Page 2 of Only Lovers in the Building

Lily needed no further encouragement. She was on the right track. Down and out, where better to wash up than the hot sands of Miami Beach?

She booked an Airbnb.

Chapter One

The Icon, a classic Art Deco building on Washington Avenue, was home for the summer. Old but new: Lily imagined the bones were stripped bare at some point, polished, lacquered, and covered in gold leaf. She walked through archway after archway, in the golden light of so many chandeliers, rolling her carry-on case over the ivory tile with onyx inlay, thinking My God . . . this is perfect. If she was going to do this—escape reality, bake in the sun, drink unreservedly, waste her days, ruin her nights, and generally behave irresponsibly—the setting mattered. She’d do it in style.

However, retreating to paradise wasn’t without its complications. It was a logistical nightmare. Her Airbnb wouldn’t be ready for a while, and the property manager’s laissez-faire attitude grated her nerves. “Immediate occupation allows for twenty-four hours’ notice,” he explained. “It’s in the fine print.”

When you wanted a thing badly enough, even corporate lawyers quickly scrolled to the bottom of the contract, tapped the big fat red button marked Accept, and assumed all conditions and consequences.

To make up for the inconvenience, he offered her a voucher for a complimentary glass of rosé. That was how Lily found herself alone at the rooftop bar overlooking Miami Beach, e-reader open to The Sweetest Lie, a spicy romance set in Malibu, waiting to be served. She didn’t even like rosé, but she needed something to take the edge off. The people around her exuded coolness, while she sat with her luggage piled at her side, huffing and puffing, ready to blow her top.

She’d been on the run since two in the afternoon. Fueled by adrenaline, there’d been no stopping her. No time to pause, reflect or second-guess the string of rash decisions that had landed her here. To sit still, even at a bar, was to run the risk of succumbing to doubt. You couldn’t just run away from your life, could you? Who would water her Monstera? She arrived at one conclusion: this was a big fat costly mistake.

What was she even doing here? Lily felt completely out of place at the trendy bar. She couldn’t even catch the bartender’s attention. He had his back to her the whole time, busy with worthier patrons. She watched as he rattled a shaker, poured the mix into a chilled glass, garnished it with a lemon twist, and offered the cocktail to a lucky woman, who rewarded him with a smile.

He answered to Ben, Benny, Bro, or Benito:

“Yo, Ben!”

“Yeah?”

“Bro!”

“What’s up?”

“Hey, Benny!”

“Hey, man! Where’ve you been?”

“Benito. Two vodka tonics for the high top.”

“You got it.”

He was good at his job. He doted on the few who managed to get his attention. He laughed at jokes, got the indecisive to make up their minds, and handed napkins to the ladies who spilled their drinks. He opened tabs, swiped credit cards, and collected tips. Lily was forever in awe of happy workers. A job was a job, as far as she was concerned. You showed up, toiled away for eight hours or more, and went home exhausted and spent. There was no joy in it. No pleasure. All it caused was stress, which quitting, she’d learned today, didn’t do much to alleviate. That was the fate of all those born into late-stage capitalism.

A guy slid onto the stool next to hers. Eyeing her e-reader, he spoke over the music. “What am I interrupting here? Sad-girl solo date?”

French, she could tell, from the accent and attitude. He could take that somewhere else. Today was not the day.

“Excuse me?” she snapped.

“You’ve got your book,” he observed. “All you’re missing is a glass of chardonnay.”

A fuse ignited in Lily’s gut. But when she met his water-blue eyes, it instantly died out. He meant no harm. Besides, he wasn’t too far from the truth. She felt no shame. Solo dates were a pillar of the self-care doctrine.

“Tonight’s sad drink of choice is a complimentary glass of rosé,” she said. “But I can’t get the bartender’s attention.”

He let out a tortured sound. “You’re too pretty to be so tragic.”

“Thanks. Sort of.”

He was pretty, too, with slick blond hair and a deep tan that made his blue eyes pop.

“Cheer up,” he said. “If the guy I’m here to meet doesn’t show, I’ll join you. This is our third attempt at a first date.”

Lily gasped, any residual resentment gone. There ought to be a three-strike rule in the contact sport known as dating.