Read Online The Edge of Falling by Rebecca Serle - Free Book Online

six.” I say.
    “Can you wear your red bandage dress?” she asks.
    “Sure,” I say. Claire gave me this Hervé Léger fire-engine-red, skin-tight dress for my birthday. I’m born onthe Fourth of July, so her reasoning was incredibly specific: “Your attitude is blue, your skin is white, and this dress is red. It’s perfect.” But it’s so tight it makes me feel like I’m being put through a juicer. There’s no way I’m putting that thing on.
    “Are we going to have fun tonight?” Her tone is pointed, and I can’t help but smile. This is Claire’s role. Throughout last year, through the spring, Claire was always the one who didn’t take BS. Trevor, he was the one who held me when I cried, and asked me how I was doing, and tucked my chin against his chest, but not Claire. Claire’s job has always been to remind me that life moves on. To keep heading forward. And she takes it pretty seriously.
    “Damn straight,” I say, which makes her laugh.
    “Six!” she calls, and hangs up.
    I take the grapes out. I was right—there are twenty-six.
    *    *    *
    I get to Claire’s at six thirty. Usually she feels I am not wearing enough makeup or my clothes aren’t “fun” enough and we have to go through the process of making both me and her happy (not the easiest of tasks). So it’s best to show up late to avoid as much of this as possible.
    “I didn’t know we were swinging by church first. Excellent.” Claire scans my outfit—dark jeans, white tank top and this Native American necklace my mom bought me on atrip to Paris. My mom is always doing things like purchasing Native American necklaces in Paris .
    I push past her. The inside of their apartment smells like garlic and wine. I can hear water being drained in the kitchen and the soft sounds of Etta James.
    “Hey, Mrs. Howard,” I call out.
    “Darling!” Claire’s mom comes around the corner, a dish towel in hand. She’s a small woman with jet-black hair that she keeps in this longish bob. Today she looks like Audrey Hepburn: cigarette pants, white button-down, and neck scarf.
    “How are you doing, sweetheart?” She pulls me into a hug, and I let myself get wrapped up in her smell—garlic and ginger and the faint hints of vanilla perfume.
    “I’m good,” I say. “You know, same old.”
    She eyes me. “Your mother?”
    I shrug. “The usual.”
    She nods and flips the dish towel over her shoulder. She looks at Claire—Claire in her leather vest and cutoff denim shorts. “I’m taking it you’re not staying for dinner?”
    “We can’t,” Claire says, snatching my hand and dragging me toward the door. “We have to support Max.”
    I glance back apologetically at Mrs. Howard.
    Max? she mouths to me.
    I roll my eyes: No big deal. Who knows. Claire.
    “Ten!” she calls after us.
    The elevator delivers us downstairs and Claire puts up her hand to hail a cab. “No L train?” I ask, half kidding. Claire never takes the subway.
    “Not in heels,” she says.
    A yellow cab slows and she ushers me inside. “Grand and Roebling,” she says. “Williamsburg.”
    Claire starts prattling about how DJs are the new chefs, or something, and I lean back on the black plastic of the cab. I love the drive from Manhattan to Brooklyn, when the city is behind you, and you can appreciate it as this singular thing, this unit: Manhattan. It’s pretty astounding. Even for someone like me, who’s lived here her whole life. I know people joke that New York is the center of the world, but sometimes, on the bridge, it feels true. Like everything and anything of significance takes place right here in my hometown.
    The entrance to the bar is hidden. It’s sandwiched between a nail salon and a deli, and the door is plain wood, unmarked. Claire opens it and we walk down a hallway and then a small flight of stairs. It’s not until we’re on the stairs that I begin to hear the music—or maybe not so much hear as feel. The ground hums and vibrates below us