Chapter Text
Nick
I love my neighborhood. Every weekday starts at 6:00am with a short run at Edgewater Park with Daisy, my golden retriever. Once I’m cleaned and dressed for work I go to Eagles Kafe at the top of my street for my morning cuppa. Then I make my way up W.110th to Baltic Avenue and Louisa May Alcott Elementary.
I also love my job as a second grade teacher. It’s similar to my year three teaching job back in the UK in a lot of ways, but it has its unique challenges as well. The students, or “scholars” as we’re required to call them, definitely are less advantaged than the kids back at Truham Primary. But, honestly, the main difference between the students at Truham and the scholars at LMA is the accent. They’re energetic seven year olds who are at an age when everything is new and exciting. My kind of people.
Rochester is a firmly upper middle classed suburb compared to the Clifton/Baltic neighborhood of Cleveland. It certainly isn’t the poorest neighborhood in Cleveland by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, less than a mile north of my house is the wealthiest area in the city proper.
Imogen and I chose it because of its proximity to the lakefront park, the many small businesses, ease of commute downtown where Imogen worked, and the cute wooden houses along its tree-lined streets.
House prices were also a factor in the decision. Closer-in, gentrified “up and coming” neighborhoods like Tremont and Ohio City are half a million dollars for even a terrace, I mean townhouse. Clifton / Baltic is nearly half that. Imogen would have preferred Downtown or the Flats or something more trendy but our budget and the fact that we had two dogs at the time kind of determined that we needed a house with at least a small garden.
So we compromised and bought a “double”, which is a two-family house with one unit on the ground floor, and the second unit above it. Since the downstairs unit already had a long-term tenant, the former owner Mrs. Slotwinski, we moved into the upstairs unit. Imogen became more comfortable with the decision when the estate agent informed us that it's the historically queer neighborhood.
When Imogen unceremoniously announced that she’d earned a promotion and we were moving to the states, I was stunned. While I knew it had always been her dream to live in the U.S., I never equated that with the possibility that our marriage meant that her dreams became mine.
“Wot? Where… How?” I stammered, my brain going completely offline.
“I told you about this Nick. I’ve been gunning for this promotion for years!” She said with an exacerbated huff. “Er. Um, maybe ‘gunning’ isn’t the best adjective when talking about the U.S. but you knew it was the whole point of me working my way up in the firm.”
Honestly, I was never very good at listening to Imogen. I tended to tune out and just listen for the highlights. How had I missed this?!
“Where in the states is the job?”
“We’ll start in Cleveland.” She said.
“Cleveland?!” I screamed.
“It’s just for a few years Nick! I know I can work my way up to the New York Office.”
“But you always wanted to live in Brooklyn.” I whined like a child. “You named your dog Brooklyn!”
“And we will! But first, Cleveland.” She chuckled. “We’ll be leaving at the end of next month, so you’d better get used to the idea.”
“But Cleveland’s so… it’s so…” I fell onto the sofa, my knees giving out. “Cleveland” I sighed.
So here I am five years later, alone in a city I fell in love with, divorced from my best friend who did eventually get her promotion and an apartment in Brooklyn.
As if on-cue, my phone pings a text from Imogen.
Imogen: 07:27am: Nicolasssss! Mrs. Slotwinsky hasn’t paid her rent yet? You can’t afford the place on your own, so quit being a softy and collect the damned rent!
Nick: 07:27am: Wot? Immy, she paid last week like always.
Imogen: 07:30am: I’m not seeing it in the account
Nick: 07:31am: That’s because I opened my own account.
Imogen: 07:36am: 😬
Nick: 07:37am: ?
Imogen: 07:37am: Are you sure that’s a good idea?
Nick: 07:37am: You know I’m a full grown adult, right?
Imogen: 07:37am: And yet, you’ve never had a bank account that wasn’t shared with either your mother or your wife.
Nick: 07:38am: Exactly. I’m 32 years old Immy. I’ve been paying the bills since you left me.
Imogen: 07:38am: 🙄
Nick:07:39am: Why the eyeroll? My advanced age or the fact that you abandoned me in a strange city far from home?
Imogen: 07:41am: Why did you stay, then? Everyone expected you to move back to Kent.
Nick: 07:41am: Because for once in my life, I decided to NOT do what’s expected of me.
Imogen: 07:42am: (lifts apron to dry eyes) I’m so proud. My Nicky’s all grown up. Now go to work! You’ve bills to forget to pay.
Nick: 07:42am: 👍
So, yeah, Imogen is my best friend, my ex wife, and also my taskmaster, apparently. Sue me. Ugh, now I miss Taskmaster. I’ll have to YouTube it when I get home.
I open the door at Eagles Kafe to the usual cheerful greeting from the owner.
“Nicholas!”
“Good morning Juxhin. Alright?”
“Yes yes.” He responds then asks the daily question, “So, still here then?”
“ ‘Course.” giving my stock answer, “How could I ever leave your amazing tea?”
In all fairness, the tea at the Eagle is really good. Probably the best I’ve had in the States.
“The tea’s better at home and you know it.” Juxhin answered, diverting from the usual script.
“Well…” I stammer, “I do miss my Mum, and our pug, but I’m happy here. Besides, you’re still here. Why haven’t you gone back to Albania?”
“My community is here now.” He sighed. “Cleveland is home.”
“See. Same.” I say, making him chuckle.
Despite all the drama of moving here; Daisy and Brooklyn having to quarantine at a kennel, renting an air bnb for a few months before finding and closing on the house, the very amicable though complicated divorce and the pull to move home to my Mum and familiarity, Cleveland is home now.
I’ve made loads of friends at work, playing rugby with Stonewall Sports, as well as my volunteer shifts at the LGBT center. I’ve even been on quite a few dates in the last couple years.
Juxhin hands me my tea as I tap my card on the till.
“It’s getting bad here, you know.” He says grimly, looking at me pointedly. I don’t really know how to answer that.
Charlie
I’m sat at my desk on a typical Monday morning, checking emails and planning my editing for the week. The few projects I am working on of late are pretty easy, making me wonder why I even bother sitting at this desk for eight hours every day.
“Oh god, please no.” Isaac, my flatmate and coworker, cries from the desk facing mine.
“Problem, Lovie?” I ask before taking a sip of the oat flat white that said roommate made for me to keep the grumpy at bay.
“He’s back. Aarrrgh!” whines Isaac before taking a sip of the double espresso he had made for himself.
Isaac Henderson is perhaps the most perfect platonic life partner a man like me could ever ask for. He’s tidy, other than the vast collection of books taking over our flat. He’s an amazing barista. He’s aromantic and asexual so I never have to worry about him stealing my boyfriends, and he never brings strangers into our home. Plus, he has been one of my dearest friends for over fifteen years now.
We share a three bedroom flat near University College London, our mutual almer mater, which is just perfect for us hermits. It’s affordable because the landlord is relieved to have stable, adult tenants in rather than the destructive, obnoxious tenants he had when it was used as student accommodation.
So one bedroom is mine, another larger bedroom is Isaac’s to accommodate a portion of his massive book collection, and a tiny little nine foot by eight foot room is used as our shared office. It’s got two desks facing each other in front of a huge floor to ceiling Georgian-era window. It’s pure paradise.
“Who’s back?” I ask, feigning innocence by batting my eyelashes.
“You bloody well know who!” He all but screams.
“No, darling, I don’t. Could you narrow it down so you don’t have to say any of the growing list of names we do not speak?”
Isaac huffs out a sigh, and puts his face in his hands, hiding. “Buggery bollocks mamdmanandanda muckle luckle mphmph and he demands I go to him!”
I blink at him a few times, leaning to the side of the monitors before requesting he repeat that.
“I’ll give you a hint. He’s old. He’s pretentious, he’s opinionated in the most ignorant way, and he’s in fucking America!”
“Why would the American president email you?” I ask, hoping to make him laugh. Instead he glares at me.
Isaac is a senior romance editor for Hartford-Mullens, a rather new up and coming publisher in the UK. Thanks to him, I am his junior research editor but have been slowly building my own specialization in academic material. Mostly Greek and Roman classic literature.
Isaac finally gives me the answer I’ve been trying to frustrate out of him. “Dennis Horan. The sophomore historical fiction writer that was thrown to me last year. He wants me to come to the states to help with research.”
“Pfft. As if.” I chuckle. “The firm is not going to foot the bill on a transatlantic trip for an author they haven’t published before. They haven’t even agreed to pay him an advance!”
“I know that, Charlie!” Isaac says nearly panicked. “Nnnoow someone sent his story pitch to me and I stupidly passed it on to Bridget. I expected her to absolutely roast the guy for me. Now he’s one of her pet projects. She read some excerpts and thinks she’s discovered the next Julia Quin.”
“Wait? Do you mean The guy pitching gay gangsters in rust belt America? Hardly the next Bridgerton. Tell him to come here. I’ll even help him with his research so you can take that off your plate.” I say as I go back to my emails.
Isaac rises out of his chair to peek at me over the monitors. If I didn’t know any better I’d think he’s about to kiss me. “You’d do that for me?”
“ ‘Course.” I say with a head nod, indicating it’s settled then.
A few minutes pass as I hear ferocious typing coming from my office mate’s desk.
“And send!” He says with finality. Isaac leans back in his chair, takes a sip of espresso and says, “Now we wait.”
A few more minutes pass as I answer a couple of inquiries about some editing I did last week on a very dry and unoriginal take of Sophocles. Then Isaac's phone rings.
“Good morning love.” He answers cheerfully on the second ring.
“Put me on speaker right now, mister!” I hear, clear as day from the phone in Isaac's hand.
He does as he’s told and places the phone where our desks meet. I stand up and begin to pace. Being on speaker with Bridget is never good news. I’m preparing for a good dressing down. What this could be about is anyone’s guess.
“Okay? You’re on with me and Charlie?” Isaac responds nervously.
“Good. Now, Isaac, two things.” Says Bridget with mock calmness. “One: Why did you tell our knew author that he should come to London to research a book set in America? And two: Why did you delegate your job to our research assistant?”
Isaac, always ready to answer, “Well, Bridgie dear, he did ask for help researching, so I figured research assistant Charlie here would be perfect for it. As to your first question, I have one of my own: Why should the company pay for me to fly to America for an author who doesn’t even have a contract?”
“Oh, I didn’t tell you then?” Says Bridget, apparently just now remembering the lack of communication with her work from home staff. “Yeah. Well, we did sign him. Last week, actually.”
“Fuck sake Bridge!” Isaac shouts.
“Anyhow, Charlie dearest. Auguste is booking your flight now. Hopefully you’ll be in Cleveland in a couple days.”
“Cleveland?!” We shout in unison.
“Dennis was kind enough to offer to put you up for a bit until we can secure accommodations.”
“Wait, Bridge, I…” I stammer. “I’m going to Cleveland?”
“Yes, you, Charlie. You’re our researcher and this is right up your alley. It’ll be fine. Just go, look through some old newspaper articles about car bombings or whatever, then hop the pond back. Shouldn’t be more than a month or so.”
“A month?!” Again, Isaac and I in tandem.
“But… Bridge, I don’t even know where Cleveland is!”
“I think it’s in Ohio. It’s not like you’re driving there. Just get on the plane and get off when the pilot says ‘Welcome to Cleveland’. Easy peasy, lemon squeezie. Anyhow, gotta run! Auguste will text you the deets. Buh Byeeeeeee!” Beep Beep Beep.
“But Cleveland’s so…” I say to nobody in particular.
“I know sweetie. I know.” Says Isaac sympathetically.
“Cleveland is so…” I’m starting to feel faint so I collapse onto my chair. “Cleveland” I sigh.