“So,” Mel says, her dark eyes sparkling as she glances at me, “you’re staying with Cat?”
I nod, sipping my drink. I’ll need alotmore booze if I’m going to co-exist in the same time and space as this movie-star woman.
“What brings you to New York?” She raises her martini to her lips. God, even her choice in drink is cool.
“Oh, uh,” I say, flustered. I don’t know what it is, but I feel very intimidated by her. “I decided to move here after…” I flounder, unsure of how to say it without sounding like a loser.
“After her idiot ex made a big mistake,” Cat offers, and I shoot her a grateful look.
“Idiot ex? I’ve got one of those.” Mel gives a heavy eye-roll, flicking a wave of mahogany hair over a bronzed shoulder. “Aren’t men just total assholes?”
“Mm,” I say, refusing to let myself think about Travis again.
“Anyway.” She shakes her head, twirling her martini glass. “What do you do?”
An hour ago this question would have had me wilting with shame, but now I can’t contain the grin that spreads across my face. “I’ve just got a new job at a bookstore in the West Village.”
Cat nudges me. “She’s also a writer. That’s why she moved here: to write.”
“I’m not really a writer,” I say quickly. “I want to be.”
Mel nods. “What do you write?”
“Um…” I glance down, feeling silly. All that talk about coming to New York to be a writer and I’ve only written one measly blog post. “I write a blog,” I say at last. “Well, I used to. I’ve been lacking direction lately. I feel like I need a project or something to guide me, because I’d like to write more.”
“What did you blog about in the past?”
For some reason I feel my cheeks color. “Just dating, mostly. And how shit it was.”
“Sounds interesting. I’ll have to have a read. I work for a women’s website and we’re always looking for new writers.”
“Of course!” Cat rolls her eyes to herself. “Why didn’t I think of that?” She turns to me with a grin. “Mel should check out your blog.”
“Oh.” I wave a hand. “It’s mostly posts from a few years ago.”
Mel offers me a benevolent smile. “It doesn’t matter how old it is if it’s well-written and there’s truth to it.”
I contemplate Mel’s sincere face. I don’t know why I was intimidated; she seems like a lovely person. I guess she’s one of those people that we all love to hate: beautiful, successful, intelligent and also nice. You know the ones I mean. It’s like they’re perfect and you can’t help but hope that there must be something secretly wrong with them, like maybe they have an extra toe or a hideous scar somewhere or something.
But gazing at Mel’s friendly face, I can’t hate her. She’s just too nice.
“Anyway,” she adds, sipping her martini, “if you want to be a writer, you need to be writing. Find something you love to write about, and do it.”
I sigh, sagging against the booth. She’s right—I need to be writing. It’s pretty damn simple, isn’t it?
9
Acouple of hours—andmanydrinks later—Mel and Cat want to head to another bar downtown, but I decide to call it a night. Even though I’ve been here for two weeks now, my body still feels like it hasn’t quite adjusted to New York time.
Plus, I’m in a weird mood. I might have found a way out of the job from hell thanks to Geoff, but Mel’s words about writing brought me down from that temporary high. Because now that I’m not trapped in a soul-sucking job, I have no excuses.
I get an Uber back to Cat’s place alone and wobble up the front steps. Probably a good thing I called it a night when I did, because I can feel myself sliding into sad drunk territory.
I key in the code for the front door and let myself into the lobby, looking forward to getting into my PJs. Searching in my bag for my keys, a hiccup escapes me, followed by a giggle. I did have a fun night. And I’m pretty sure I caught Cory checking me out at one point, which was a nice confidence boost. It’s this crazy Snow White dress, I’m sure. I giggle again as I glance down at the skimpy costume I’m wearing. I wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing this back home, but here, on Halloween, I fit right in. And, just quietly, my boobs lookgreatin it.
But… oh, shit. My keys are not in my bag, I realize, as I dump the contents out onto the table under the mailboxes. A million things tumble out—wallet, phone, EpiPen, tissues, pens, lip-gloss, earphones—but no keys. Even in my tipsy state I can see they aren’t there.
“Fuck,” I mutter, dropping my empty bag and rubbing my face. I must have left my keys on the kitchen counter.
