Their waiter walks back up and pulls a notepad and pen from his apron. Grace looks at Mollie. A whole conversation unfolds in their silence.
“I’m sorry,” Grace tells the man. “I don’t think we’re going to stay. There’s been a change of plans.”
With this, Mollie pushes out her chair, stands, then glances at her watch. “I’d better get back to the office and make some calls before everyone heads out of town for the holiday.” She reaches for her purse and turns to walk away. Before she takes a step, she pivots back. “And Grace. You were wrong.” Her expression softens. “When you do come up with your next story idea—whenever that might be—make sure you give me a call.”
Grace walks. All through the city, up and down the blocks she once navigated daily, so busy chasing a dream she’d only later realize was temporary. The soles of her sandals slap against the sidewalk as she moves, the sound swallowed up by the symphony of metropolitan noise. Horns blaring. The hiss of steam from the subway grates. The song of thousands of people all reaching for something so big.
She doesn’t mean to intentionally walk past it, but she finds herself standing in front of it anyway. Her once favorite bookshop, the one she used to frequent on weekends when she lived here, browsing in and out of the aisles, her fingers trailing over the rainbow of book spines.
Now she stops.
Her eyes linger on one of the shop windows and the display inside it.
A little more than five years ago, Grace walked into this establishment on a warm June night to celebrate the launch of her book and first-ever tour. She smiled while sitting at the front of the shop, looking out at the filled-up rows of folding chairs, proudly holding a hardback copy of herdebut, her whole future opened up to what, at the time, felt like exactly the right page. How fast things change, and with so little warning. How much we grow, and in so short a time.
What advice would you give your younger self?
That night, she was asked the question for the very first time. A young woman, probably fresh out of college, was the one to pose it. Grace gave what she believed was the right response.
Keep going. Don’t give up. You’ll get there soon.
It’s only today, standing on the other side of the glass and looking in, that Grace realizes her reply wasn’t correct at all.
The real answer is that getting there is only one piece of the story. That even when you do, it’s not always the victory you imagined. Sometimes the dream changes shape after you’ve caught it. Things you thought would be yours forever slip away.
But none of it has to do with age. Being older. Or younger. Where you happen to fall on the timeline.
For better or worse, it’s just life.
Grace sits on a stool beside the window of the coffee shop on Amsterdam Avenue, the one she often came to when she and Adam lived up the street. She’d work here sometimes when she felt like she needed to get out of their apartment, nibbling on croissants and sipping espresso drinks while her fingers clacked away on her laptop keyboard like she was a pianist.
Outside the glass, the Upper West Side pulses with life. A few women push strollers. Bursts of cars race past. People in summer work attire—eyelet shift dresses, tucked-in golf shirts—emerge from the subway. A thirtysomething couple wheels carry-on luggage up the block, then slides into a car, likely ready to venture to the Hamptons or Fire Island or whatever place they’re going to unplug and reset for these last few summer days.
“Sorry I’m late,” Adam states when he walks in. He’s dressed in his normal work attire, droplets of sweat dotting his hairline. “My last call of the day ran longer than I expected.”
“It’s fine,” Grace assures him, then watches as he takes a seat. She gestures to the iced Americano she ordered for him in advance. “Really.”
It didn’t make sense for them to come all the way up here, more than a hop, skip, and a jump from Grand Central and Adam’s office. Still, when they texted about it two days earlier, Grace thought that meeting in their old neighborhood just felt right. To end where they had their beginning. For their story to feel like a circle, something round and whole.
“You look ... great,” Adam stammers, like maybe he’s not sure if he’s still allowed to make comments like this. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay,” she tells him, which is true. “Now that I’m back home and settled into a routine and eating more than just seafood and French fries, the nausea and fatigue haven’t been quite as bad.”
“Good.” He wipes his forehead, even though he’s now settled in the air-conditioning. It’s hard to say if he’s sweating from the heat or the circumstances of this meeting. “That’s great to hear.”
Grace twists then, reaches into her purse on the back of her chair and produces a medium-size white envelope. She turns back toward Adam, opens it, and slides out a strip of glossy black-and-white ultrasound images, all connected like still frames on a film reel. Without a word, she passes it to him, then watches a smile spread over his lips as he takes in the tiny profile, the curve of the spine, the unreal nature of it all.
There was a time, back in the beginning, when it seemed that a family was something Adam did want. A period in their relationship when he’d get excited seeing the positive test sitting on the bathroom counter, his chin set on Grace’s shoulder as he admired her in the mirror and traced his fingers along her stomach. But with every loss, that light—that hope—faded from his face like a film dissolve sliding off the screen. Now, though, seated across from him, Grace sees it—a faintflicker of something. A dream. An emotion. A glimpse of the person he used to be.
Adam dabs the corners of his eyes with the tip of his pinkie. Sweat, maybe. Or something else. “So I’m guessing this means things look okay?” A trace of hesitancy carries his words. “Things look all right?”
Grace sips her decaf coffee. “That’s what the doctor tells me.” She gives a small shrug. “Further along than I’ve ever made it before.”
“It’s amazing.” Adam shakes his head in disbelief, takes another look at the images, then hands them back. “I’m speechless.”
“Those are for you,” she says. “I had the tech print out two copies. I thought you’d want to keep one at your apartment.”
His shoulders rise as he inhales. “Thank you for that.” His expression drops by a degree. “I appreciate it.”
