Chapter Text
The accident had turned Seventh Avenue into a parking lot.
Miranda stared out at the wall of brake lights stretching ahead, her jaw tightening with each passing second. They’d been stationary for seven minutes. Seven minutes she didn’t have, couldn’t afford to lose, not when Charles Whitmore was waiting in a conference room downtown with the kind of advertising contract that would secure Runway’s next four issues.
“Roy.” Her voice carried that particular edge that made assistants flinch. “How much longer?”
Roy met her eyes in the rearview mirror, and she could see him calculating whether honesty or optimism would serve him better. He chose honesty.
“NYPD is saying at least another forty minutes to clear the scene, ma’am. There’s no way around it. Every side street is backed up.”
Miranda’s fingers tightened on her phone. The meeting was in twenty-five minutes. Whitmore had made it clear he had a hard stop at six because of another appointment, non-negotiable. If she missed this window, he’d take his twelve million dollars to Vogue or Harper’s, and Irv would have another excuse to question her judgment in the next board meeting.
She pulled up her contacts and pressed Nigel’s number.
He answered on the first ring. “Please tell me you made it.”
“There’s been an accident. Seventh Avenue is completely blocked.”
“How far are you?”
“Forty-third Street. I need to be at Whitmore’s office in twenty-five minutes.”
“Take the subway.”
Miranda went very still. “Excuse me?”
“The subway. The 1 train will get you there in fifteen minutes. You’ll actually be early.”
“Nigel.”
“I’m serious, Miranda. It’s rush hour, and the trains are running every three minutes. You hop on at Times Square, ride it downtown, and you’ll be there with time to spare.” His voice shifted, taking on that tone he used when he was about to say something he knew she wouldn’t like. “Try being a regular person for twenty minutes. It won’t kill you. Think of it as ‘urban anthropology.’ It might even inspire a layout.”
“I haven’t taken the subway in over twenty years.”
“Then it’s overdue. Look, you can sit in traffic and miss the meeting, or you can do what millions of New Yorkers do every day and actually get where you need to go. Your choice.”
Miranda closed her eyes. She could picture Irv’s face when she would have to explain why she’d lost the Whitmore account. She could hear his voice, suggesting that perhaps Runway needed someone more adaptable at the helm.
“Fine,” she said.
“Good. Call me when you’re done. And Miranda?” He paused. “Try not to terrify anyone.”
She ended the call and leaned forward. “Roy. Let me out here.”
He twisted in his seat, his expression suggesting she’d just announced plans to walk across hot coals. “Miranda, are you sure—”
“The subway station is a block away. I’ll make better time on foot.”
Roy’s mouth opened and closed. He’d worked for her long enough to recognize when argument was futile. “Yes, Miranda.”
He pulled to the curb, coming around to open her door. The December cold hit her immediately. Her Burberry coat was elegant, beautiful even, but it had been chosen for the thirty seconds between car and building, not for actually withstanding a New York winter. The pencil skirt and Prada heels were even less practical. She could already feel the cold seeping through the thin stockings, numbing her calves.
The sidewalk was packed with people, everyone moving with that particular New York urgency, shoulders hunched against the wind. No one looked at her or registered her presence at all beyond stepping aside to avoid collision. The anonymity should have been liberating. Instead, it felt disorienting.
“Do you want me to wait, Miranda? In case—”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll call when I need you.” She stepped onto the sidewalk, and Roy handed her her bag with a look that suggested he was sending her into battle. Perhaps he was.
Miranda straightened her shoulders and began walking toward the Times Square station, her heels clicking against the concrete. Around her, people rushed past in their practical winter coats and sensible shoes, many of them wearing headphones that blocked out the city’s noise. The wind cut through her coat as though it weren’t there at all, and by the time she reached the subway entrance, her legs were numb with cold.
The subway entrance appeared ahead, that familiar green globe she’d stopped actually seeing years ago, part of the city’s landscape she’d long since learned to ignore. She descended the stairs, and the smell hit her immediately. The temperature shifted as she went deeper, the winter air giving way to a stale warmth generated by thousands of bodies. The station opened up before her. Dingy white tile, flickering fluorescent lights, and what seemed like hundreds of people moving in different directions with absolute certainty about where they were going. Miranda stood at the bottom of the stairs, momentarily paralyzed by the chaos.
She needed a MetroCard. There were machines along the wall, but the instructions on the screens might as well have been in Sanskrit. Swipe, tap, refill, unlimited, pay-per-ride. The options seemed designed to confuse rather than clarify. Miranda approached the nearest machine, studying the interface with the same intensity she applied to contract negotiations. She had her credit card ready, but when she tried to insert it, the machine beeped angrily and rejected it. She tried again. Another beep, another rejection.
“Excuse me.”
Miranda turned, prepared to freeze whoever had interrupted her with a single look.
The young woman standing there didn’t flinch. She was bundled in layers against the cold: a worn navy parka, a scarf wrapped around her neck, and a knit hat pulled low over dark hair that escaped in messy waves around her face. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and there was an exhaustion in her eyes that suggested a very long day. But when she smiled, the exhaustion lifted, replaced by warmth that seemed entirely genuine.
“The card readers on these machines are terrible,” the young woman said. “You kind of have to wiggle the card while you insert it. Here, let me show you.”
She stepped closer, and Miranda caught a scent, clean and slightly sweet, like soap or shampoo, cutting through the subway’s stale air.
“I can manage.” The words came out colder than she’d intended, clipped and dismissive in the way that sent assistants scurrying.
The young woman’s smile faltered, just slightly, and Miranda felt an unfamiliar twinge of something that might have been regret. She watched the woman recalibrate, watched her decide whether to retreat or persist.
She persisted. “I’m sure you can, but these machines are genuinely awful. I’ve watched tourists stand here for twenty minutes trying to figure them out.” Her voice was gentler now, careful, as if she were approaching a skittish animal. “I promise I’m not trying to be condescending. The MTA just has terrible interface design.”
The lack of offense in her tone, the absence of wounded pride or irritation, made Miranda pause. Most people, faced with that particular dismissal, either retreated or bristled. This woman did neither. She simply stood there, still offering help, as if Miranda’s coldness had been nothing more than a minor obstacle to navigate.
Despite herself, Miranda stepped aside, and the young woman moved to the machine.
“So, are you trying to get a single ride or a refillable card?”
“Single ride.” Miranda’s voice was softer now, though she couldn’t have said why. “I’m going to Tribeca.”
“Okay, so you want the regular MetroCard, not the unlimited.” She pressed several buttons in quick succession. “How many rides?”
“One.”
“You might want two, just in case. The machines break sometimes, and it’s easier to have a backup.” She glanced at Miranda, and her expression shifted. It wasn’t recognition of who Miranda was, but recognition that she was clearly out of her element. There was no judgment in it. “Trust me. Better safe than sorry.”
Miranda found herself nodding. “Two, then.”
The young woman processed the transaction, guiding Miranda through the credit card insertion with patient instructions. There was indeed a wiggling motion required. Within thirty seconds, a MetroCard emerged from the slot.
“There you go.” She handed it to Miranda. “So, Tribeca. You’ll want the 1 train downtown. The platform is that way.” She pointed toward a corridor. “But it’s going to be packed. Rush hour is brutal.”
“I’ll manage.” The words came out warmer this time, almost without Miranda meaning them to.
The woman studied her for a moment. Then she glanced at her watch, a cheap digital thing that had probably cost less than Miranda’s coffee that morning, and seemed to come to a decision.
“Look, I’m heading downtown anyway. I can show you where to go, if you want. Make sure you get on the right train.”
Miranda’s first instinct was to refuse. She didn’t need assistance from strangers, didn’t need anyone’s help navigating something as simple as public transportation. But then she looked at the corridors branching off in multiple directions, at the incomprehensible signage, at the sea of polyester and unforgiving synthetic blends flowing around her with absolute certainty about their destinations.
“That would be acceptable,” she said. “Thank you.”
Something flickered in the woman’s expression. Surprise, perhaps, at the addition of those last two words.
“Great. I’m Andy, by the way.”
“Miranda.”
“Nice to meet you, Miranda.” Andy’s smile returned, bright. “Come on, this way and stay close, people don’t really pay attention to where they’re going during rush hour.”
She moved into the crowd, and Miranda followed, discovering immediately that Andy had not been exaggerating. People pressed in from all sides, moving with single-minded determination. Someone’s shoulder clipped Miranda’s bag, and she clutched it closer, her other hand reaching out instinctively to maintain contact with Andy’s parka. They reached the turnstiles, and Andy demonstrated the swiping motion, quick and confident, the card sliding through the reader. Miranda attempted to replicate it, but the turnstile didn’t budge.
“You have to do it faster,” Andy said, appearing at her elbow. “Here, try again. Quick swipe, then push through immediately.”
Miranda tried again, and this time the turnstile released. She pushed through, and Andy was right there on the other side, still smiling with that same patient friendliness.
“See? You’re getting the hang of it.”
They descended another set of stairs, and the noise increased exponentially. It was a cacophony of screeching brakes and distorted announcements that made Miranda’s head throb. The platform was a narrow, claustrophobic ribbon of concrete packed with people pressed dangerously close to the yellow line. Miranda stopped at the top of the stairs, her feet refusing to carry her into the fray.
Andy nearly collided with her. “Whoa, sorry. You okay?”
Miranda wasn’t sure how to answer. The platform was chaos. Bodies everywhere, the smell of too many people in too small a space, the heat rising from below mixing with the December cold seeping down from street level. And beyond the platform’s edge, the black mouth of the tunnel, and somewhere in that darkness, trains hurtling at speeds that suddenly seemed terrifying.
“It’s overwhelming at first,” Andy said quietly, and there was no condescension in her voice, only understanding. “But I promise, it’s safe. Well, mostly safe. Just stay away from the platform edge.”
“That’s not particularly reassuring.”
Andy laughed, the sound bright and unexpected in the grim space. “Fair point. Okay, here’s what you do: when the train comes, let people off first, then get on quickly. Find something to hold onto. A pole or the overhead rail. And whatever you do, don’t make eye contact with anyone acting weird.”
“How will I know if they’re acting weird?”
“Trust me. You’ll know.”
A rumble began building in the tunnel, and the crowd shifted, pressing forward. Miranda felt herself being moved by the sheer mass, her heels struggling for purchase on the platform. Then Andy’s hand was on her elbow, steadying her.
“Easy. Let them push, but don’t let them knock you over.”
The train burst from the tunnel, all noise and light and screeching metal, then it slowed, stopped, and the doors opened. People poured out, and immediately the crowd surged forward. Miranda felt herself being carried along, Andy’s hand still on her elbow, guiding her. They made it into the car, pressed in by the bodies behind them. Miranda found herself shoved back against the doors, and Andy ended up directly in front of her, one hand gripping the overhead rail, her body creating a small buffer between Miranda and the worst of the crowd.
The doors closed and the train lurched into motion.
Miranda’s heart was racing. She could feel it in her throat, her chest, her fingertips where they clutched her bag. Around her, people swayed with the train’s movement, their bodies too close, their heat and breath overwhelming every sense. Someone’s elbow dug into her ribs, and someone else’s bag kept hitting her leg with each sway of the car.
She looked up and found Andy watching her with concern.
“You’re shaking,” Andy said. “Are you cold? I know the train is supposed to be heated, but they never get it right.”
Before Miranda could respond, the train hit a rough section of track and everyone lurched. A large man in a heavy coat stumbled backward, his weight slamming into Andy, who in turn was thrown against Miranda. For a moment, they were pressed together, Andy’s hands coming up instinctively to brace against the door on either side of Miranda’s shoulders, her face suddenly very close.
“God, I’m so sorry.” Andy pushed herself back as far as the crowd allowed, which wasn’t far at all. “Are you okay?”
Miranda caught her scent again. That clean, slightly sweet fragrance that was distinctly not subway. It was coming from Andy herself, from her hair or her skin, something delicate and entirely at odds with the harsh environment around them.
“I’m fine,” Miranda managed.
But she was still trembling, and Andy noticed. Her expression shifted to something more determined.
“Okay, different strategy. Turn around and face the door. Put your back to the crowd. You’ll feel less trapped, and you can see out the windows.”
Miranda wanted to argue, but another lurch of the train sent someone’s briefcase slamming into her shoulder. She turned to face the glass door, and the claustrophobia immediately eased. She could see her own reflection now, Andy’s face visible just behind her shoulder.
Andy positioned herself at an angle, one hand on the rail above them, her body creating a buffer between Miranda and the press of commuters. Close, but not quite touching. The warmth radiating off her was palpable even through the layers of clothing between them.
“Better?”
“Marginally.” And it was, in some ways. The glass gave her something to focus on, and the crowd at her back felt less suffocating than the crowd pressing in from all sides. But the cold had crept deeper while she’d been fighting the panic, and now that the fear had ebbed, she felt it fully. The numbness in her legs had spread upward. Her fingers ached where they gripped her bag. A fine tremor had taken hold of her shoulders, and she couldn’t seem to make it stop.
“You’re still shaking,” Andy said quietly. “You’re freezing, aren’t you?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. That coat is beautiful, but it’s not exactly built for standing still in a drafty subway car.”
Behind her, she heard the rasp of a zipper, fabric rustling, and turned to find Andy already shrugging out of her parka.
“Here. Put this on.”
“That’s not necessary.”
Andy held the coat open, already moving to help her into it. “I’ve been walking around all day. I’m overheated, honestly. And you need it more than I do.”
“I couldn’t possibly—”
“Please.” The word was soft, without pressure, and something in Andy’s expression made Miranda stop protesting. There was no agenda, no expectation of reward or recognition. Just a woman offering her coat to someone who was cold. When had anyone last done something like that for her? Without wanting something in return?
Miranda let Andy guide her arms into the sleeves. The coat was heavier than it looked, warm from Andy’s body heat, and lined with something soft that held the warmth close. Andy’s hands were careful as she settled it onto Miranda’s shoulders, smoothing the fabric down with a gesture that felt almost tender. The parka was worn. It was a practical winter coat that prioritized function over fashion, the outer shell faded from years of use, one cuff slightly frayed. Miranda had thrown away better coats without a second thought. But when the warmth enveloped her, when Andy’s scent rose from the fabric and surrounded her, she couldn’t bring herself to care about any of that.
This close, she could see the flecks of gold in Andy’s brown eyes, the slight chap of her lower lip from the cold, the way a strand of dark hair had escaped her hat and curled against her cheek. Andy was watching her with that same open expression, waiting, and Miranda let herself look for a moment longer than she should have.
Then she turned back to face the glass.
In the dark reflection of the door, she watched Andy’s reflection. Still standing close behind her, hands lingering at her shoulders for a moment. Their eyes met in the glass, and something passed between them that Miranda couldn’t name. Andy’s expression was soft, almost uncertain, as if she wasn’t quite sure she’d been allowed to do what she’d just done. As if she was waiting for Miranda to push her away.
Miranda didn’t.
She should have. She should have handed the coat back, could have insisted she was fine, should have maintained the careful distance she kept between herself and the rest of the world. Instead, she stood there in a stranger’s parka, watching that stranger’s face in the reflection, and felt something shift in her chest.
From behind her, Andy reached up and pulled the hood over Miranda’s head. The gesture was casual, intimate in the way of someone who’d performed it a thousand times for friends or family. “There,” Andy said, and her voice was softer now, rougher somehow. “That should help.”
The hood was deep, blocking Miranda’s peripheral vision but also hiding her face from view. She should have felt ridiculous. She probably looked ridiculous, swallowed up in this oversized navy parka, the hood framing her face like she was a child bundled up for a snow day. Nigel would have a stroke if he could see her. But she felt warm. Safe, almost. And she could smell Andy everywhere now, that clean, faintly floral scent woven into the fabric, surrounding her like an embrace.
“Thank you,” Miranda said quietly.
Andy’s reflection smiled. “You’re welcome.”
The train screeched around a curve, and Andy swayed with the motion, one hand still on the rail above them. Miranda tried to mirror her, but her heels weren’t designed for this kind of balance. She stumbled backward, and Andy’s free hand shot out to steady her, fingers gripping her upper arm through the parka’s sleeve. The motion brought them closer, Andy’s front brushing against her back before they found equilibrium again.
“I’ve got you,” Andy said, low and reassuring.
“Thank you.” Miranda’s voice came out stiffer than she intended. A defense mechanism against the unfamiliar sensation of being held steady by a stranger. Of being taken care of.
Andy didn’t step back as far this time. There wasn’t room for it. The car had filled even further at the last stop, bodies packed so tightly that personal space had become a fantasy. Miranda could feel Andy behind her now, not quite pressed against her but close enough that every sway of the train brought them into contact. Hip to hip. Shoulder to shoulder blade. The borrowed parka doing nothing to dull the awareness of Andy’s proximity.
“So,” Andy said, her voice cutting through the train’s rattle, “what brings you to Tribeca?”
“A meeting.”
“Must be important, if you’re braving the subway for it.”
Miranda glanced at Andy’s reflection in the glass. Her expression was curious but not prying, the kind of polite interest that invited conversation without demanding it.
“It’s a business matter. Time-sensitive.”
“Well, you’ll make it. We’re making good time.” Andy paused. “I’m guessing you don’t usually take the train?”
“Not in recent years.”
“How recent?”
“Twenty years.”
Andy’s eyebrows rose in the reflection. “Wow. Okay, yeah, it’s changed a lot. Got better in some ways, worse in others. But it’s still the fastest way to get around the city when traffic is bad.”
“So I’ve been told.”
The train lurched again, harder this time, and the crowd compressed. Andy was pushed forward into Miranda, her body flush against Miranda’s back, and her hand flew out to brace against the door beside Miranda’s head. For a moment, neither of them could move. The press of bodies behind Andy held her there, pinned against Miranda, her breath warm against Miranda’s ear.
“Sorry,” Andy murmured, and the word was so close that Miranda felt it as much as heard it. “I can’t—there’s nowhere to—”
“It’s fine.” Miranda had to swallow before she could breathe normally again.
The train swayed, and Andy shifted her weight, trying to create even a centimeter of space between them. In the process, her hand landed on Miranda’s hip to steady herself, fingers curling against the curve of it through the parka’s worn fabric.
Miranda’s breath caught. A small sound, involuntary, lost in the noise of the train.
“God, I’m sorry.” Andy’s voice was still low, “I didn’t mean to—the crowd just—”
“It’s fine,” Miranda said again, though it wasn’t, not really, because Andy’s hand was still on her hip and her body was still pressed against Miranda’s back. The parka should have provided some barrier between them, some layer of separation, but instead it seemed to hold Andy’s warmth.
They fell into silence. The train made its stops. Fiftieth Street. Forty-second Street. Thirty-fourth Street. At each one, some people got off but more got on, and the car remained packed. Andy stayed close, shifting position whenever necessary to keep the worst of the crowd away from Miranda. She didn’t touch her again, but Miranda remained acutely aware of her presence. The warmth at her back. The occasional brush of contact when the train swayed.
At some point, Miranda realized she was watching Andy’s reflection in the glass. She was younger than she had initially thought. Mid-twenties, perhaps. There was an exhaustion in the set of her shoulders that suggested long hours and too little sleep, but she held herself with a quiet steadiness despite it. And Andy kept glancing at Miranda’s reflection with small, encouraging expressions, as if checking to make sure she was still okay.
No one had checked on Miranda in a very long time.
“So,” Miranda said, surprising herself by breaking the silence, “you mentioned you were heading downtown. May I ask why?”
Andy’s reflection brightened visibly, pleased that Miranda was initiating conversation. “Home, actually. I live in the East Village, so this is my commute. Well, part of it. I’ve been working since five this morning.”
“That’s a long day.”
“Two jobs.” Andy shrugged, the motion visible in the glass. “I’m doing an internship at the New York Times. Journalism, nothing fancy yet, mostly research and fact-checking. But my ex-boyfriend just opened a restaurant in Midtown, so I help him out when I can. Today was one of those days.”
Miranda raised an eyebrow. “You work for your ex-boyfriend?”
“With,” Andy corrected, a small smile tugging at her lips. “And yeah, I know how it sounds. But Nate and I are still good friends. We were together for a long time, and the breakup was amicable, I guess? We just wanted different things.” She paused, her expression turning wry. “Also, I can’t exactly afford to move out on internship pay. So we’re roommates now. It’s a little unconventional, but it works for us.”
“That’s very modern of you.”
Andy’s reflection looked surprised. “Thank you. Most people just tell me I’m a pushover. That I need to set boundaries, move out, stop letting him take advantage.” She shrugged, a small self-conscious motion. “Or that I’m setting myself up to burn out trying to do everything at once.”
“You probably are,” Miranda said. “But that doesn’t make the effort any less admirable. And I suspect the people offering unsolicited advice about your living arrangements have rather limited imaginations.”
Andy laughed again, and Miranda found herself watching the way it transformed her face, the way the exhaustion lifted, and something younger and brighter emerged. “That’s refreshingly honest. Most people try to be encouraging.”
“I find encouragement is rarely useful when it’s not grounded in reality.”
“Fair enough.” Andy’s smile softened. “What about you? What kind of work has you braving the subway for a meeting in Tribeca?”
Miranda hesitated. The question was innocuous enough, but she was unaccustomed to being asked about herself by people who didn’t already know the answer. Who weren’t angling for something, positioning themselves for advantage.
“Publishing,” she said finally. “I work in publishing.”
“That’s exciting. Books?”
“Magazines.”
Andy’s expression shifted to something like recognition, though not of Miranda herself. “That must be a tough industry right now. With everything going digital, I mean. The Times is dealing with a lot of that too, trying to figure out how to stay relevant when everyone gets their news from social media.”
Miranda studied her reflection. “You follow industry trends?”
“I’m a journalist. Or trying to be one.” Andy shrugged. “Understanding how media is changing is kind of essential. Plus, I grew up reading magazines and all kinds of books. My mom had subscriptions to everything. I used to steal her copies of Vogue and cut out the photos for collages.”
“Vogue,” Miranda repeated, her tone carefully neutral.
“And Runway,” Andy added, seemingly oblivious to anything weighted in the conversation. “Runway was actually my favorite when I was younger. The photography was always more interesting, artistic.” She paused, her expression turning thoughtful. “I haven’t picked one up in years, though. I should see what they’re doing now.”
Miranda said nothing. She should correct the assumption, should identify herself properly. It was only fair. But Andy was looking at her in the reflection with that same open, uncomplicated warmth she’d shown from the beginning. Not the careful deference Miranda received from people who knew who she was, or the calculated friendliness of those seeking favor. Andy was just one person being kind to another on a crowded train.
Miranda wasn’t ready to give that up.
The train began slowing for another stop and Andy checked the map posted above the doors. “Okay, where in Tribeca do you need to be? Depending on the address, you might want Franklin Street or Chambers.”
Miranda pulled out her phone, checking the address Whitmore’s assistant had sent. “Chambers would be closer.”
“Perfect. That’s two more stops.”
They rode in silence for another minute. The rhythm of the train had become almost familiar now, the sway and rattle no longer quite so jarring. Or perhaps Miranda had simply grown accustomed to it, had found her balance in the chaos. She was still watching Andy’s reflection in the glass. The way she absently pushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear. The way her eyes kept drifting to Miranda’s reflection, checking on her, making sure she was still managing. There was something in the attentiveness that made Miranda’s chest feel strange. Tight and warm at the same time.
The doors opened at Chambers Street, and Andy gestured for Miranda to exit first. They made it onto the platform, and immediately the press of the crowd eased. Miranda could breathe again.
“Okay,” Andy said, pointing toward the stairs, “that way leads to the street. You’ll come up near City Hall. Depending on where your meeting is, you might need to walk a few blocks.”
Miranda checked her watch. Six minutes until the meeting. Plenty of time.
“Thank you,” she said. “I wouldn’t have managed this without your help.”
Andy’s smile was warm. “Happy to help. The subway can be intimidating if you’re not used to it. But see? You survived.”
“Barely.”
“Still counts.” Andy glanced at her watch. “I should catch the next train. I need to get home and pretend I’m going to do something productive before I pass out.”
Miranda started to shrug out of the parka, but Andy held up a hand.
“Keep it until you’re inside. It’s freezing up there.”
“I couldn’t possibly.” Miranda reached for her wallet. “At least let me compensate you—”
“No.” Andy’s voice was firm but kind. “It’s a coat, not a rental. And I’ll be back on the train in two minutes. You need it more than I do right now.”
Miranda wanted to argue, but she could already feel the cold seeping down from street level, could see her own breath forming clouds in the air. And there was something about the coat, the warmth, the scent, the way it made her feel oddly protected, that she was reluctant to surrender.
“Very well. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
A train rumbled into the station on the opposite platform, and Andy glanced toward it. She should go. They both knew she should go, but neither of them moved.
“May I ask you something?” Miranda said.
“Of course.”
“Is Andy really your name?”
Andy blinked, clearly confused by the question. “Yes? Why?”
Miranda studied her for a moment. The pink cheeks, the dark hair escaping from under that ridiculous hat, the warm brown eyes that held no guile, no agenda, nothing but genuine curiosity.
“I doubt very much,” Miranda said, “that any mother would name her beautiful daughter Andy.”
Color flooded Andy’s face, sudden and vivid. “Oh. Well, you’re right, actually. It’s Andrea. Andrea Sachs. But everyone’s called me Andy since I was about six.”
“Andrea,” Miranda said, and she pronounced it carefully. Not the flat American An-DREE-ah, but something softer, almost Italian in its cadence. Ahn-DREH-ah.
Andrea’s lips parted slightly. “Wow. Nobody says it like that.”
“I find it suits you better.”
The train on the opposite platform chimed its warning. Doors closing. Andrea glanced toward it, then back at Miranda, and something passed between them. An awareness that this strange interlude was ending, that in a moment they would part and likely never see each other again.
“I should let you go,” Andrea said. “You have your meeting.”
“Yes.” Miranda didn’t move.
“Good luck with it.”
“Thank you. For everything.”
Andrea’s smile softened into something almost tender. “Anytime, Miranda.”
She turned toward the opposite platform, and Miranda watched her go. Watched her break into a jog to catch the train before the doors closed, watched her slip inside just in time, watched her turn and find Miranda’s eyes through the window. Andrea raised her hand in a small wave. Miranda, after a moment’s hesitation, raised hers in return.
The train pulled away. Andrea’s face disappeared into the tunnel’s darkness. And Miranda stood on the platform for a long moment, surrounded by strangers, wearing a stranger’s coat, feeling stranger to herself than she had in years. Then she straightened her shoulders and climbed the stairs toward the street.
The meeting went well. Better than well, actually. Whitmore signed the contract, shook her hand, and told her he’d always wanted to work with Runway. Miranda smiled and said all the right things and pretended this wasn’t the most important signature she’d secured in months.
Afterward, she stood in the hallway outside Whitmore’s conference room, retrieving the parka from where she’d left it on a coat rack. His assistant had given it a skeptical look when she’d arrived, clearly unable to reconcile the woman in Burberry and Prada with the battered coat she was carrying. Miranda hadn’t offered an explanation.
She folded it over her arm now, the worn fabric unexpectedly soft against her skin. As the elevator began its descent, the silence of the wood-paneled car felt heavy compared to the roar of the 1 train. She found herself staring at a frayed thread on the cuff—a flaw she would usually find intolerable.
Almost without thinking, she raised the fabric. She didn’t just smell it; she sought it out.
That scent. Clean, faintly floral. Andrea.
The elevator chimed, and Miranda’s eyes snapped open. She lowered the coat immediately, catching her own reflection in the polished doors: a woman in a four-thousand-dollar coat, holding a fifty-dollar parka like it was precious.
“Ridiculous,” she muttered.
The doors opened, and Miranda straightened her shoulders, arranged her expression into something appropriately impassive, and stepped into the lobby.
Tomorrow, she would have Emily locate Andrea Sachs. The Times internship would make her easy to find. Miranda would have the coat returned properly, cleaned, perhaps with a small gift as compensation. A thank you for the kindness. Nothing excessive.
It was only practical.
That was all.