by S. L. Scott
I’m staring too long, realizing a few seconds too late that this is my stop. I jump up from my seat and right into him. Since this is New York, no pardons are needed, but I still say, “Excuse me.” I like to be polite, too.
“No, I’m sorry,” he replies, maneuvering out of my way. Our eyes meet for a solid second before I turn back toward the exit doors.
I get stuck between a pole and a woman a foot shorter than me who refuses to budge. I look down at her and repeat, “Excuse me, please.” I push forward without trampling anyone, but the doors close before I can reach them.
Deflated, I stand there, once again reminded that this is my life now—a series of hassles and a distinct difference from the one I once led. Life used to be sunshine. Life used to be easy before . . .
When I turn around to grab a pole, I notice the handsome man already entering the next train car. I continue watching until the door slides closed behind him.
The next stop comes, and I work my way through the crowd and up to street level, choosing to walk the five blocks back to my apartment. This is the second time this week I’ve had to backtrack like this. Sometimes I think I should give up the subway altogether and try the bus. It seems more natural for a person with my lack of aggression. I left my feistier side with Jim six months earlier. I still haven’t mastered this new me yet.
A long bath eases some of the tension in my shoulders, but my mind is still left to flounder. The black dress I slip on is always flattering, but gives me the ability to blend into the background. Rachel can garner all the attention. It makes it easier since I’m not in a dating mode at this point in my life.
I stock my clutch and notice the invitation lying on the counter where I dumped my bag out when I got home. I pick it up, contemplating once again if I’m ready to read it. It will upset me, so I choose to walk away, leaving all the memories that come with it behind for the night.
Waving at me with enthusiasm when I walk in, Rachel looks like her confidence is soaring as she gets some much-desired attention at the swanky bar she’s chosen to prowl tonight. She introduces me to the two guys she just met, Bob and John, who seem to be enamored by her charms. Their names make me question if they’re using aliases tonight. Just like the guys themselves, they are generic.
I’m welcomed, and John even rushes to the bar to get me a drink. When he returns, he hands me a gimlet, and I graciously accept, though it’s not a cocktail I normally drink.
I need this night more than I let on to Rachel. I can’t be depressed anymore. It’s too . . . depressing. I will enjoy tonight.
After a few minutes of talking about himself and his law firm, John winks at me then leans over. “You want to get out of here?”
Is he for real? Shocked by his arrogance, the answer is easy. “No. I just met you!”
He starts backtracking. “Just one drink back at my place. You know, and see where it goes from there.” He touches my hair, looking at it between his fingers. “I’ve always heard redheads were fun.”
Is that a perverted challenge of some sort? I don’t smile. His rudeness doesn’t deserve my niceties. I smack his hand away before backing up. “Well, you won’t be finding out with me tonight.”
I turn to walk away, giving Rachel a get-rid-of-them look before I head to the bathroom.
“You all right, Charlie?” Rachel asks.
“Just gonna powder my nose.” I let my tone indicate how I’m feeling.
I’ve learned there are a lot of misconceptions about me and my fellow crimson comrades. Most men are predictable and make unwarranted assumptions. I fall into a stereotype of fiery-tempered sexpots. I’m passionate about my work and the ones I care about, but hot-tempered, no.
The other common belief is that we reds sleep around. I’m not easy, despite what people assume based on my follicles. My natural hair color is rare, so it draws men in like a moth to a flame. But I often see the disappointment in their eyes when they discover I’m more what is considered the girl-next-door type than a vixen. At least it’s a good way to weed out the jerks like the one tonight.
Escaping, I make my way through the barflies flocking to this club’s light.
One thing I’ve learned living in Manhattan is that a man who takes you home to do the deed earlier in the night has no intention of staying home. He’ll be right back on the prowl before midnight. I don’t mind a one-night stand if needed. I had one once, although it turned into a relationship, so I guess it doesn’t count. I do mind, however, being one of several for a guy who gets greedy and abuses his good looks. At twenty-five, I’ve already learned it’s hard to find a meaningful relationship in this city. Most are too self-centered to make the effort, and the others . . . well, are like me, just not that into the hunt.
I check my lipstick in the bathroom mirror before squeezing past a gaggle of girls celebrating a pending marriage. I don’t think about what could have been my life. I try to convince myself I should feel lucky I found out the bad stuff when I did—before the marriage.
Rachel waves at me. A different man is standing with her at the bar. I’m not surprised she’s receiving so much attention; she’s gorgeous with her long, dark, wavy hair, brown eyes, and Italian heritage.
Not that I’m bad-looking or anything like that. I receive my fair share of attention. It’s just more an acceptance that I’m not the typical sexy type, not like Rachel. I’m average height for a woman, but heels put me right at five-six. My body isn’t athletic, but I exercise, so I’m fit . . . enough.
I look to her right just as her next conquest turns. Our eyes meet, but not for the first time. My mind flashes to the subway when Rachel introduces him. “Charlie, this is Charlie. How funny is that?”
“Very,” I say, distracted by the sweetness of his smile and his handsome face. His brown hair is tousled, kind of wind-blown, but definitely not styled like most of the men in this city. I like that. His hair looks touchable, but I resist the temptation. A small laugh escapes me, and my real smile reveals itself before slipping away.
“You made it off the subway?” he asks.
“What?” The music is louder now, and the bar area is noisy.
“The subway?” He leans closer, and his warm breath hits my cheek. I detect a hint of whiskey. “I see you made it off the subway earlier today?”
“Oh, yes. Barely.” I smile, wanting to blush and giggle like a schoolgirl, but I’m too intrigued that he remembers me. I look into his kind eyes, recalling the color from the train. They’re light bluish-gray. His pupils are dilated in the darkness of the bar, but I can see the sincerity in them. “I got blocked, and had to jump off at the next stop and walk home.”
“Sorry that happened. People can be rude sometimes.”
“No worries. I’m getting used to it.”
“The rude people or walking home?”
“Both.” I laugh.
He laughs, too. “That’s a pity. You’re not from New Yo—”
“I’m ready for that drink you mentioned. Are you, Charlie?” Rachel interrupts, redirecting his attention back to her.
“Yes,” we reply in unison then look at each other and burst out laughing.
“Jinx! You owe me a martini.” I state this as if everyone knows this game.
He smirks, waving over the bartender. “I thought on jinx it was always a Coke?”
“I don’t drink Coke.”
He chuckles just as the bartender signals he’ll be over in a minute. Without missing a beat, he says, “Martini it is, then. So, your name really is Charlie?”
“It’s Charlotte, but I prefer Charlie. It’s what I’m used to. Is your full name Charles?” Did I just ask that stupid question? I blush this time, the alcohol not helping. This doesn’t faze Rachel, but doesn’t go unnoticed by Charlie.
He smiles again, tilting his head as if trying to figure me out. “Yes, but I don’t feel old enough to be called that.”
Rachel laughs too hard to sound natural, and she leans toward him, putting her han
d on his thigh. “Charlie here tells me he’s interested in dogs.” She makes it sound as if a dog is some rare animal found in Siberia.
He nods, giving her his attention again before turning back to me. I also nod to show a courteous interest in the topic, though I have none. Looking at her, I finally clue into what all of her odd expressions and bulging eyes mean.
I’m enjoying myself for the first time in what seems like forever, but I’m reminded that she met him first. I’m the one who interrupted, so I should go. I should go before I get invested in a guy who has already been marked by my friend, because I don’t screw over my friends. “As much as I’d love to stay and chat more about dogs, I’m really tired after the day I’ve had. I think I’m outty.”
“Audi, like the car?” he asks.
Rachel is rolling her eyes behind his back, so he can’t see. She hates my lingo. It’s a bad habit left over from my more frivolous college days. I look at Charlie and smile again. “No, outty. It’s just a stupid way of saying ‘out of here.’ My college roommates and I used to say it.”
“I’ve never heard the word before.”
Rachel steps forward and laughs nervously. I’ve embarrassed her. She rests her hand on his shoulder, staking claim. “She always says the silliest things.”
“I think it’s cute,” he says with a gentle smile on his face.
I look away quickly, thinking there is more to his words than the basic meaning.
“Silliest, as in adorable,” Rachel says, her tone overly dramatic. “I meant she always says the most adorable things. I don’t know how she comes up with them.” She tilts her head toward the door, signaling me to leave.
“Well, I really should get going—”
Rachel’s hugging me before I finish my sentence. “Yes. I’ll see you Monday.”
“Yeah, Monday,” I mumble. The sudden and rapid good-bye is disorienting.
Charlie takes my hand and says, “It was really nice to meet you, Charlie.”
“You too, Charlie.” I emphasize his name for fun. What am I doing? I start to back up, now embarrassed by my own ridiculousness. He doesn’t release my hand right away. Just when our arms are stretched as far as they can go, he tugs me forward again, both of us enjoying the moment. After another dirty look from Rachel, I drop my hand to my side and walk away. One more glimpse back, and I see him shift his hand to his lap.
Is this what a real connection feels like? It’s been so long, I’m not certain anymore. As much as I want to stay and get to know him better, Rachel looks pleased with my imminent departure. Just as I’m about exit, I glance back, my eyes meeting his one final time.
I catch a cab, abiding by one of my golden rules: No subways after nine o'clock. Settling into the back seat, I reminisce about tonight. It was a good time, which was a nice change.
Thinking of Charlie, I’m glad Rachel found someone interesting this time. To most men, she’s the epitome of a single city girl—if she sleeps with a guy too soon, she won’t be considered wife material, and if she doesn’t have sex with him soon enough, he won’t want her as a girlfriend. I know under her optimistic enthusiasm she gets lonely. Hell! We all do. Right now, I’m just trying to enjoy the fact that I had a great time with a fascinating man . . . oh yeah, and Rachel, too.
I push down the pang of jealousy surging through me because she met him first. I take a deep breath and chant, “I will not fall for Charlie. I will not fall for Charlie.” After I repeat the phrase several times, I rationalize that walking away was the right thing to do. Rachel has staked her claim, so I can’t dwell on him, although I want to.
I crawl into bed later that night feeling hopeful, which is a nice reprieve from my usual sadness. I smile thinking that maybe, just maybe, I can find someone as charming as Charlie one day, too.
Chapter 2
Charlie Adams
“I don’t think I need it—”
“Dude, take it, just in case. If it brings you lady love, mm-hmm,” Conner clears his throat, “then I’ve done my job.”
I roll my eyes, but also laugh at the gesture. “I haven’t seen a rabbit’s foot in years. I think since I was eight.” The orange foot is really creepy, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings. I loop the chain onto my key ring anyway. “I’ll give it back to you next week.”
“No hurry. Just take care of it.”
I’m caught between being creeped out and amused that he thinks this thing can do anything other than scare women away, but I humor him. “Yeah, okay. I’ll keep it safe.” I walk to the door and yell, “Rip it up in Aspen.”
He shouts from the back bedroom, “Yeah, no doubt, dude!”
Leaving his apartment, I gallop down the stairs. I can barely remember the last time I snowboarded. It’s been a few years. The last time was three years ago when I spent Christmas with Conner and his family in Park City. My family was still holding their grudge against me for dropping out of university and thought it best if I didn’t come home for the holiday. They thought I’d come begging my way back into their good graces, return to college, and step in line to run the family business, but I didn’t. I just hopped on the private jet with Conner and took off. My parents didn’t call me on Christmas or New Year’s like they had every other year of my life when we were apart. That hurt, especially since I called them on both days, and was sent to voice mail both times.
Most people, including all of my childhood friends, would have caved at that point, but my parents’ wealth and status was not my concern at the time—just like it’s not now. I had goals and my own dreams to pursue, and their cutting off my allowance and living expenses wasn’t going to deter me.
The rift between us has continued to this day, but it’s softened. I see my parents occasionally now. My mom reads my articles that make the paper, but that’s all. I’m the prodigal son who let them down. I get their disappointment, but I don’t understand the treatment. I’m their only son, their only child. Aren’t they supposed to love and support me, no matter what? I work hard and don’t need their money. Shouldn’t they be proud I’m making my own way? I am. I hope one day, they will be, too.
As I approach The Bagelry, the smell of fresh dough and coffee permeates the air—my version of heaven in the morning. I turn and go inside. Tony leans forward on the counter and in his thick Bronx accent asks, “Your usual, Charlie?”
“The usual.” I set my money down, taking my coffee and bag from him. As I back out the door onto the street, I call out, “Keep the change.” Walking down the remaining two blocks to my apartment, I appreciate the new, warmer air that covers the city.
As I press the code to get in my building, Mrs. Lackey walks by, greeting me warmly. “Good morning, Charlie.”
“Morning, Mrs. L.” I return the kindness. She smiles to herself almost as if she’s blushing from the interaction. She’s eighty-three and always makes me smile, too.
I take my first sip of coffee as I unlock the door, always using the walk home to let it cool. Their basic house coffee is my standard. The rich but simple taste reminds me why I don’t like the frou-frou fancy coffee drinks. Just a good ole cup of Joe for this guy will do just fine. It’s that good.
After hanging my keys on the hook, I remove my bagel from its brown bag. My breakfast gets dropped on my desk, which I pushed to face the sliding glass door a few days ago, needing a new perspective. I open the door to the balcony and lean against it to people watch. We don’t get many people in this area sightseeing, so the attractive girls I spy down below must be lost.
There are several clues that tell me they’re not from around here. First off, they’re too tan for a New Yorker emerging from a cold winter. They also wear bright colors—too bright for my taste. And finally, there is the most obvious giveaway—the map that they can’t seem to figure out how to read. I laugh at my easy deductions when they ask a guy for assistance.
Our spring season kicks into high gear when New Yorkers leave and the tourists start arriving in droves. Inspired to write
, I sit down in my desk chair. The antics playing out on the street below, coupled with Conner escaping the city in hopes of catching that last elusive snow storm of the season, give me plenty of material to work with, so I start typing.
When I finish the piece, I read through it again and do a quick edit. It’s in keeping with my collection of articles on life in New York, and I know my agent will like it.
It’s ironic that when I was growing up in Manhattan, I used to wish to be anywhere else in the world. And yet here I am at twenty-seven, still in Manhattan and now being paid to write about it. Crazy ridiculous! But being paid to write about the city I now appreciate is nothing to sniff at, and I don’t. I love what I do for a living. I’ve worked hard and sacrificed a lot to get where I am.
I didn’t luck into my life. I created the life I wanted to live. When I left college at the end of my junior year, my parents used every threat they could think of, but nothing could change my mind. I hated the life I was living. It was how they chose to live, not how I would. So I took off on my own and worked hard, earning and deserving everything I have despite what my parents predicted. I also know that I’m very fortunate, and I don’t take it for granted, not like the life I led before. That all feels like a lifetime ago, like my memories are of a different person entirely now. I guess, in a way, they are.
I take an afternoon nap, knowing I’ll need some energy for hitting the bars with Justin tonight. He’s an animal, and even though I’m still in my twenties, that doesn’t guarantee the stamina to play in his league of partying. I met him through Conner about three years ago. Justin’s cool and loves the thrill of the hunt. It’s always interesting to go out on the town with him.
After waking, I take a break from my apartment and go downstairs to check my mail. As I stand in front of the wall of mailboxes, I flip through the uninteresting bills, pausing at a large heavy cardstock envelope. I tab through my mind, hoping I haven’t forgotten about a friend’s upcoming nuptial or a younger cousin’s graduation, but I come up empty on both fronts. I head back upstairs and rip it open after the other mail gets tossed onto a small table to my left.
