Twelve Hours in Manhattan, page 1
Copyright © 2023, Maan Gabriel
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.
Published 2023
Printed in the United States of America
Print ISBN: 978-1-64742-395-7
E-ISBN: 978-1-64742-396-4
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022916961
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She Writes Press
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Book Design by Stacey Aaronson
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All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I am no expert on cultures or races of any kind, but I am a fan of great storytelling. I wrote Twelve Hours in Manhattan during the height of my love for Korean drama (well, I never really left; my heart is forever captured, and my idea of self-care is binge-watching them on weekends). But let me say that I am not an expert on Korean culture—whatever I wrote was simply a product of my love for their storytelling approach, and their Oppa. Also, there are some themes here that might trigger deep emotions—abortion, drug use and overdose, abandonment, and profanity. What I tried to accomplish here is the feeling of hope and love and self-discovery, and so I hope you’ll enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it.
To all Kdrama fans,
I see you.
I am you.
Oh, the fun we have together …
PART 1
Chapter 1
5:55 P.M.
“They fucking hated it.”
I grit my teeth together, trying with all my might not to lose it because I’m close. I’m darn close. I drop my head down in defeat, my forehead accidentally hitting the thick wooden bar with a loud thud, causing three empty bottles of beer to topple noisily together, rattling my already exhausted brain. “Geez!” I stutter in frustration, pulling my head back up, rubbing my furrowed forehead aggressively with one hand while the other presses my iPhone firmly to my ear in fury, in fear. I start to tremble lightly.
I’m losing it. God, I’m losing it.
“Fuck it! I mean they didn’t even wait a few days, even a few hours, to tell me that my presentation sucks. They spit it out right in the middle of it.” I whine vehemently as I say this. I simply do not have the capacity to calm down right this minute because the stakes are too high.
The demand letter from the bank is like a ticking time bomb inside the purse that hangs tauntingly under the bar, proving me powerless. “We demand that you send us the four months of missed mortgage payments within thirty days or you will need to vacate the property fifteen days after the grace period indicated above.” My heart tightens. I have four hundred and twenty-seven dollars to my name and maxed out credit cards that are all in default. My beat-up car, parked somewhere in Jersey City, looks like my next housing option if I don’t get my shit together. Homelessness is real, and it can happen to anyone. I’m on the brink of it.
“What did they say, exactly?” the person on the other end of the phone asks. There is concern in the voice.
“Pretty much that. It sucks.” I bend my head again, slowly this time, and I rest my bruised forehead on the bar. I can feel my chest tightening as I let out a quiet sob.
I don’t sit around waiting for luck to drop by. I seek it. I look for it. Goddammit, I run after it. If I stay, it will only be a matter of time before I lose myself. I close my eyes trying to shake self-pity away.
Should I just run away? My entire body sags at this thought. But where will I go?
“Did they at least ask you to make some revisions?” This is said in a whisper, and I can sense interest on the other end of the line though somewhat vague. I want to hear more for comfort and I wait, but it doesn’t come. This conversation has reached its threshold.
“No,” I finally answer in defeat. “Now I have to pay that god-damn hotel room with money I don’t have!” I scream silently, but I try to calm myself because my outbursts don’t do me any good. They always go unheard. I should be grateful that someone is actually listening to my current state of despair.
I’m by myself in a crowded Times Square bar hoping that the loud noise will help numb the ache. It’s 5:55 on a Friday night. I turn around and observe the weekend crowd loitering by the entrance and toward the middle of the restaurant. It’s a damn fluke I was able to grab an empty stool at the bar. No one drinks alone here. No one comes to Times Square alone. I, always the odd one out, am the exception. This is the story of my life.
“Stay the night anyway. You need it.” The voice makes an effort to comfort. Again, I wait for more. There is none.
I’d like to stay forever.
I hang up the call, my pride in tatters. I stare into space as I try to deliberate on where to go and what to do after today. My stomach roils with anxiety. I lift the half-empty Stella Artois bottle and mindlessly roll the bottom on the bar. I stare at it, oblivious to everything around me, and then I slowly close my eyes to muffle the painful consequences of my life. In my mind, I enter a series of moments, fragments of happier times, of the person I thought I’d be, of the dream of my youth. I see the feisty girl from Jersey—beautiful but tough, a witty mixed-race girl full of hopes and dreams. Her smile is sealed with grit and uncanny sweetness. I like this girl. On her face, there is promise.
A glass shatters on the floor. I open my eyes in surprise, and I’m back in hell.
“Fuck it!” I finish my beer in one big gulp as if my life depends on it. No one is paying me any mind. The crowds make people here invisible. This is New York City—one of the most crowded places on earth—the place where you can certainly disappear and, if you so choose, can never be found.
“That’s a lot of fucks,” he says with a slight teasing chuckle. At first, I thought it was said to someone else—perhaps a friend on the other side. But when he chuckles again, I’m most certain it is directed at me. I slowly turn my head to where the voice comes from. I squint my eyes to demonstrate my distaste over the invasion of my space. He’s sitting on the barstool next to mine with a pint of amber beer in hand. I should be furious, but his face is so unusually soothing that curiosity overrides my disdain. He looks distinguished. He is put together. He looks expensive, his stainless-steel watch shouting “big-ticket,” but remarkably not in a vulgar way. His skin is smooth—olive in a lighter shade. Flawless. His hair is parted on one side, with its length almost covering his left eye, radiating mystery. I want to move his hair with my fingertips so I can see both his eyes. I frown at this flustering thought. He looks like a sculpture, chiseled jaws and high striking cheekbones. His facial structure is perfection and yet, somehow it seems, he’s unaware of it. There is an air of nonchalance about him. Or perhaps he is aware but doesn’t give two shits. I detect no vanity in his demeanor. I’m glad because New York City is sprawling with narcissistic dudes. To be quite honest, though I don’t know him from Adam, he’s unexpectedly easing away my internal madness. I scrutinize him from head to toe. He’s tall—I can tell even though he’s sitting down. But more importantly, after a thorough observation of his physical attributes, I can rightfully say that he is gorgeous. I shake my head. This is nonsense.
He chuckles louder, and this time, I glower, making my pretend irritation clear.
“Sorry. I heard you curse so many times, I thought it was funny.” He’s definitely not from around here. He’s obviously of Asian descent—Korean or Japanese, maybe. Although I’m no expert on race or cultures of any kind, I know this because I’m a Korean drama, or K-drama, expert—a fan. This is a little trivia about me. It’s how I spend my nights, my escape—usually on Netflix or Viki, two streaming platforms that are bursting with a good collection of Asian films. It’s one of the few joys of my tumultuous existence. My best friend, Pam, introduced me to this world after she unexpectedly stumbled upon a Korean drama on Netflix one night that jump-started a beautiful fandom.
I continue to stare at this man, and I sigh, because what else is there to say? I see no malice in his attitude, for which I am grateful.
“Yeah, I think it’s funny too … but not in the ha-ha kind of way though,” I finally reply, accepting defeat. Whatever.
“Having a rough day?” His English is impeccable, though you can definitely hear a hint of an endearing, sexy accent. There is genuine compassion in his voice and a sudden gentleness in his eyes.
“No, a rough year,” I whisper, and unwittingly I bow my head down in failure because I am one. A rough life, I tell myself. There is no denying the person I’ve become—a disappointment.
“Hey mister, can you give my friend here another round of whatever it is that she’s having, please?” The bartender smiles, looks at the empty bottles on my side of the bar, cleans them up in a hurry, and drops one refreshing looking b
“You didn’t need to.” I give the stranger a weak smile and sigh again. I’m an obvious charity case.
“I was eavesdropping on your call. It’s the least I can do,” he says with sincerity. I nod in acceptance. This simple act of kindness means the world to me. I crave it.
“Thanks.”
“My name is Eric.” His voice becomes cheerful, and his eyes mirror his tone.
“Bianca.” I give him a one-shoulder shrug as if to say I’m not a big deal.
“I can give you my Korean name, but it might be hard to remember,” he says jokingly. He’s making an effort to lighten the mood after the weighty exchange.
“Yeah, I’ll stick with Eric,” I joke right back, my sarcastic persona coming back to life. I welcome this. There is a certain kind of freedom in talking to a complete stranger. You can be whoever you want to be. Wonder Woman. Why not? Geez, I think I deserve to be called that—though I have no lasso of truth or magic bracelets to help me win my battles.
“Are you from around here, Bianca?”
“No. I’m from across the river in Jersey. And you?” I reply, trying to be as casual as I can be, like I’m okay, like I’m not going to start begging for food in downtown Manhattan very soon.
“On a much-needed vacation. One night only.” He looks off into the distance as he reveals this. I can sense some underlying meaning, but I don’t pry. He could be going through some troubles as I am, so I give him his space.
“Nice,” I whisper. “I need a vacation.” I take a drink of my new beer. I space out for a second, thinking again of the letter in my purse. The project I lost earlier today was supposed to be the answer, a perfect chance to get me out of my current slump, and now that it’s bombed, I don’t know where to go from here.
“What are you thinking?” His voice pulls me away from my dire thoughts.
“Are you rich, Eric?” I look at my new friend, who appears momentously taken aback by my bold inquisition. There is no room for propriety now that I’ve accidentally spoken my mind.
“I’m doing all right,” he replies with a sly smile. I give him a sideward glance, trying to read his mood. He appears to be fine sitting next to a lunatic.
“Like, how all right? Like you have a house, two houses, maybe? A car? Retirement funds? Some savings for a rainy day? You know, that kind of rich?” I cross and uncross my legs under the tall bar in anticipation.
“Yeah. I plan well. I have guys doing that for me.” He takes a sip of his beer.
“Nice.” I sigh as I say this, feeling dejected. It’s not like I don’t plan. I plan plenty.
“You have to have a strategy, Bianca.” I like the sound of my name on his lips. There is a strong syllabic divide between n and c.
“I know that. I do. Sometimes things just don’t work out, you know.”
“Maybe. But keep at it. Things will eventually fall into place.” I look at this man again and can feel his shine, a positive brightness. I pull myself away slightly as I size him up. Wearing what looks like an expensive, crisp-white dress shirt and slim gray pants, he radiates influence, power. I notice the matching gray jacket hooked under the bar table, next to my purse that holds my imminent doom. There’s something oddly special about him, something I can’t quite place. I like him and feel instinctively safe talking to him. I can stay in this bubble for a long time.
I bend my head to look down at my clothes, an old black pantsuit over a white T-shirt and my most unfashionable pair of black flat shoes. I’m a total contrast to Eric’s detailed, classy guise.
“Thanks,” I say, giving him a weak smile.
“First, you have to smile wider and brighter. You shouldn’t be half-assing things in life, you know. You gamble. Always all or nothing. That’s how Americans say it, right? Half-assing? I like it.” He laughs and, surprisingly, I find myself laughing along with him. His presence energizes me.
No one talks to strangers at bars anymore. People rely exclusively on dating apps to meet someone nowadays, and so this casual conversation of merry bantering is surprisingly pleasant. I don’t feel the need to be defensive around him.
I hear the noise of tourists growing louder behind me. I turn around. The crowd has doubled in size now, and it’s only six fifteen. I don’t even remember why in the world I decided to step in here. I could have chosen to go to one of the smaller, quieter bars in one of the narrower streets around the area, but I chose to come here. Let’s face it—it’s so bright, so in your face, and because I’m so lonely, the allure got me. I’m too weak to argue with myself.
“Is it always this crowded here?” Eric turns and looks at the growing crowd as well.
“Yes. Tourists.” I turn right back around, ignoring the noise and taking another swig of my beer.
“There are other restaurants here, but this place looks busier. Why do they come here?” I lean in to see him better. And as he speaks, there is such blissful innocence on his face that I almost reach out to touch it.
“Why did you come here?” I ask, gathering myself after a disconcerting impulse. I’m not being sarcastic. I’m genuinely curious.
“Someone booked it for me,” he replies unpretentiously.
“Oh. Well, this place is, literally, just a few steps away from the Square, and it’s good Italian food, so it’s a popular spot. You should try their mussels, unless, of course, you’re allergic to shell-fish, and then I wouldn’t recommend it. I always like their rib eye with mushrooms too. It’s kinda stewy, but I’m half-Filipino, so stews are my jam.” I shrug my shoulders at this.
“Aha!” he hollers, and I jolt backward, startled.
“What?” My eyes widen at his sudden outburst, an anxious smile pasted on my face.
“Now I see it. I was trying to guess your ethnicity. Not that it’s a big deal. I was just curious.” His smile is childlike and carefree. Charming, even. If I were in a better headspace, I would have flirted some, or more. I smile slightly and for the first time, it feels raw. Real.
“Half here and half there,” I say in an attempt at another joke.
“We’re both from Asia.” He straightens his back, excitedly clasps his hands and starts rubbing them together. This discovery is a treat for him, I can tell.
“We’ve got that going for us.” I laugh, and he laughs along with me.
In a weird way, although he seems open and free, I can also sense control—his movements are calculated, like he’s being watched. I shake my head to dismiss this thought. I don’t really care. He makes me laugh, helps me forget, if only for a few minutes, the predicament that is weighing heavily in my purse, and for that I am indebted to him.
“Were you born in the Philippines?” He shifts on his stool to slightly angle his posture toward me. This conversation seems to excite him.
“Yes. My mom met my dad in Manila. He’s American.” I crook my head to face him sideways. I lean my elbow on the bar and I rest the side of my head against my palm. “How about you?” I ask. I don’t really like talking about myself.
“From Busan, South Korea.”
“Nice,” I reply with a grin.
“Have you been?” he asks eagerly.
“No, but I want to visit Seoul someday.” I do. I really do. These are the kinds of meaningless dreams I indulge in sometimes, though I have long conceded that the chance of them ever happening in this lifetime is close to zero. Zilch.
“Why?” He inches closer to me, which I welcome. His vigor is the perfect lightness to my dark side. If only I can bottle his enthusiasm, I will do so, and I will carry it around my neck like a talisman.
“Big K-drama fan here,” I say proudly, pointing my index finger to my face. Then I wink at him.
“Really.…” He says this with a lingering drawl, and then a sudden flash of alertness appears in his eyes. I can’t blame him. I would also find it oddly startling that a complete stranger could talk about my cultural background with such spirited zeal. I mean, what are the chances, right? He probably thinks I’m a freaking stalker.
“Yeah, like you would not believe.” I wink at him again. He smiles at this, perhaps trying to gauge my level of crazy.
