Getting bubble tea was my attempt at sobering Grace up to avoid a killer hangover. Not just for her sake—I can’t deal with the snoring. Plus, I’d rather not wake up to her head in the toilet in the morning. Now we’re doing the short work back to Grace’s apartment.
It’s 11 p.m. on a Friday night in New York, and the city is alive. I inhale deeply, letting it fill my lungs, even the exhaust fumes and hot garbage. The beautiful stench of reality.
The city is buzzing with people coming and going from all sorts of weird and wonderful places—comedy clubs, jazz joints, poor suckers working late at the office, hospitals full of drama, all-night comic stores for the geeks, rooftop garden bars for the hipsters, vintage arcade bars for the nerds, strip clubs for thepervs, kink clubs for the adventurous. You name it, New York’s got it.
In this city, seeing Batman stroll out of Pret A Mangerdoesn’t even warrant a second glance.
That’s what I love about New York—the stunning diversity, the exhilarating unpredictability. The heady rush of eight million folks going about their lives, each with their own story, their own soaring dreams and crushing letdowns, their own devastating heartbreaks and fleeting joys.
I know I’ll come back someday. I feel it in my bones.
But right now, I’ve got a good thing going in Maryland, with my job, Mom in a nice care home, decent plumbing, and my life finally on track.
But being back, even just for a visit—seeing those dazzling lights, those towering skyscrapers, feeling that electrifying buzz that somehow kicks the tired right out of you—it’s like a piece of my heart never really left.
It’s funny, now that I’m not drowning in debt I can breathe easier, can feel a flicker of excitement at being back. I guess part of me wanted Grace to stay—beyond just looking out for her—so I could keep a connection to the city.
Grace’s apartment is just ten blocks from Central Park, which is perfect. Buying earplugs for her snoring is cheaper than splurging on a hotel room in that neighborhood.
She’s raved about the Quinn & Wolfe bash, and it sounds insane, like something ripped straight from the pages ofThe Great Gatsby.
They pulled out all the stops—magicians, poker tables, champagne fountains, acrobatic performers, even ice sculptures shaped like landmarks from cities where their hotels are.
Seems like the company is thriving. Because nothing sayswe’re loadedquite like a giant ice sculpture of the Empire State Building slowly melting into a puddle.
I’m desperately trying not to picture him there, in his element, charming the room like the smooth-talking, charismatic asshole he is.
I’m attempting to block out the image of him in a perfectly tailored tux, his piercing blue eyes, his disarming smile.
And I’m also doing my best to ignore the thought of him with his arm around his professor girlfriend.
“Go ahead, ask me,” Grace says, slurping her bubble tea.
“What?” I feign innocence.
I stab my straw into my honeydew bubble tea, trying to squash one of the tapioca balls, trying to squash the emotions swelling in my chest.
“Ask me about him. I won’t mention him unless you do.”
Fuck. She hasn’t even said his name, and the pang is sharp. It’s harder in New York than in Maryland. Because I know he’s here, I know he’s out there breathing the same New York air, gazing up at the same sky.
I could make a run for it, sprint those twenty blocks like my life depended on it, just to catch a glimpse of him. I know exactly where he is right now.
I could drag Grace back to her staff party and face my heartache head-on, because I’m a glutton for punishment. Maybe seeing him in the flesh would finally be the pain I need to forget him entirely. To stamp out that teeny tiny sliver of hope that’s stubbornly clinging to my soul.
It’s ridiculous. The dull pain has lasted longer now than the fling itself. It’s not supposed to be that way. I’m supposed to be over him, moved on.
And Tom’s great. Funny, handsome, uncomplicated. He’s the antithesis of a brooding billionaire type. Tom is the kind of guy who belongs in my world, the kind of normal guy a normal girl like me should be with.
“I don’t care, Grace,” I say, trying to convince myself as much as her as we cut through the park. “I knew he’d be there. He’s technically your boss.”
“Yeah, if by ‘boss’ you mean ‘the guy on the top floor of my building.’ There are fourteen levels between him and me.”
I look at her and laugh, a real laugh this time. “Did you actually take the time to figure that out?”
“Yep. Obviously, the levels get more intense and harder to climb the closer you get to the Quinns and Wolfe. The Quinn & Wolfe version of Everest. And I’m still at base camp.”
I laugh again, grateful for my sister’s company.She takes a long sip of her bubble tea.
