by Jen Morris
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Love in the City Copyright © 2020 by Jen Morris
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For more information, contact at: www.jenmorrisauthor.com.
First edition October 2020
Kindle ISBN: 978-0-473-54166-8
Paperback ISBN: 978-0-473-54164-4
Cover illustration by Elle Maxwell
www.ellemaxwelldesign.com
For Carl and Baxter, my happily ever after.
One belongs to New York instantly. One belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years.
Tom Wolfe
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Book Two
1
I’m dead. That’s what this feeling is. My whole body aches and my head is about to explode.
With great effort I manage to crack one eye open, wincing as the light shoots straight through to my brain.
How much did I drink last night?
I spy the almost-empty tequila bottle on the counter and my stomach lurches. Fuzzy memories start to surface: Face-timing my best friend Emily, drinking tequila shots, something with my laptop… What happened? And why am I here alone? Usually Travis is—
Oh. Travis.
The scene in the parking lot behind the Italian restaurant comes rushing back to me, his words hitting me all over again: You’re happy with a small life, but I need more.
Right. He’s leaving me to travel the world. Five months together—our whole future together—gone, just like that.
My chest tightens as misery crashes over me. I pull a pillow over my head, desperate to fall back asleep and forget everything, but there’s a thump on the door.
Heaving a sigh, I peel myself from the bed. I notice I’m still wearing last night’s dress, the fabric rumpled and creased from where I passed out. I catch sight of my reflection as I stumble towards the door and pause to try and tidy myself up, but it’s no use. My shoulder-length brown bob is matted up on one side, mascara is smeared down my face and my hazel eyes are bloodshot and puffy.
Shit, I hope it’s not Travis at the door. The last thing I need is for him to see me like this. My stomach lurches again and I realize that at least if it is him, I can puke on his shoes. You know, to thank him for dumping me on my birthday.
But it’s my parents. Or rather, it’s my mother, marching my father in by the arm. He closes the door behind him with an apologetic look while Mum stands there, hands on her hips.
I groan. This is the problem with still living in this tiny, rural New Zealand town: my parents live five minutes up the road and pop in any time they bloody well feel like it.
“Alexis.” Mum gives me a stern look. “What on earth is this New York nonsense?”
I press a hand to my forehead. The room is spinning and my head is thundering and last night’s tequila is hovering near the back of my throat. “Hold on.” I stumble into the bathroom to grab a packet of painkillers, then stagger into the kitchen for a glass of water.
“Honestly.” Mum’s voice drifts into the kitchen. “This is crazy.”
No, fuck the glass. I lower my mouth and drink straight from the tap, gulping back huge mouthfuls of water.
“So Travis ended things. That doesn’t mean you—”
“Wait,” I say, straightening up and turning to them. I don’t remember telling them that. It only happened last night. “How do you know Travis ended things?”
Mum’s brow wrinkles. “You announced it on Facebook, darling.”
Oh God. I can’t have done that, surely?
I push away from the kitchen sink, glancing around for my phone. Maybe if I can just delete the post, there’s a chance no one else will have to see it.
Jesus, Alex. Way to go down in flames.
“But that’s no reason to throw your whole life away,” Mum huffs.
“What?” I mutter, yanking up the couch cushions, groping around for my phone. Where did I last have it?
“I just think quitting your job and moving your whole life overseas is a very dramatic response to a little break-up.”
I stop, turning back to Mum. “What?” I ask again, feeling an icy chill run down my spine. Mum can be theatrical, sure, but she’s not one to make stuff up. I glance between her and Dad. They both look anxious and there’s a twist in my gut.
Shit. Please tell me I didn’t do something stupid last night.
I return to my phone search, desperate to find it. Then I spy my laptop on the coffee table and lunge at it, turning it on. Mum and Dad are watching with concern and I almost want to cry. By the looks of it I did do something stupid.
I open my browser and go to Facebook, loading the notifications. Apparently I made a post last night and everyone has something to say about it. With a wave of trepidation, I open the post and read it.
Happy 30th to me! Got dumped by loser Trav the Man so it’s time to move on. Goodbye New Zealand, hello New York! Leaving in a week,, going to become a best sealing author if you don’t like it you can go duck yourself—
Oh God.
Mortification floods me. I don’t even remember posting that. I must have been drunk out of my mind—the multiple errors are proof of that. I wouldn’t be caught dead using such poor grammar in real life. And I tagged Travis in the post? I shudder in horror.
Glancing up at my parents, I give them a weak smile. “I was a bit drunk last night. Yes, Travis and I broke up, but the rest of this is just a joke.” I gesture to the screen with an unsteady laugh. People post shit on Facebook all the time—maybe I can just say I was hacked? That happens, right?
Mum straightens up. “Really?”
I scroll down through the comments. A few people are asking if I got hacked—there you go, it’s totally plausible—then there’s one from Emily saying, Yes! You go girl! This is going to be awesome!
Well. I’ll need to have a word with her about that, encouraging me when I’m that drunk. What kind of best friend is that?
I scroll further, my eyes landing on a comment by my boss, Julie. My stomach turns over when I read her words: We’re going to miss you girl, but this sounds lik
e a wicked adventure.
Oh fuck. No. I didn’t actually quit my job, did I?
I open my email sent folder, and my heart sinks. There’s an email to my boss, announcing my immediate resignation from the role of “Asitant Manger.” My pulse accelerates and the tequila swirls treacherously in my belly. Because now, this is starting to feel a bit too real.
With shaking hands, I log into my bank account, and my fear is confirmed. Last night I spent $6000—basically all of my savings—on a one-way ticket to New York and something called the Wilson Rental Group.
The Wilson Rental Group.
The words register in the depths of my brain and everything starts to come back to me in fragments. I found a last-minute fare to JFK Airport two weeks from now. I put down a massive deposit on an apartment in the West Village. And yes, I quit my job as assistant manager at the local bookstore before announcing to the world what I was doing via Facebook. I distinctly remember deciding to announce it, so I couldn’t back out.
Holy hell. I bury my head in my hands as the room starts to spin around me. I can’t believe what I’ve done. What was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking, obviously. I was wasted.
I look up at my parents, feeling my gut heave. Tossing my laptop aside, I push to my feet and flee the room, making it to the bathroom just as the tequila exits my stomach.
2
I spend a good few minutes with my elbows on the toilet seat, the cause of last night’s mental breakdown pouring out into the toilet.
Because that’s what this is, right? A mental breakdown. It has to be. No one does this sort of shit when they’re sane.
I sink back onto my heels, reaching for a towel and dragging it across my mouth. Then I spy my phone sitting up on the bathroom vanity and grab it. There are a million notifications on the screen, but one jumps out at me, from Emily. I unlock the phone and read through the message thread.
Emily: I just read your Facebook post. Sorry about Trav.
Alex: Yeah he’s a deck. But I’m exited about New York!!!
Emily: Are you seriously going?
Alex: Yes!!!! I just bought ticket!!! I’m going!!!
Emily: How drunk are you?
Alex: Really drank.. But I know what I’m doing. I’ve wanted this forever and now the time!!!
Emily: Are you sure?
Alex: I’ve never been more curtain of something.. In my life.
Emily: I think this will be really good for you.
Alex: I know, I can’t wait!!!
Emily: I’ll message my friend Cat, she can show you around.
Alex: Great!!!!
Emily: I’m so excited for you! I think this is exactly what you need. It’s going to change your life.
Oh God. So many exclamation points. But I remember, now—I remember sending those texts. I recall the buzz I felt last night when I made the announcement, when I bought the ticket. I did want to do it. And in my wildly drunken state it seems that I, too, thought it was a good idea.
“Alex?” a voice calls through the door. It takes me a second to recognize who it is.
What the hell?
“Harriet?” I stand, flinging the door open, and come face to face with my sister.
Her eyes are wide behind her black-rimmed glasses. “Are you alright? Mum said there was some sort of emergency. What’s going on?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I mutter, pushing past her into the living room. “Everything’s fine. I just did something silly while I was drunk.” My empty bank balance flashes into my mind again and dread creeps over me. I sink down onto a chair, pushing the thought from my mind. This has to be a bad dream, surely.
Harriet drops onto the sofa beside my parents, still looking bewildered. Dad pulls a tiny box out of his pocket and hands it over.
“This is for your birthday, sweetheart. Open it.”
I hesitate, then take the box. Inside is a silver necklace with a book charm on it, and I smile. I do love my books; I’ve always wanted to be a writer. This is a nice surprise, because the last time I mentioned to my parents I wanted to write novels they brushed it aside and told me I wasn’t being realistic. But now that I’ve made this Facebook announcement about wanting to write, maybe they’re finally taking me seriously. Are they giving me their blessing?
“It’s because of the bookstore,” Mum explains. “Well, it was.”
There’s a ripple of disappointment in my chest. Of course.
“I know you’re not feeling great about things right now,” Dad says. “But we’re proud of you, Alex. Assistant manager is a good job. You’re hardworking and you don’t expect too much.”
I frown, glancing down at the necklace. I know he’s trying to pay me a compliment, but somehow it feels like he’s pointing out a flaw. So I was assistant manager at our crummy little bookstore. Big deal. It’s hardly the writing career I imagined myself having at thirty.
I look at Harriet for support. Her hair is wound up tight in a bun on top of her head like always, her brow furrowed in thought. Of course she doesn’t get it; she’s worked at the same cafe since leaving high school and never complained. Is it just me who’s so ungrateful?
Dad smiles at me warmly and I feel a pang of guilt. “Thanks, Dad,” I mumble. They’re so proud of me and I quit, just like that. Did I make a big mistake?
“Thirty is a big milestone.” Mum pats me on the arm. “It can be a bit scary, but you’ve achieved a lot, darling. You have a lot to be proud of.”
“I do?”
“Yes!” Dad chimes in. “You have your flat.” He gestures around the room and I wince. The peeling salmon-pink wallpaper and stained carpet do nothing to support his enthusiasm. Why on earth is he mentioning my flat? It’s a tiny, run-down crapheap and I don’t even own it.
“And you live alone, an independent woman!” he adds with a proud smile. Mum is nodding in agreement, her eyes gleaming.
I exhale. Yes, I’m a single woman who lives alone. What a bloody achievement. And now I don’t even have a choice in the matter, what with Travis taking off.
“Yes, well. Thanks.” I eye them warily. They must be quite panicked about this New York thing if they’re feeling the need to scrape together this pathetic highlight reel of my life. But in all honesty, it’s just making me feel worse. Because none of the things they’ve pointed out are what I imagined for myself at this age. They’re all piling up to create a very dire picture indeed.
“And of course you have your degree,” Mum says.
God, they’re still going.
I mean, okay, the degree is good: a Bachelor of Communication. I worked hard for that, even if it wasn’t quite what I’d wanted to do. What I had wanted to do was get a degree in literature then a Masters in Creative Writing, but my parents assured me that was pointless and wouldn’t get me a job. I compromised with the communications degree, figuring I could still write. And while I did work at the local paper for a while, five years ago they had huge budget cuts and I was made redundant, forced to take a job at the bookstore. I’ve been there ever since. So again, not something I’m extremely proud of.
Mum leans forward to squeeze my hand. “I’m sorry about what happened with Travis, darling. That was awful. And on your birthday, of all nights.”
Harriet screws up her face. “Yeah, that sucks. What a dick.”
I give her a thin smile, swallowing against the bitterness in my throat. Because that’s the icing on the cake, isn’t it? My writing career is non-existent and my flat is awful, but at least I had Travis. And now I don’t even have that.
“Do you like the necklace?” Dad asks.
I glance down at it with a little nod. “Yeah. Thanks.” It’s cute and it suits my love of reading and writing, but now it feels like a symbol of everything that’s wrong with my life. I pull it out of the box and clasp the chain around my neck. It sits low on my chest and I stare down at it, my head spinning.
“See, darling? You don’t want to move to New York,” Mum says. “Your whole life is here.
”
I look around at my shitty flat and my body sags with disappointment. My whole life? This is my life? A job I don’t care about, a boyfriend who’s left me, parents who don’t understand me, this hideous flat. Hell, even my best friend doesn’t live here, she’s in Auckland. Travis was right: I am living a small life. I’m living a tiny, insignificant life—one that doesn’t even remotely measure up to what I imagined for myself at this age.
“Why don’t you get dressed,” Dad suggests, “then we can take you out for a birthday breakfast?”
Right now I want nothing more than to crawl under the covers and die, but they’re all looking at me hopefully and I feel another spasm of guilt. It’s hardly their fault I’ve fucked up my entire life, is it?
“Okay,” I mumble, pushing to my feet and shuffling off to the bathroom. The minute I’m out of the room I hear them start whispering, but I’m too hungover to care.
I slip the bathroom door closed behind me and stare at my reflection above the sink. I look dead. Actually, I feel dead. It’s not just the booze, or the fact that I did something incredibly stupid last night. It’s everything. I never expected I’d be here. I figured I’d be married by now, maybe with a kid or two. And that’s on top of my successful writing career.
But I don’t have any of those things. As Mum and Dad so clearly pointed out, I’m alone. Alone in this awful flat with no man, no career—and now, I don’t even have a job.
