“Wait,” I say, tugging at his sleeve like an overexcited tourist, which, let’s face it, I totally am. “I need one of those pretzels. It’s basically a rule to buy one when in New York, right?”
“It sure is,” Rhett says, steering us toward the cart. “One pretzel, coming right up.”
He buys two. They’re warm, salty, and bigger than my head. I tear off a piece, chew, and practically melt on the spot.
“Oh my God. Why don’t the ones in London taste like this?”
“It’s the New York magic,” he says, deadpan, and takes a bite of his own.
We stand eating pretzels while the whole city whirls around us. I glance down at my ring again, unable to stop myself, and laugh.
“This is ridiculous. I’m eating street food in Times Square while wearing what must be the world’s most expensive piece of jewelry within a ten-mile radius. Talk about clashing aesthetics.”
Rhett winks. “You pull it off perfectly. Classy meets chaotic. It’s very on-brand.”
“On-brand?” I arch an eyebrow. “What brand is that, exactly?”
“The Pippa brand. Trademark pending.”
I roll my eyes sarcastically, but I can’t keep from grinning.
We wander further, weaving past a crowd gathered around a break dancer spinning on his head. A woman in glittery angel wings poses for tips while a guy in a knock-off superhero costume flexes for photos. I keep turning in circles, trying to drink it all in at once. It’s messy and loud and absolutely different than anything I’ve ever experienced. At some point, Rhett fishes out his cell phone and holds it up in front of us.
“Smile, dear fiancée.”
I make a face. “Ugh, do I have to?”
“Yes. Documentation purposes. Come on.”
I sigh dramatically, then lean into him, posing my hand so the diamond catches every ounce of light. He snaps a handful of selfies, but when I check them, I burst out laughing.
“We look so obnoxious, like one of those couples who everyone hates because they are disgustingly loved up.”
“That’s the goal,” Rhett says, clearly pleased. “Couple of the Year.”
I scroll again and pause on one of the pictures where I’m mid-laugh with my head tilted against his shoulder. The ring sparkles as if it’s trying to steal the spotlight, but it can’t.Something about the photo makes my chest ache, like it’s too real not to be real. I quickly hand the phone back to him.
“Ok, enough of that. What’s next?”
Rhett smirks. “We hit one of the souvenir shops. You can’t leave Times Square without something tacky.”
“You’re not wrong,” I say as we dive into a shop overflowing with I heart NY T-shirts, keychains, snow globes, mugs, tote bags, pretty much everything I expected and more. I pick up a foam Statue of Liberty crown and jam it on my head.
“How do I look?”
“Like a national treasure,” he says with a straight face.
“Liar.’ I grab a tiny plastic yellow taxi and hold it up. “Perfect for the mantel piece at your beach house.”
His mouth quirks. “The beach house doesn’t have a mantelpiece.”
“Details,” I dismiss airily, and toss it into our basket anyway.
If I show up back home without presents, I’ll never hear the end of it. And my parents, well, they’d never say it, but I know they’d keep whatever I give them forever, like a talisman of this weird adventure I’m on.
I end up buying way too much tatt. A few postcards, a silly magnet for Sandra, a cap for Lucy, a pair of matching mugs for Mum and Dad. When we step back out of the shop and rejoin the throng of people, I feel like it’s even busier, and the billboards are blazing even brighter. I look around, hugging the shopping bag to my chest, the ring winking like it’s in on the joke.
“This is crazy. I’ve never felt so tiny and so huge at the same time.”
