Chapter 3

Ben didn't ask why I'd come back so soon.

He turned on the space heater upstairs and set a bowl of noodles on the table.

I sat down and dropped my fork twice.

"They're fine," I said.

Ben looked up.

"No bankruptcy. No debt. I'm the only one who believed it."

By the time I'd told him everything about the dinner, the noodles had gone cold.

Ben got up and circled the table twice.

Finally he asked, "So what are you going to do?"

I didn't answer right away.

A year ago, when I turned down my spot at school, my father had gripped my shoulder and said a Costa daughter never runs in a crisis.

So I closed the New York apartment listings and canceled my train ticket.

After that, I removed tires and sanded paint at the garage. When people joked that my artist's hands couldn't even hold a wrench, I practiced taking parts off and putting them back on, over and over.

Ben was willing to teach me. Clients started to recognize my colors and linework, and when things got busy, I had two people helping me finish jobs on time.

Once at a business dinner, a client put his hand on my waist and said he'd only sign after I finished my drink.

I brushed his hand off, took back my design, and left.

The deal fell through. My father called to tell me I couldn't afford to be stubborn right now.

I'd thought it was the debt making him desperate.

Ben swapped my bowl for a hot one.

"You've got money now. Get your hand fixed first. Don't decide the rest of your life tonight."

I nodded and opened my old email account.

There was a message from three months ago.

Livia Valenti.

She'd come to the garage to pick up her car and recognized me. She'd bought a little painting of mine at my senior show, and she asked why I hadn't gone to school.

I told her my family was in debt.

She didn't push. A few days later, she and her husband invited me to lunch.

Salvatore taught at Columbia Business School. He said that if I still wanted to study art, they'd be willing to pay for my tuition and basic living expenses out of their own pocket.

Back then, I'd pushed his business card back across the table.

"Any money I get right now goes to my family first. I can't take your money and pour it into that hole too."

They didn't try to talk me into a smarter choice.

Livia just said that if things ever changed, I could get in touch.

I stared at that email and spent a long time drafting a reply.

In the end, I cut it down to three lines.

"Is your offer to fund my education still open?

"My family situation has changed, and I'm ready to reapply to college.

"If you're still interested, I'd like to discuss the terms first."

The next morning, a reply came.

Livia said the offer still stood. But she wanted to talk on the phone first and hear what I needed most right now, instead of just buying me a ticket.

I called her.

"I need somewhere quiet for a few days. And I need to get my hand fixed."

"We have a spare room. You can stay there for now. Once you've thought things through, we'll talk about school."

"What if I don't get in?"

She paused.

"Then we'll talk about what comes after that."

Three days later, I went to New York.

When Livia showed me the room, the first thing I saw was a big desk by the window. The bed had red plaid sheets, and a wardrobe and a bookcase lined the wall.

I stood in the doorway holding my bags, not sure where to put them.

Livia put a key in my palm.

"Dinner's at seven. If you can't make it, text ahead of time."

"What do you need me to do?"

"Tonight?" She thought about it. "All you need to do is pick what you want for dinner."

My father found the Valenti house on my fourth day in New York.

I hadn't hidden where I was going.

When my mother asked where I'd gone, I only told her I was safe in New York and wasn't ready to see them.

But she had the name Livia left when she bought my painting at the senior show, and that was enough for them to track us down.