“I get that.”
“Maybe five years ago now, the leadership team decided to pivot and start aggressively going after enterprise clients.”
“And you disagreed?”
“No,” he says, surprised at my question. “It made way more sense for us to get off the hamster wheel of funding rounds and try and turn a profit. As soon as we won a couple of those big enterprise contracts, everything got easier. But it also changed the vibe a lot. We had big clients and we had to service them. We weren’t some scrappy little startup anymore.”
“You weren’t Jotter, essentially.”
“Before you start your sermon, just a reminder that Jotter sold out too. Literally. To Taskio.”
I look him over. “Hey, Connor? Want to know a big secret?”
“Yes,” he says.
“I like Taskio’s interface better than Jotter’s.”
He gasps. “Annabelle.”
“It’s true. I always thought it was better. So do a lot of people at Jotter. We just can’t admit it now because you’re our overlords.”
“Unbelievable. And after all the shit you’ve givenme.”
“Someone around here needs to keep you on your toes.”
“You’re right, I’m doing such a great job of staying on top of everything otherwise.”
He says it like it’s clear he’s doing the exact opposite.
“You are,” I tell him. “Honestly.”
“Thanks,” he says. “Though I don’t believe you.”
We sit in companionable silence, watching life unfold on the street aroundus.
“Do you ever think about leaving?” I ask after a few minutes.
“Sometimes. Not really. And not now,” he adds.
“Why not now?”
He stands. “Shall we walk?”
Sixteen
Connor takes me on a guided tour of the neighborhood, which is, I learn, not only where he grew up, but where his mom still lives. It’s like the whole city springs to life before my eyes. He points out all the little landmarks of his childhood: the homes of his school friends, the playground where a friend accidentally split his lip open, the dessert restaurant that was the site of his first date. He doesn’t recommend it. The relationship only survived as long as the ice cream sundaes, he tells me, so in a way, this was also the site of his first dumping.
We’ve been zigzagging up a couple of blocks and then back down again, roaming nowhere in particular, until he turns us down 77th Street toward the gates of an enormous basketball court, taken over by a bustling weekend flea market known as the Grand Bazaar, which, he informs me with the authority of a local historian, is the oldest flea market in the city.
I need no further urging to look around. I have always loved yard sales, and this one is huge. There’s all the usual junk sellers you’d expect at a flea market, but also lots of vintage clothing too. I hand my coffee over to Connor and get to work.
He trails behind me from stall to stall without complaint, one coffee cup in each hand, amusement writ large.
“You really love this, don’t you?” he asks me, a smile hovering around his mouth.
“I’m addicted,” I admit.
When I first moved to New York I was single and didn’t know anyone, and never had anything to do on weekends. I’d literally spend hours just going to little vintage sales and hunting around the racks. Practically everything I own is second-hand. It’s a very jazzy wardrobe.
