From the dates on the papers—1993, 1987, and 1975, I was pretty convinced my first ever assumption about the tenants who lived here was definitely correct. An elderly couple who shared a passion for literature, or perhaps an esteemed historian.

I left the papers as they were and walked to the library’s windows.

Pulling the curtains open, I watched as sheets of soft rain fell over the city, blanketing everything in sight. I pushed a sofa closer to the panes and crashed against the cushions, curling my body under a blanket.

So I could be sure to slip out unseen in the morning, I set my phone alarm for six thirty. Then I opened the brand new crossword booklet that was on the coffee table.

I flipped the cover over and read the title theme for all the puzzles inside:

Trespassing: Even the Smartest Criminals Get Caught

Interesting...

I worked on puzzle after puzzle until I couldn’t focus for another second. When I finally rolled over and started to drift to sleep, I caught the time on the clock above the bookshelves.

Ten minutes after midnight.

Happy Birthday to me...

GATE A4

GILLIAN

New York (JFK)

My Brooklyn apartment was unit one of four in an aging brownstone nestled between two busy streets. The front door was warped from the slumlord’s lack of maintenance, the steps leading up to the building were cracked and uneven, and the windows were cheap and thin—letting in brutal drafts of cold wind during the winter months. Despite its many drawbacks, there was one amazing feature the brownstone offered: A large window in my bedroom and easy access to the black iron fire escape.

Carefully walking up the dilapidated stone steps, I jiggled the front door’s handle a few times and pushed hard on the wood to let myself inside. Then I rushed up four flights, kicking up dust with every step.

As soon as I opened the door, I was met with array of white and blue balloon bouquets and a “Happy Birthday, Gillian!” streamer strung high above the makeshift living room.

Smiling, I walked over to a massive silver gift box on the kitchen table and lifted its top. The handwritten card inside read:

Dear Gillian,

I need you to go through the gifts inside this box first. Then read the card that’s attached to the balloons by the sink.

Happy Birthday, and I love you!

—Your favorite (and best) roommate ever, Mer’

I set the card down and pulled the first item from the box—a short, red, one-shouldered Diane von Furstenberg dress that looked as if it would barely cover my thighs. Underneath it was a sparkling pair of silver Jimmy Choos. Four bottles of white wine stood at the bottom, and wedged in between them was a glittering charm bracelet with a plane and a New York taxi already attached.

I walked over to the sink and opened the larger card, but before I could read the first sentence, the sound of loud banging came through the walls.

Thump! Thump! THUMP!

“Oh god! Oh god!” Meredith called out. “Oh godddd! Yes! Yes! YESSSSS!”

Thump! Thump! THUMP!

“Hell yeah, babe.” A deep voice grunted. “Hell yeah...”

The sound of skin slapping against skin and wet lips colliding again and again filled our hallway. The wall that separated her bedroom from the kitchen shook repeatedly, and the flimsy floorboards creaked with every bump of the bed.

I set down my birthday card as the moans and wall knocks became damn near deafening. Taking a seat at the bar, I made myself a cup of coffee and opened my email account.

From Ben. [Subject:] Open this message! You’re the one with the most to lose...

From Ben. [Subject:] I know you see this email, Gillian. We belong together.

From Harry Potter. [Subject:] Free trip to Orlando inside!

From Sherlock Holmes. [Subject:] Urgent! Open me!

From Kennedy B. [Subject:] Checking in... [Open me]

From Nancy Drew. [Subject:] Surprise inside! Free unpublished story!

Groaning, I sent Ben’s messages to spam and deleted the other four emails. The numerous bill collectors I owed had grown quite creative in their efforts to reach me, and I knew that the paper versions of their notices were probably awaiting me in my mailbox.

Before I could log off, two emails from Elite Airways popped onto my screen. Their subject lines read, Exciting Elite News! and New Routes & Changes Announced! so I deleted them as well. I was done getting my hopes up about receiving the ever elusive, ‘Urgent: An Update to Your Employee Status” email.

I poured another cup of coffee and a final, loud and resounding “Ohhh my godddd!” tore through the walls. There were a few more knocks afterwards, a few more slaps against bare skin. And then, the sudden sound of shuffling—shoes, belt buckle, keys, confirmed that the tryst was now over.

Seconds later, Meredith and her flavor of the day stepped out of her room.

Jet black-haired and brown-eyed, he looked over at me and winked, and I tried not to stare too hard at the beautiful tattoos that snaked up and down his arms.

“See you soon,” Meredith whispered, opening the door for him.

“I hope so.” He returned the whisper and gave her one last slap on the ass before heading down the steps.

“Well, that was a very fulfilling four star!” She walked over and turned on the stove. “You’re home early. I thought you were going to spend your entire birthday with Ben.”

“I thought so, too.” I felt a lump forming in my throat, but I forced it back down. “Until he decided to tell me that he’s been cheating on me.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.” I said. “But he said he only ‘uses’ the other girls for sex. He ‘damn near loves me’ he claims.”

“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, you know I’m biased because I’ve always hated him, but if you do choose to go back, I’ll still be willing to be your shoulder to cry on. Although, I will definitely judge the hell out of you.”

I laughed for the first time today. “I’m not going back, and I’m not going to cry anymore. I’m going to treat myself to an art show and try to meet someone new tonight. Somewhat smart, witty, and funny. Someone—”

“You can fuck.” She cut me off, crossing her arms. “Do you not see the issue here? Can you not see the pattern?”

“The pattern of me wanting to find a nice guy?”

“Yes. Your exes all fit into the same boring box. Art show lovers, coffee shop sitters, sweater wearing Wall Street boys. The cookie cutter, All-American, ‘we-don’t-fuck-until-the-tenth-date’ types and they have yet to work out for you.” She pulled out a box of pancake mix. “You need to switch it up and maybe attempt having sex with no strings attached. Get a few notches under your belt to see what you like, what you don’t like, and then you can start looking for love again.”

“So, in other words, I should be more like you.”

“No, you couldn’t be like me if you tried. I don’t even think you could handle a single one-night stand, let alone no-strings attached sex.”

“I can definitely handle a one-night stand,” I said, turning around in my chair. “I’ve just never wanted to have one.”

“Ha!” She suddenly burst into loud, uncontrolled laughter, holding her hands over her stomach. She didn’t stop for several minutes, and when she finally had her laughter under control, there were tears in her eyes.