fact that I caved two years ago and told her my address. She wouldn’t stop hounding me and even threatened to call the police and place a missing persons report, so I thought it’d be easier just to cave. However, each time one of her monogrammed letters arrives, I regret that decision all over again.
    The cops would have been a nice change of pace to be honest.
    With unsteady hands I tore the envelope open and peeked in to see her standard stationery tucked in front of a check made out to my name. I didn’t even glance at the amount. I walked back into my apartment, pulled the battered memory box from my closet, and placed the letter and check behind all of the others.
    Nice talking to you mother, do visit again soon.
    “So, do you want to tell me more about Photographer Boy?” Naomi asks, breaking me out of my mother-filled