When I settled my life there, I was enamored by it all. The people, the lights, the energy that folded itself around me. It was like nothing I’d ever experienced before. I thrived in it and felt proud to be part of a beautiful city that millions of people travel to for the experience.
People say that New York is not for the weak. Especially when you weren’t born and raised in it and go there to achieve a dream you have. Those people aren’t wrong.
Three years into my relationship with Charlie, the happiness I once had slipped through my fingers. My mind remembers the day the flicker of excitement was no longer there. I went from waking up in the morning, excited to see what the day was going to bring, to wanting to throw my phone across the room when my alarm would go off.
No one ever knew the dread that would sink in when I woke up in the morning. Because that isn’t how I was supposed to feel. I should have been thankful for being a part of something that so many pastry chefs would kill to have.
I took the negatives and tried to reframe them as positives. Every compliment and praise I received toward my work made me hope that those words would ignite that flame in me again.
It never did.
“Ellie!”
Looking behind me, I see Riley in the distance waving. I get up, brush the sand off my shorts, legs, and hands, and walk toward the sounds of people talking and laughing, along with the echoing sound of the mic check.
“How old do you think the drummer is?” Riley asks.
“Why? You think he’s cute?” My eyes follow hers toward the stage, and I tilt my head.
“I’m going to say twenty-eight,” James butts in. “She’s trying to sleep with the guy.”
“You’re going to have to wait in line.” I point to the group of women staring at him while he twirls his drumsticks in his fingers.
“I’ve always liked a little competition.” Riley wiggles her brows, and as she walks toward the front of the stage, her golden hair stands out in the crowd.
Riley has the type of confidence that sometimes can make a man intimidated. Her type is men who like casual. No relationship, no strings, just fun.
We hear a tapping sound from the stage, and a guy with a guitar strapped to him starts to speak. He introduces the band when my attention is pulled away from a sound behind me.
“Hey, guys.” Hailey walks up to me and James, Beau trailing behind her.
Hailey has this effortlessly cool vibe, with light brown hair and curtain bangs, one section dyed a striking icy blond. Tattoos wind down her arms, and her septum and nose rings glint as she moves. Her winged liner is always on point—sharp enough to cut through anything. Her high-rise jean shorts show off her long legs, and her blue button-up has the first few buttons undone, the sleeves rolled up.
“Hey, Hails.” I pull her into a tight hug, rocking her back and forth, and pull back. “How was your date?”
“It was fine. Not sure if I care to see him again. He did tell me about this cool club thirty minutes from here. We should check it out.”
“Ooh, what’s the name?” I ask.
“Ecstasy,” Hailey says casually.
James laughs. “How the hell do they get away with a name like that?”
Hailey shrugs before replying, “How should I know?”
“I could totally use some dancing in my life right about now,” I whine.
“I’m in,” Beau says from behind Hailey.
Hailey turns to look at Beau, who looms behind us, his tall, broad frame hovering over the two of us. The pair of them look like two peas in a pod. He’s covered in tattoos, even on his neck, with a nose piercing to match Hailey’s. He and James share similar features, making it obvious they’re related.
“Who invited you?” Hailey peers at him.
“Hey, if you say there’s dancing, I’m going. That means a lot of women will be in attendance.” Beau shoves his hands into the pockets of his rugged jean jacket.
“I see your face enough at the tattoo shop,” Hailey responds.
Beau’s brows knit together, and he says, “How is it my fault I like getting tattoos?”
