“What do you think?” he presses. “A drink?”
“Sorry,” I reply. “I’ve got plans tonight. But thanks for asking.”
So much for creative excuses.
His smile fades. “Come on. You’re single, aren’t you? I don’t see a ring.”
Irritation surges through me. Do I need to wear a fake engagement ring just to be left alone? Or would that still not be enough? My friend from college, Maria, who’s engaged and living out in Nashville, told me recently that a guy took her ring as a challenge. He liked the idea of trying to‘woo’ her away from her fiancé, in his words.
“It doesn’t matter,” I reply sharply. “I’m not interested. Have a good night.”
With relief, I realize the train is coming up on my stop. So I gather up my bag and start making my way to the doors.
Behind me, he mutters, “Bitch. No wonder you’re single.”
My teeth grind together.
Part of me wants to turn around and give him a piece of my mind.
Part of me wants to tell him that men like him are the reason I’m single.
But I don’t. I just grab hold of the bar and wait, swaying along with the movement of the train, until we jerk to a stop and the doors blessedly open.
I hurry from the train and make a beeline for the stairs, joining the crowd of people headed up them. As I emerge from the stairwell and onto the sidewalk, I take a deep breath, letting the icy air clear the scent of lingering cologne.
Glancing around, I take a second to get my bearings.
It’s been a while since I’ve ventured to the Upper West Side, and while most of it looks the same as I remember, there are differences, too. On one corner, the old bodega has been replaced by a bubble tea shop. A few doors down, a make-your-own-charcuterie-board cafe is where the Italian bakery used to be. Not unexpected changes, but reminders of how quickly things can change in the city.
I pull the paper with Nico’s address jotted on it from my pocket, as if I’ve somehow forgotten it.
I haven’t. Not that I expected I would. Not after looking it up online, and studying the street view and concierge services and floor plans of the different condos inside. All of which are incredible, with sweeping views of the city, expansive terraces, and top-of-the-line finishes.
They’re nothing like my little one-bedroom in Hoboken, that’s for sure.
As I start walking south on Broadway towards 81st Street, where his building is located, my mind meanders back to eighteen years prior. Not to this exact location; Nico lived over on the Upper East Side back then, but to the afternoons and evenings and weekends we spent wandering the city together.
Back then, I thought Nico and I would be together forever. But those were just naive fantasies. Dreams that were destroyed by a cold and crushing reality.
My steps slow for a moment.
You could turn around,the logical voice reminds me silently.Go home and forget about this.
No,the other voice insists.You’re here. Just do it.
And the last thing I want to be is a coward, so I do.
I pick up my pace again, taking purposeful strides while shoving my worries and doubts down deep. As Nico’s building comes into sight, I try to tamp down the flutters of nerves that erupt in my belly.
I’m a grown woman, I remind myself. Not the naive girl I used to be. I’ve handled much harder things than this.
Except seeing your ex, the man you were once desperately in love with, is never easy, is it?
When I reach the door to Nico’s building, I stop and take a steadying breath. My gaze sweeps across the obviously expensive building, distractedly noting that it looks even fancier in person.
Nico’s done well for himself.
Unless it’s all family money, but I don’t think it is. The Nico I knew wasn’t the type to just ride on his family’s fortune. He wanted to find success on his own. And from my research—plus the impulsive searches I’ve done on social media when I know darn well I shouldn’t—it looks like he’s found it.
