“Villain or antihero? Those are the options.” He puts a hand over his heart in mock outrage.
“Alright, I’ll reconsider. It’s only a short movie, but there is one other role that hasn’t been filled yet. You may audition for the part of the hero in the next couple of hours.”
He looks clearly pleased, but before he can fire an answer back, a voice booms over a megaphone. “Next ferry boarding for the Statue of Liberty.”
The crowd stirs like a disturbed beehive, backpacks and baseball caps jostling as people funnel toward the line. I grab Rhett’s arm before I’m crushed beneath a particularly determined group of tourists with matching fanny packs.
“Ok,” I mutter, bracing myself. “This is it. We’re going full tourist.”
“Embrace it,” Rhett says cheerfully, steering me into the chaos. “You can’t come to New York and not see Lady Liberty.”
“Lady Liberty and approximately seven hundred strangers who all want the exact same Instagram shot. I thought London was bad for rude tourists shoving their way into things, but it isn’t a patch on this.”
We shuffle through security, which is practically the whole airport experience again, and something I definitely wasn’t expecting. We have to put our bags on scanners and take our belts off. And there are no liquids allowed over a certain size. I suppose it’s reassuring to know everyone else is being checked too and is safe to travel with, but honestly, it feels a bit much.
Still, when in Rome and all that.
Rhett sails through the security check, joking with the guard about how suspicious he looks. I, meanwhile, end up in a fluster with my handbag spilling open, my water bottle rolling away, and the humiliation of having my deodorant confiscated like it’s a lethal weapon.
“You’ve heard of 007. Well, you’re 003,” Rhett teases me, leaning against a post as I storm over to him. “Armed and glamorous.”
“I hope you get stuck next to a hyperactive eight-year-old brat on the ferry,” I grumble, stuffing my bag shut.
“If I do, the joke is on you,” he says smugly as we walk up the gangway. “Kids love me.”
The ferry is already bustling. Families herd children into rows of benches, couples cling to each other for selfies, and a group of teenagers are practicing TikTok dances by the railing. The smell of salt and diesel hangs heavy in the air, mingled with the faint, tantalizing scent of hot pretzels drifting in from the dockside stands.
I make a beeline for the railing and grip it firmly. Not because I’m seasick, luckily for me, I’m not, but because the view unspooling behind us is like a postcard come to life, and I don’t want to miss a moment of it. Manhattan rises up in jagged glass and steel before us, the sunlight scattering off the towers and shining like diamonds.
“Is it worth it?” Rhett asks next to me.
“For sure,” I say, pretending to study the skyline. “But it depends if I make it off this boat without any kid projectile vomiting on my shoes.”
As if on cue, a toddler a few feet away from us makes a suspicious gurgling noise. Rhett slaps a hand over his mouth to hide a laugh, his shoulders shaking. I glare at him.
“If it happens, you’re cleaning them.”
“I’ll buy new ones,” he says instantly. “But only because I like you.”
I whip my head toward him, but he’s already leaning back casually, his sunglasses on, which make his face completely inscrutable and oh, so handsome. My heart stutters anyway.
The statue appears slowly, first a faint silhouette, then a clear outline, and finally, unmistakably, she’s there; impossibly tall and majestic. Her copper green color stands out against the perfect blue sky. Her torch is raised in the air like she’s lighting the way just for the rest of us mere mortals.
Everyone rushes to one side of the ferry like migrating birds, their cell phones thrust high. Rhett doesn’t budge. He’s watching me instead.
“Don’t you want to see the statue?”
“I’ve seen her before. I live in Manhattan, remember,” he says. His voice is casual. “And besides, I would much rather watch you see it.”
Heat rises instantly to my face. I laugh it off, flustered. “Wow. That might be the cheesiest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
He shrugs, grinning. “Good thing I don’t mind being cheesy.”
We spill out with the crowd onto Liberty Island, funneled along the pathways by surging people all around us. The statue towers above us, vast and solemn, the folds of her robe gleaming where the sun hits them. Rhett insists on a selfie.
“Evidence of us being a real couple,” he says, pulling me into his side.
His arm is warm across my shoulders, his cologne clean and faintly citrusy. The camera on his cell phone clicks just as he whispers, “Say fake marriage,” and I burst out laughing mid-shot. He shows me the picture, and my jaw drops at how bad I look. Not only am I laughing in a way that makes my eyes squint almost shut, but my hair is also every bit as mad as I imagined it to be.
