Harriet lowers herself onto the tub beside me. “Did you really buy a plane ticket to New York?”
I nod numbly.
“Do you want to go?”
I shrug. Because Mum’s right, isn’t she? That was just another fantasy.
“Maybe you should.”
Wait. What? Of all the people who might encourage this, I’d never expect it from her. She’s always been the more pragmatic one, the more sensible of the two of us. She’s never been the type to get swept up in flights of fancy like me.
“You heard Mum,” I mumble. “It’s crazy.”
Harriet nods slowly. “Yeah, it is. And I’d never do it. But…” She adjusts her glasses, thinking. “If you’re not happy here, then maybe it’s time to do something different. You know they say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results.” She gives me a nudge. “So maybe the crazy thing would be tostayhere.”
I snort a laugh and wipe my nose, studying her. She’s three years younger than me and we’ve never been especially close, but now I’m glad to have her here, sitting in my bathroom while I battle a hangover and the intense urge to do something life-altering.
She gives my arm a squeeze. “That sucks about Travis. I’m sorry. But that’s beyond your control. If you want to go to New York, or write, or make some other big life change…” She shrugs. “That’s up toyou.”
I look down at the bathmat, absorbing her words. She’s right; the only thing stopping me is myself.
My pulse quickens at this realization. Because I could actuallydothis. I could. Hell, I already have the ticket and the apartment. It’s halfway done already.
“Harri…” I glance at her again. “Do you really think I should do this?”
“Well, do you want your life to change or stay the same?”
Emily’s words flash into my mind—this is exactly what you need… it’s going to change your life—and a thrill runs through me. Because I think it’s about damn time to change my life.
“You’re right.” I stand, conviction gripping me as I stride into the living room with Harriet trailing after me.
Mum looks up from her cup of tea in surprise.
“You know what?” I raise my hands to my hips and look squarely at my parents. “I’m going. I’m going to New York to become a writer.” I take in their aghast expressions and feel another surge of conviction. They think my dreams are crazy, that I should stay here and live a small life, but they’re wrong. It’s one thing for Travis to hurt me, but for my ownparentsto not even believe in me…
But they’ve never believed in me, have they? They don’t understand me at all. They’ve never even tried. And suddenly, I realize that leaving here isn’t so much about not wanting to be here—it’s about feeling like I don’t evenbelonghere.
I lift my chin. “I’m moving to New York,” I say again, glaring defiantly at my parents. “And if you don’t like it, you can go duck yourselves.”
3
This can’t be right.
I’m standing on the corner of West 10th and Hudson Street in New York’s West Village. It’s been two weeks of madness, packing and sorting out a visa and saying goodbye, before hauling myself all the way over here. And now, I find myself staring in confusion at a Starbucks.
Don’t get me wrong; I love coffee. I never start my morning without it. And fuck, standing in front of a Starbucks Coffee shop in the middle of Manhattan is like standing on a film set or something. It’s awesome. Surely any moment Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks will walk out.
But I can’tquiteenjoy it, because this isn’t supposed to be a Starbucks. It’s supposed to be the Wilson apartment block, where I put a deposit on my new studio apartment.
I dump my suitcases against the side of the Starbucks and pull out my phone, trying to ignore the sensory overload around me and focus on the matter at hand. Scrolling back through my email inbox, I pull up the confirmation from the Wilson Rental Group.
“Yes,” I say to myself under my breath, glancing back up at the street signs. “Corner of West 10th and Hudson.” Both signs match, and I stuff my phone into my pocket, turning to survey the street around me. Everything looks familiar, but somehow wrong: the cars are on the opposite side of the road, the sounds are different, the air is cooler but thicker. There’s an NYPD car parked at the curb, a handful of yellow taxis cruising by, and the street has an acidic sort of smell I can’t pinpoint.
But most alarmingly, there’s no Wilson apartment building.
An uneasy feeling stirs in the pit of my stomach and I push it away, reaching for my suitcases and hauling them into Starbucks. The familiar smell of coffee wafts over me and for a moment, I feel comforted.
Right. I just need to get this mix-up sorted and everything will be back on track.
