After Everything I’ve Done For You

"We just landed our dream apartment," Darcy announced, practically vibrating with joy, to Tristan and Juan—two strangers she and Cole had befriended ten minutes into their first wide-eyed stroll through Abingdon Square.

“One-bedroom. On Bank Street, no less.”

Cole, her Connecticut-bred husband, nodded, his face molded into a stiff rictus.

“Get out!” Juan, leashed to his Pekingese, cried. “A one-bedroom on a tree-lined street? That's like finding a unicorn that already knows how to use a litter box.”

“Oh, you’re funny, Juan!” Darcy bounced.

“On a good day. Most of the time, I’m just manic-y.”

“Who’s your agent?” Tristan demanded. “If you don’t mind.”

“His name is Omar,” Darcy said. “He’s a little eccentric, but OH MY GOD—he is just … THE BEST! I mean, he went to war for us. Risked everything to get us in.”

"Please tell me you have his card. I will pay in blood,” Tristan declared. “I have paid in blood before. Not for housing, but still.”

“We’re dying to move back to the West Village,” Juan added, nearly dropping the Pekingese’s leash. “Brooklyn is just...so Brooklyn now. Everyone there has a kombucha brewery in their bathtub. It’s exhausting.”

“Brooklyn is like a halfway house for people who aren't ready to admit they hate drinking oat milk from a jam jar. Okay?” Tristan quipped.

“We are so f*****g over it!” deadpanned Juan

“Darcy, excuse my prying, but I must know what you do for a living?” Tristan asked.

“Helping people live their best selves—to be quite honest," Darcy said brightly, her voice two octaves too high, the trauma sublimating into some manic presentation energy. “I like to call myself a Positive Lifestyle Architect.”

"God, that is so inspiring," Tristan breathed, clutching his Hermes scarf. “You got it goin’ on, girl. You’re young, blonde, with a sexy husband, and here you are—the Village! You’re ready to set the world on fire, right?”

“I know, it’s just so amazing!”

“You know what they say— ’when the universe opens up for you.’”

Meanwhile, the furious Pekingese spun in furious little circles like a demonic wind-up toy.

“Shush, quiet, AOC! Pappy’s talking!” Juan scolded, clicking his tongue.

Cole blinked. “Wait. Your puppy’s name is AOC?”

Juan straightened, brushing imaginary lint from his shorts. “Fierce, independent, Puerto Rican,” he said, ticking the qualities off on his fingers. “She’s not a Pekingese; she’s a Puerto Ricanese. Look at her — tiny but insane enough to take down an empire.”

AOC bared her tiny teeth and yapped again to underline the point.

Darcy laughed, her earlier nervousness dissolving into a ripple of absurdity. Cole smiled too, a little wearily, still unsure whether he was in the middle of a meet-cute or a hostage situation.

“What do you do, Cole?” Tristan asked, a hint of performance in his smile.

Cole smiled weakly, hands shoved in the pockets of his fraying khakis.

“I’m... uh... not doing anything right now.”

“Oh, I've been there,” Tristan said sympathetically, with a world-weary sigh.

“I’m there right now!” Juan laughed, throwing up jazz hands.

Darcy seized the moment, switching into life coach mode.

“Cole’s a writer.”

“Not really a writer,” Cole mumbled, instantly undermining.

“Yeah, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“YEAH, YOU ARE!” Darcy hissed under her breath, her teeth flashing. “You’re a f*****g writer. Don’t embarrass me!"

“I’ve told you a thousand times, I’m not a writer until I’ve written something worth reading.”

Darcy spun back toward Tristan and Juan with fierce brightness.

“Get this — Cole’s dad? On the New York Times Bestseller list. Twice.”

“Well, once,” Cole corrected weakly. “And even then, it was, you know... back when people still bought books.”

“Just trying to make you sound interesting,” Darcy injected after an awkward silence, filled only by the Pekingese snorting and clicking its nails against the sidewalk.

Tristan, ever the diplomat, broke it with a syrupy grin. “I don’t want to interrupt the fun, but—what was Omar’s contact info again?”

“Oh, you can Google him," Darcy said, casual now, her manic energy shifting like a stage light. "After Everything I’ve Done For You. That’s the name of the agency."

Juan scribbled furiously in his bedazzled notepad: “After Everything I’ve Done For You — Om