Chapter 3: Stairs, Sweat, and New Beginnings

"Ethan, if things don’t work out, just FaceTime me and come home."

I balanced my phone between my ear and shoulder, shifting my suitcase to give my sore arms a break.

I pictured my mom standing in our Indiana kitchen, probably wiping her hands on her favorite dish towel, worry lines etched deep into her forehead. I tried to sound upbeat, even though my arms ached from dragging my suitcase up and down the L train stairs.

"It’s fine, Mom. I found a place—it’s really spacious."

I exaggerated a little. Technically, it was 'spacious' if you counted every nook and cranny the landlord had partitioned. But I didn’t want her to worry. I just wanted her to think I was making it on my own.

"It’s not easy being out there on your own."

Her voice was soft, the way it got when she was trying not to cry. I could hear the clatter of dishes and the old clock ticking behind her.

"But I can’t come home. If the neighbors find out I graduated and am just sitting at home, the local Facebook group will explode. I’d rather eat ramen than give them fresh gossip."

"Let them talk."

Her tone was tough, but I could tell she was worried. She’d always had my back—even when I was stubborn.

"Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll be fine. I’ll text you later."

I hung up before she could hear my voice crack. The rental agent beside me gave me a sympathetic look.

"Just graduated, huh? Chicago’s tough at first, but you’ll get the hang of it. When I first graduated…"

I waved him off, not in the mood for a TED Talk.

I forced a smile, but my shoulders were tight with stress. The last thing I needed was a stranger’s motivational speech.

"Still more stairs to climb?"

"Seventh floor. Just two more."

"Alright."

I took a deep breath and started up again, sweat soaking my shirt and the smell of old carpet and takeout food lingering in the stairwell. The building was ancient—rusted mailboxes, peeling paint, and the distant sound of a TV blaring Wheel of Fortune. The higher we climbed, the more my legs burned. But the thought of saving money kept me moving.

Old building, seventh floor walk-up, no elevator, shared apartment. All the drawbacks stacked together—that’s how the legend of $120 a month rent was born.

By the time we reached the top, I was panting, my shirt glued to my back. The agent wiped his brow and shot me a look that said, “Welcome to the big leagues.”

After finally making it up, the agent politely knocked on the door.

A moment later, a pretty, quiet-looking woman cracked the door open a bit.

"Who are you?"

Her voice was soft but wary, like she was half-expecting trouble. I tried to muster my friendliest smile, hoping I didn’t look as sweaty and desperate as I felt.

"Oh, Aubrey, remember? I’m the agent. Here’s someone new coming to share the apartment."

The girl—Aubrey—opened the door wider and hurried inside.

She moved with quick, quiet steps, fiddling with her sleeve and glancing back at me, clearly sizing up whether I was trouble or just another broke grad.

"Um, can we come in?"

"Sure."

I wiped the sweat from my forehead and looked around. The apartment was actually pretty spacious: three bedrooms, a living room, a bathroom—over 1,700 square feet.

The place had a lived-in vibe—mismatched couches, a Yankees cap on the coat rack, a Target throw pillow, and Trader Joe’s bags stacked in the corner. There were shoes lined up by the door and a faint lavender air freshener in the air. I tried to picture myself calling this place home.

"Ethan, let me introduce you."

My gaze followed the agent’s finger as if he were a general pointing out territory on a map.