Page 78 of Knights Like These
“You’re not the worst person alive. You fell in love with someone and waited over a decade to do anything about it. That’s not a crime.”
“Tell that to Bree’s lawyer.”
“I’m serious, Syd. You didn’t break up their marriage. They broke up their marriage. But Bree is never going to see it that way, and you need to be ready for that.”
“Ready for what?”
“For this to get ugly. Custody fights aren’t fun. And even if Bree is reasonable—which, from what you’ve told me, she mostly is—she’s going to use every tool she has because her kids are involved, and that’s what mothers do.”
I close my eyes. Outside the windshield, the community center sits in the morning light, brick and fluorescent.
“Can I ask you something?” Lauren says.
“Sure.”
“If you and Archer broke up tomorrow, would you stay in New York?”
I’m silent for a second, processing. The truth is, I have no idea. Would I? Or would I fly back to Minnesota, back to Lauren and my old life?
“I’ve been here for two months,” I say. “And everything I have—the house, the friends, the routine—it all runs through him. I drive his car. I use his Netflix login. I don’t even have my own mailing address. My whole life is—”
“His life.”
“Yeah.”
Lauren is quiet again, but this time it’s a different kind of quiet. “You know what I’m going to say.”
“That I need something that’s mine.”
“You need your own life, Syd. Not connected to him, not dependent on whether you two work out, not something that disappears if this falls apart.” She pauses. “You’ve done this before, you know? You followed a musician to Austin. You moved to New York for Archer. You build your life around other people and then wonder why it doesn’t feel like yours.”
“That’s harsh.”
“It’s true.”
“I’ve gotta go.”
I hang up and sit in the parking lot, staring at the community center as I think about Lauren’s question until I’m three minutes late for class, which has never happened before. Dolores gives me a look when I walk in. I mouth “sorry,” hit play, and we start the routine.
After class, Pat catches me in the hallway. She’s got her reading glasses on a chain, a clipboard, and the expression of a woman who has something on her mind.
“Got a minute?”
I follow her into her office, which still has papers covering every surface but now also features a framed photo of Gerald and Dolores from the holiday party that I didn’t know existed.
“I’ll get to the point,” Pat says, sitting behind her desk. “The city is expanding our senior programming budget next quarter. I’ve been authorized to hire a part-time activities coordinator. Benefits, steady hours, room to build out the dance program however you want.” She slides a paper across the desk. “I’d like to offer it to you.”
I look at the paper. It’s a job description—Activities Coordinator, Greenwood Community Center. Twenty hours a week, health insurance, a salary that’s modest but real. Realenough to sign a lease. Real enough to stop depending on Archer’s Venmo.
“I can expand beyond hip-hop?” I ask.
“Whatever you want. Salsa, ballroom, line dancing. Gerald’s been asking about the tango.” She leans back. “You’ve tripled our attendance in two months, Sydney. The seniors love you. Dolores told me she’d quit if you left, and I believe her.”
I stare at the job description and my chest does something I wasn’t expecting. Not excitement, not relief—recognition. Like a part of me I’d been ignoring just woke up and saidthere you are.
“Can I think about it?” I ask.
“Take a week.”
