Basic Neighbors

Chapter 1

I pressed my forehead against the cool window of the taxi, watching the blur of New York City life whiz by. This wasn't how I pictured my life at almost 35. Back in the Midwest, my young heart crafted dreams of motherhood and a storybook romance; not an apartment lease in a city that pulses like a living thing, indifferent to my arrival. Dreams morph, though, don't they? The mermaid astronaut career I once longed for was never in the cards for me, and neither, it seemed, was the picture-perfect life I'd envisioned.

A week. Just one week since Budget Bunker, the big box retail superstore,  handed me my walking papers along with a flimsy cardboard box—my career's remnants tucked under my arm as I walked out. The title 'Creative Director' had once made me feel significant like I was molding a piece of the world. But what did I trade for it? My skin doesn't glow quite the way it used to, hidden beneath fluorescent office lights for the last decade. I brushed a lock of brown hair from my eyes, considering how its luster dimmed from days spent indoors, shackled to a desk rather than basking in the light of possibility, relationships, and adventure.

I hitched my dreams to a corporate star and soared. But stars burn out, don't they? The hours I poured into Budget Bunker, into becoming someone—into being seen—they chewed up my youth and spat out a woman on the cusp of middle age, untethered and scrabbling for a new dream. Ten years dissolved like sugar in hot tea: sweet, addictive, then gone without a trace.

"Miss, we're here," the cab driver announced, pulling me from my reverie.

"Thanks," I mumbled, handing over crumpled bills. 

Stepping onto the sidewalk, I lugged my life in two suitcases and a duffel bag across the concrete expanse. The city loomed, a forest of steel and glass, and here I was—a single seedling fighting for sunlight. I could almost laugh at the irony. Once the darling of a retail giant, now just another face in the crowd. How many others had stood right where I was, on the precipice of reinvention or ruin?

"Jade Sullivan, welcome to your next chapter," I whispered to myself, a mantra to quell the rising tide of panic. This is freedom, I told myself. Freedom to chase those niche roles I'd buried under campaign highlights and budget cuts. With every step toward my new building, my new tiny corner of the universe, I felt the weight of expectations I'd shouldered for so long begin to slip away.

But let's be honest—it's terrifying to start over. The underdog in me thrills at the challenge, while the pragmatist wonders how long I can last before the savings run dry. I've traded boardrooms for the unknown, my tailored suits for a pair of sweatpants, and the promise that maybe, just maybe, this time I'll catch the life I truly want.

The key turned with a reluctant twist, and the door creaked open to reveal my new reality—a Lower East Side apartment that was more of a promise than a home. The city's din crept in through the single-pane windows, a symphony of honks and chatter that was now my lullaby. I set my suitcases down, their contents a stark contrast to the barren walls and hardwood floors.

"Mom, Dad," I murmured, a lump tightening in my throat, "look at me now."

They'd never wanted this—the chaos, the risk—for their only child. A helicopter ride gone wrong, and suddenly I was navigating life without their guidance. Colleagues filled the void, sort of—companions by convenience, not choice. Our outings blurred into post-mortem work discussions, glasses clinking to the rhythm of missed opportunities and office politics. 

I sank to the floor, the cool wood pressing against my palms, and let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. What would they say about their headstrong daughter, gambling her severance on a slice of the Big Apple? Would they see it as rebellion or resilience?