by Jen Morris
“Right,” I say, pulling out a wad of bills. God, they all look so similar. I sense someone approach the counter behind me and turn to see the same handsome businessman from earlier, a sandwich in one hand, his head bowed as he’s engrossed in something on his phone. He glances up to see me ahead of him again and heaves out a sigh, shoving his phone in his pocket.
“Can I just pay for this?” he asks Dave, right over my head.
Heat sweeps across my cheeks. I might not fit in with this New York crowd, but how bloody rude to act like I’m not even here.
Dave’s eyes dart between the two of us. “Uh…”
I thrust some bills onto the counter, taking my coffee. Flustered, I spin around to get out of the guy’s way just as he steps up to the counter. But I’ve turned the wrong way and our bodies collide: my head hitting his chest, his foot crushing my toe.
And crumpled between us, in my hand, is the paper cup that held my coffee.
I gasp as the hot liquid soaks into the front of my dress, scalding my stomach. That’s when I notice it’s soaking into the businessman’s crisp, white shirt too.
Oh God.
I glance up into his deep brown eyes. His face is seething with fury, as if I somehow did this on purpose.
“Shit. I’m so sorry,” I stammer, my heart thudding hard. I pull my dress away from my skin, trying to ignore the burning sensation through the thin fabric.
He takes a handful of napkins from the counter and attempts to mop up his shirt, cursing under his breath. His jaw is clenched like he’s trying to stop himself from yelling at me.
Mortified, I grab a napkin and dab at his shirt, attempting to stop the stain from spreading, because—good God, that’s a firm stomach. I pat at the stain, following it down his torso where the liquid has spread, mentally cursing myself. I should have been more careful, I should have—
He leaps back, shooting me a look of surprise.
Whoops. Perhaps I went a little low with the napkin there. Accidentally, of course. It’s not like I was trying to go feeling around his crotch.
“Fuck. Sorry,” I mumble again, my face flaming. This could not get any worse.
He huffs, pulling out his wallet to pay for his sandwich.
I really do feel bad. He could have been more patient, sure, but I didn’t do this on purpose. And now he’ll have to wear a stained shirt to his board meeting or whatever.
“Here.” I take the pen off the counter and write down my number on a napkin. “Please, send me the dry cleaning bill.” I hold the napkin out to him and mop at my own soggy dress with another, wincing as I pat against my stinging skin.
He snorts. “Dry cleaning? You’re kidding. I’m going to need a new shirt.”
I gulp. A new shirt for him will probably cost the same as my apartment deposit. I open my mouth to protest, but he’s glaring at me and I shrivel. “Okay,” I squeak. “Send me the bill.”
He snatches the napkin, glowering. “Fine.” And with that he strides out of the coffee shop.
Dave hands me a fistful of napkins and a new coffee. I give him a weary smile and retreat to my table, thoroughly humiliated.
Sipping my coffee and mopping at my dress, I sigh. This is so far from how I wanted my first day to go, I’m on the verge of tears.
The door swings open and a short woman with chin-length gray-blond hair, ripped black jeans and chunky combat boots steps in. A tiny pug dog follows in after her and she scoops it up into her arms before surveying the coffee shop. Her eyes land on me and my suitcases, and she heads over.
“Alex?”
I nod.
“I’m Cat. I came as quickly as I could.”
4
Finally, a friendly face.
I’m so relieved to see Cat, I have to hold myself back from throwing my arms around her. “Thank you. Oh my God, it’s been a nightmare, I’m so sorry Emily had to bother you…” I start rambling, but she holds up a hand.
“It’s okay, I understand,” she says brusquely. “But I have to get back to the shop, so can we go?”
“Oh. Of course.” I rush to gather my things, knocking over one of my suitcases which nearly crashes into the table next to me. I try to apologize but Cat is already marching out the door and I scramble after her.
“I just live a few blocks from here,” she calls over her shoulder, her short legs moving fast. The little pug trots along beside her and my luggage bumps over the pavement as I struggle to keep up.
Even though we’re powering along, I can’t help but take in everything around me. The streets are short, all one way, criss-crossing over one another. Some are even cobblestoned, lined with trees and brick townhouse-style apartment buildings, steps leading up off the footpaths—no, sidewalks. That’s what they call them here. And being mid-October, the ground is covered in a layer of orange and yellow leaves. It’s kind of jarring after just being in spring back home, like I’ve somehow skipped summer. But I don’t mind. I love the way the West Village looks like something out of a movie, and—oh!—on some steps there are even pumpkins and Halloween decorations!
Despite the awful morning, I’m buzzing as we thread through the streets, hearing the distant sound of sirens. I can’t believe I’m actually here, in America—in New York. It’s like I’m walking through a dream, it’s so surreal.
We round a corner and stop outside a redbrick building with steps up to an arched doorway and a black fire escape zig-zagging down the front. It’s everything I’ve pictured a New York apartment to be and a thrill runs through me.
We head up the front steps, push through the heavy door and turn right into an apartment on the first floor, opposite the lobby.
“This is my place. You can put your stuff over here.” Cat waves an arm at the living room. “And you can crash on the sofa tonight.” She looks at me, a smile flitting over her lips before her eyes flick back to the front door.
“Oh, thank you. Are you sure—”
“Of course. Emily told me what happened. Look, I’ve got to run back to the shop.” She steps into the kitchen and rummages in a drawer. “Here’s a spare key.” She thrusts a silver key into my hand and strides back to the front door. “I’ll be home later.”
“Thank you so much. It’s been awful,” I start again, but she just flaps her hand.
“Sorry, I can’t chat. Gotta run.” And with that, she pulls the door shut behind her. I jump as it almost slams, the pug narrowly escaping through the gap.
I stare at the back of the door, feeling unease creep up my spine. I’m certainly glad not to be spending my first night on the street, but given that Cat doesn’t seem to want a house guest, I’m not sure it’s going to be much more comfortable here.
With a sigh, I tuck my suitcases into a corner of the living room and collapse onto the sofa, wanting nothing more than to sleep. The jetlag and stress from the morning have combined into a powerful cocktail of exhaustion. Despite the midday light coming in through the windows, my eyelids grow heavy and I drift off.
I’m not sure how long I sleep for, but when I wake it’s still light outside. I prop myself up on my elbows, letting my eyes wander around Cat’s apartment, taking it in properly for the first time. It’s nice: bright white walls through the open living room and kitchen, with a breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the living space. Two windows in the living room let in light, both covered with sheer white curtains. I’m lying on a big, red sofa and there’s a matching recliner chair, both facing a small television and a low wooden coffee table, strewn with bits of fabric and fashion magazines. Off to the left side of the living room is a partition-wall, creating a small alcove area with a sewing machine, a few bolts of fabric and a mannequin.
I pull myself up to sitting and glance down at the coffee stain on my dress. The whole horrible ordeal comes screaming back to me and I cringe, picturing the coffee soaking into the shirt of that businessman. I feel bad, but I hope he doesn’t actually expect me to buy him a new shirt. It could bankrupt me.
&nb
sp; “Hey.”
I spin around to see Cat entering the apartment and my body goes rigid. “Hey,” I say warily.
“I got takeout.” She smiles and holds up a couple of containers of food; the kind of Chinese takeout boxes I’ve seen on TV.
I eye the food, wondering if I’m better off heading out instead. She must be able to sense my hesitation, because she sets the food down on the counter with a grimace.
“Listen, I’m sorry about earlier. I know I was kind of a bitch.”
I give an uneven laugh. “No, you—”
“I was, and I’m sorry.”
She grabs some forks and flops down on the sofa, holding one out to me. I take it gratefully, reaching for some food. I didn’t realize until now, but my stomach is growling.
“I had to deal with my ex at the store and he’s such a jerk. It was the worst day.” Cat shovels a fork-load of fried rice into her mouth, chewing absently, then swallows and turns to me wide-eyed. “Fuck, sorry. Obviously your day was much worse because of your apartment and everything. Listen to me rambling on after what you’ve been through.” She rubs her forehead with the back of her hand, then looks at me earnestly. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you the warmest welcome, I was just preoccupied with my own shit. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
“It’s okay.” I smile, feeling the last of the tension drain from my body. “I’m so grateful that you came to my rescue. I know it was out of the blue but you totally saved me.”
“Happy to help.” She pushes to her feet and heads to the kitchen, pulling some wine out of the fridge. “You want a glass?”
I nod vigorously. After the day I’ve had, I could use a bottle.
“So, you have a store?” I ask, taking a glass from her as she sits again.
“Yeah, in the East Village. I sell vintage clothes and some of my own bits and pieces I design.”
“Oh, that’s so cool.” I take a long sip of my wine. “Your ex… did you guys break up recently?”
“No, we got divorced three and a half years ago. But he’s in real estate and he manages the lease on the shop. So he uses that as an excuse to hang around.” She rolls her eyes, reaching for a wonton. “He managed the lease on this apartment and got us a great deal, otherwise I’d never be able to afford to live around here. When I found him cheating I managed to get it in the divorce, and he’s been pissed off ever since.” She shakes her head, then focuses her attention on me. Her brown eyes sparkle and there’s a dusting of freckles across her button nose. “Anyway, enough about me. Why are you in New York? Emily said you moved here.”
“Oh, well… I went through a breakup a couple of weeks ago.”
Cat nods, her expression intense. “Aren’t men just the worst?”
“Yeah.” I give a humorless laugh. “I guess I should have seen it coming, but I didn’t.” I feel a little pang as I think of Travis, and quickly shake it off.
“Maybe you’ll meet someone new over here.”
“Maybe,” I murmur, trying to ignore the strange feeling that thought stirs in me. I probably shouldn’t be thinking about meeting anyone new right now, given that I’m reeling with heartbreak. Well, maybe not heartbreak, exactly, since Travis and I were only together for five months and never actually said the L word. But I feel worse than I usually do after a break-up.
I’ve been sitting with this feeling over the past couple weeks, not turning to my usual distraction devices, like tequila—in case I accidentally put down a deposit on a penthouse in Paris, or something—and I think it’s not so much about Travis as it is about all men. About dating, and wanting to meet someone, and failing. I’m still single after ten committed years of trying to meet my other half. Sure, I’ve had boyfriends, but each time I’ve hoped it would lead to happily ever after, it only led to disappointment.
Case in point: Travis.
Although now that I’ve had the distance of two weeks—and thousands of miles—I can see things with Travis more clearly. And the fact that I even imagined there could be a fairy-tale ending there shows me how deluded I’ve been. Which makes me think my mother is right.
And now that I’m thirty it’s all starting to feel a bit pathetic. I might not have much control over whether or not I fall in love, but I can take back control of my career, and that’s why I’m here in the city.
“I don’t know if I want to meet anyone right now,” I say, staring down into my wineglass. “I came here to focus on my career. I’d always wanted to live here and write. I’m sort of… a writer. Well, I want to be.”
“Wow.” Cat raises her eyebrows. “That’s awesome. And I can’t believe you just packed up and moved here to do that. That takes real guts.”
She’s right, actually. It did take guts. Or rather, it took me being so drunk I didn’t know what I was doing, then feeling like I couldn’t back out without looking like an idiot and losing thousands of dollars. Which, you know, is pretty much the same thing.
The glass of wine has gone straight to my head after not eating all day and being jet-lagged. I lean back on the sofa, enjoying the warm buzz as it spreads through my body. Then a thought occurs to me and I sit up with alarm. “Where’s your dog?”
Cat laughs. “You mean Stevie?”
“Stevie?”
“Yeah.” She grins. “Stevie Nicks. She’s with Mark, my ex. We share custody.” She makes a face.
“Oh.” I relax back onto the sofa with a chuckle. “I was worried for a moment.”
Cat ponders me over her wine glass. “You’re really nice. I feel awful about how shitty I was to you earlier. Will you let me take you out, to make it up to you?”
“You’re letting me stay here for the night. You don’t have to make it up to me,” I say. Her face falls and I feel bad. “But I’d love to go out,” I add, even though I’m still exhausted.
Her eyes light up. “Great!”
I groan inwardly at all the effort it will require, but my mouth twitches into a smile. My first night in New York and we’re going out! Maybe it will be fun.
Now I just have to find something to wear and wash twenty hours of travel off me.
5
“My brother owns Bounce,” Cat says, locking the front door behind us. “It’s kind of a dive, but we get cheap drinks.” She drops her keys into her bag, turning to me. “You want to walk? It’s only twenty minutes.”
“Sure.”
Big mistake. I’d forgotten how fast she walks, and by the end of the block I’m nearly breathless from trying to keep up with her. Fuck, I’m going to have to get much fitter to survive this city.
We stride along Waverly Place and my head is spinning in the evening light, taking in everything: the clink of cutlery from restaurants that open out onto the sidewalk, the smell of pizza cooking in a stone-oven, the conversations from people passing by, the multitude of yellow cabs honking in the evening traffic. All around me the city feels alive, like it is living and breathing on its own beneath my feet, and I feel a thrill that I’m here, part of this.
We stop quickly at Washington Square Park and I stare up at the arch in wonder, before Cat hurries me along. As we head across Broadway, Lafayette and Bowery, I notice how the rows of residential brick buildings give way to bigger, more commercial buildings, and the narrow avenues open out onto big, busy intersections. It’s not long until we’re in the East Village, where the buildings are similar to the West Village but not as tidy, not quite as fancy. It has a funky vibe and, despite my jet-lag, I’m excited to be out, the pulse of the city filling me with renewed energy.
“I’ll grab us drinks,” Cat says over the music as we push into Bounce. “You find a table.”
I check out the crowded room, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the low lighting. The place is packed three-deep to the bar, which runs down the left hand side. The right wall is exposed brick, lined with tables and red vinyl booths—not one of which is free.
“Where?” I ask, turning back towards Cat, but she’s already making her way
to the bar.
Right, okay. Find a seat somewhere. I can do that.
But as I glance around, that prickly feeling of self-consciousness crawls over me again, like it did in Starbucks. I feel as if everyone can sense I don’t belong here. I know this isn’t a classy bar, but the women just look different from the women back home—more cool, more comfortable with themselves, more at ease. I have the strong urge to turn and run back to the apartment.
No, I tell myself. This is my first night in New York, and I’m not going to run away just because I feel stupid. I flew all the way over here on my own, navigating the bloody Houston airport during my layover and dealing with a delayed flight. I caught a taxi on my own, I handled the whole apartment debacle. Well, I didn’t exactly handle it but I got through it, for now. In the past twenty-four hours I’ve done more things that scare me than I have in the past five years. I can manage a little drink in a bar. I just have to hold my head up and pretend I belong.
I spy a booth opening up down the back. Taking a deep breath, I push my way through the crowd, elbowing a few guys out the way, and slide in as my soles tingle with relief. Why did I wear heels? My feet are killing me after walking here at Cat’s breakneck pace.
A cute guy emerges from the crowd and his eyes swivel in my direction, his face breaking into a grin. I glance behind me to see who he’s grinning at, then I realize it’s me.
Oh.
“Hey,” he says, sliding into the booth next to me. He has messy, dirty-blond hair, brown eyes, and a very cheeky smile. I’m instantly drawn to him, but that sets my internal alarm bells off. The last man I was drawn to dumped me in a parking lot on my birthday.
“Uh, hi.”
“I’m Cory.” He extends his hand and I shake it.
“Alex. Nice to meet you.”
He cocks his head as I speak. “Where are you from?”
“New Zealand.” There’s a glimmer of pride in my chest as I say that. I might feel like a dork with my accent, but I know New Zealand as a country holds up pretty well overseas, what with the gorgeous scenery and Peter Jackson and the All Blacks and everything.
