City Love

by Susane Colasanti

  Parker goes on to explain what we already know from the email he sent us: juniors and seniors majoring in urban planning will be giving us ten-minute presentations on their fields of study. First up is a guy studying structural engineering. A girl who wants to be a natural resources planner goes after him.

  Then he walks in.

  I’ve never seen him before. But he’s exactly my type. My heart skips a beat.

  “Hey, everyone,” he says, “I’m Austin. I’m a senior planning to pursue a masters in urban design. Urban designers combine aspects of planning with architecture . . .” He looks at me. And kind of forgets what he was saying.

  Our eyes lock.

  “I’m particularly interested,” Austin continues, ripping his eyes off mine, “in the ways in which design relates to environmental science and holistic wellness. Let me show you some examples.” Austin dims the lights. The first slide is of a beautiful living room labeled DELOS BUILDING WELLNESS. “Delos Living places health and wellness at the center of design decisions. This is one of their residences at Sixty-Six East Eleventh Street. They also design libraries, schools, and other indoor public environments with improved living conditions. Better water, better air, better light . . . everything a building can do to provide healthier living standards for its workers and residents.”

  He looks at me again.

  He keeps looking at me.

  As Austin goes to the next slide to discuss LEED-certified new construction, I am in total and complete awe of him. Not just because he’s the most gorgeous boy I’ve ever seen. He’s about six feet tall, average build. I watch his arm muscles flex as he gestures toward a LEED rating systems chart. His toned arms tell me that he works out, but he doesn’t hit the weights too hard. Love that. It’s such a turnoff when guys are huge. Austin has brown hair that’s short on the sides and a bit longer on top. The most gorgeous thing about him is his eyes. Austin’s eyes are the perfect shade of sky blue. Even sexier? His eye color changes with the light. When he dimmed the lights, his eyes looked almost violet. But when light from the computer screen hit his eyes, they were more like a baby blue.

  This boy is beyond adorbs.

  I’m not only riveted by the way he looks. Everything he’s saying is resonating with me so strongly I swear everyone in the room can see me vibrating. I practically jump out of my seat when he gives a shout-out to the High Line.

  Austin finishes his presentation and turns the lights back up. His eyes lighten from twilight to early afternoon.

  “We have”—he checks the time—“one minute for a quick question. Anyone?”

  No one has a quick question.

  “Okay, well I’m upstairs on five if you want to find me.” He smiles right at me with such genuine warmth, butterflies bust out flapping like crazy in my stomach. Is love at first sight a real thing?

  The rest of the day goes by in a blur of paperwork and ID cards and getting-to-know-you activities and cubicle assignments. I keep looking around for Austin, but I don’t see him anywhere. He must have to stay up on the fifth floor. I’m emotionally exhausted by the end of the day. But in a good way.

  A second wind strikes me when I get back to the apartment. I grab my packed wheely hamper, detergent, and the card that operates the washers and dryers in the laundry room. Then I begin the long haul down four steep flights of stairs to the basement. I knew I was lucky growing up in a second-floor walk-up on the corner of Grove and Bedford—a sweet configuration with a sweeter location. Some of my friends from high school lived in crazy walk-ups with superhigh ceilings, rickety staircases, and halls that would be broiling in the summer. From the way I’m already sweating, I can tell our halls will be merciless by August.

  Arriving at the laundry room is a huge relief. It will take an unprecedented feat of strength for me to haul my laundry back upstairs. But it could be worse. At least we have laundry in the building. This is way better than maneuvering a heavy laundry bag outside when it’s raining or freezing or a hundred degrees. I find two washing machines next to each other: one for lights and one for darks. A cute boy in a UNY tee comes in carrying an Ikea bag filled with rumpled clothes while I’m loading a washer.

  He smiles at me. I smile back.

  Right around the corner . . .

  “Hey,” he says. “You here for summer session?”

  “I have an internship. What about you?”

  “Full course load.” He extends his hand for me to shake. “Glutton for Punishment. Nice to meet you.”

  “Laundry Procrastinator. A pleasure.” We shake.

  “Are you new?”

  “I moved in yesterday.”

  “Welcome. This is my third summer in the building.”

  “Did you get to have the same apartment?”

  “Let’s just say I’m lucky to not have the same apartment. Wildlife should be restricted to the great outdoors. Not under my bed like last summer.”

  “Ew. What was—no, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

  “Don’t worry. They fumigated last summer. The exterminator comes once a month now. You should be good.”

  I shudder as I bend down to take more clothes out of my hamper. I pull out a fistful of panties. Glutton for Punishment looks at them. I fling them in the washing machine so hard a wayward one with flowers and peace signs flies onto the floor. Right in front of the washing machine he’s using.

  My panties have landed at his feet. And I don’t even know his real name.

  He picks up my panties. He holds them out to me. “You should probably take me to dinner first,” he jokes.

  My face gets hot. I try to laugh. The laugh sounds more like I’m choking. This is one for the Of Course file. Of course I threw my panties at a cute boy I just met. Why wasn’t I more aware that I was grabbing up panties? Why didn’t I wrap a shirt around them before I took them out of the hamper? And why is this so freaking embarrassing?

  I snatch the panties and throw them in the machine. Maybe if I pretend this never happened, he’ll forget that my panties came flying at him by the next time we run into each other.

  “My girlfriend has ones like those,” he says. “With little peace signs? They’re cute.”

  The Of Course file is seeing some serious action today. Of course he has a girlfriend. Boys that cute are rarely single. Or if they are, they’re usually single for a reason. Of course he felt the need to bring her up. There’s no way anything could ever happen between us after the Mortifying Panties Incident.

  “So what floor are you on?” he asks.

  “We’re in 4A. I’m dreading the walk back up with all this laundry.”

  “Let me know if you need any help. I’m in 3A.”

  “Thanks.”

  We stuff the rest of our clothes in the machines in agonizing silence. After he’s gone, I realize I never got his name. Not that it matters. New York City social interactions work in mysterious ways. You could live in the same building with someone for years and never see them. Or you could run into the same person twice in one week. There’s a good chance I won’t ever see him again, even though he lives below me.

  By the time Darcy swings by my room when Rosanna’s ready to go out, my laundry is all neatly folded and put away. The Mortifying Panties Incident has faded from critical intensity to moderate embarrassment. The boy in 3A is cute, but there’s no way he compares to Austin. I haven’t stopped thinking about Austin since the second I first saw him. I’m still trying to get a grip on my initial reaction to him. What was that? It wasn’t just the heart-skipping-a-beat thing. My whole body reacted the second I saw him. I felt flushed. There wasn’t enough air in the room. Every time he looked at me my heart pounded so hard I could hear blood rushing in my head. Who has a reaction like that to someone they don’t even know? And what does it mean?

  Right around the corner . . .

  FIVE

  DARCY

  “BLEECKER STREET HAS CHANGED SO much,” Sadie says. “That overpriced chain tea store we just passed?
Used to be an herb shop. My parents remember it from back in the day when they moved here after college. It was a West Village institution. But rents keep getting more and more outrageous. The mom-and-pop stores can’t afford to compete against all these obnoxious chains.” Sadie stops in front of an ice cream parlor called Cones to look around. “At least Cones is still here. I don’t recognize half of these other stores. And I’ve lived here my whole life. Really with that tea store? There’s an amazing teahouse around the corner on Morton Street that’s empty most of the time. But this store always has customers. How is that fair?”

  Rosanna and I nod compassionately. It can’t be easy to watch your hippie neighborhood become a suburban mall.

  “Sorry,” Sadie says. She breaks into a smile. “End of rant. Onward and upward, roomies! What’s next on the agenda?”

  We’re looking for things to brighten up the apartment. Sadie wants plants. Rosanna wants a new pillow. I don’t blame her. The one on her bed is disgusting. I ordered a bunch of cute stuff for our place already, so I’m not looking for anything in particular. Window shopping is super fun. I hear what Sadie’s saying about how the neighborhood’s changing. And yeah, I feel bad that the flavor of this historic district is being spoiled by chain stores and pretentious boutiques. But I would be lying if I said the new Bleecker Street isn’t fabulous in its own way. Because it totally is.

  A clump of tourists is crawling along at a glacial pace in front of us. Sadie motors off the sidewalk and skitters around them in the bike lane. I’m both horrified and impressed by her dexterity in navigating the bike lane. Rosanna and I follow her lead. Sadie is such a New Yorker. She tries so hard to stay positive that I know she’s not going to grumble about the meandering tourists the way she probably wants to.

  A girl who looks a couple years younger than me passes us. I turn to admire her fun DIY style. She’s rocking pink Hello Kitty knee socks over black leggings, a distressed Pink tank shredded across the back, vintage white Nikes with a purple swoosh, huge turquoise glasses, and long ponytails with retro ribbons dangling in the breeze behind her. New Yorkers are known for their unique style. I’m having a blast getting to see it all up close and personal.

  “Gross,” Rosanna says. “Did you guys see that?”

  I twirl back around. At first I think she’s talking about Hello Kitty Girl. But she’s looking ahead of us.

  “What did I miss?” I ask.

  “A guy went into that deli and didn’t even hold the door for the old lady behind him. Hello, she has a walker! Rude much?”

  We watch the old lady attempt to maneuver her walker so she can push open the door. Sadie runs ahead of us. She pushes open the door and holds it while the lady lurches in.

  “Bless you,” the lady says.

  Sadie comes back to us. Rosanna is staring at her.

  “What?” Sadie asks Rosanna.

  “That was awesome,” Rosanna proclaims.

  “Not really.”

  “Yes really. You freaking rule.”

  “Just a random act of kindness.”

  “Can I be you when I grow up?”

  Sadie laughs. “I’m pretty sure you know how to hold a door open.”

  “But you have the confidence to actually do it.”

  “I’ll let you do it next time.”

  “Okay. Anything I can do to reduce the amount of rude in the world. Seriously, did he not see her? People are way too caught up in their own worlds.”

  “I know!” I say. “I saw a guy practically run down a family of German tourists this morning. All because he was racing to catch the light. Is knocking people over really worth gaining an extra minute? Oh, and stay clear of the bike lanes. Just saying.”

  We approach a boutique with beautiful bags in the window. I stop to admire the view. I’m a sucker for beautiful bags. One in particular catches my eye, calls out to me, and gives me a seductive wink. High-end accessories know how to play me like a fine-tuned string instrument.

  “That bag is exquisite,” I announce, pointing out the one that looks like it was made for me. There’s no way I can resist going in. I open the door and step aside to let them in. “Ladies?”

  Sadie and Rosanna browse while I chat with the cute guy who comes over to help me. I would so be hitting on him if he wasn’t gay. He tells me all about the bag: how it’s one-of-a-kind, how it’s imported from Italy, how its classic lines will never go out of style. Sold. I pay for the bag while Sadie holds a dress up against herself for Rosanna to see. Rosanna smiles halfheartedly. Her gaze shifts around the boutique. She’s tottering by a rack of summer scarves, one leg crossed in front of the other, arms nervously wrapped around herself. She clearly does not want to be here.

  Back outside, I hold the bag up for their approval. “What do you think?”

  “It’s gorgeous!” Sadie gushes. She tentatively touches the satin piping. “How could you even think about carrying any other bag when you have this?”

  “A girl can never have too many bags.” I look at Rosanna for her reaction.

  “Wasn’t it really expensive?” she asks.

  “Oh, no worries there. My dad gave me a credit card with a ridiculous limit. His attempt at erasing the travesty of never being around while I was growing up. It’s like, Hi, I’m a workaholic who can’t be interested enough to raise my daughter, but I can throw money at her when she’s older to make up for it. I don’t think so.”

  Rosanna is agog. They both are.

  “TMI?” I inquire.

  “No, it’s . . . that’s amazing. I wish I could see anything I want in a window and just go in and buy it. You’re so lucky.”

  Sadie glances at Rosanna, then smiles at me. “We basically want to be you.”

  “Trust me. You don’t.” A woman who’s attracting a lot of attention is walking toward us. People she just passed on the sidewalk are staring. They’re taking pictures of her from behind. I recognize her under the big black sunglasses and shiny hair pulled back into a relaxed pony. “That’s Claire Danes.”

  “Where?” Rosanna says. Then she sees her. “No. Way. That’s totally Claire Danes.”

  Claire breezes by. The air is suddenly charged. She has an electric magnetism that affects everything around her. It must be amazing to have that kind of power over people. I want to be that powerful one day.

  We turn to watch Claire saunter down the street. More people turn and stare as she passes. Everyone is transfixed as she majestically swishes by them. Girl power to the max.

  “Let’s follow her,” I say.

  “You can do that?” Rosanna asks.

  “People do it all the time around here,” Sadie says. “The West Village is flooded with celebs. I don’t know how many people actually follow them down the street. But we wouldn’t be the first.”

  We start following Claire. Not in an obvious way. We’re super casual like we’re three friends strolling around the Village on a Tuesday evening who just happen to be going this way. Okay, we were going the other way, but no one has to know.

  Rosanna giggles. The giggles erupt into a snort, which makes Sadie crack up. This is far from an undercover operation.

  “Be cool,” I tell them. “She’s going to know we’re following her.”

  The girls try to compose themselves. Rosanna smooths her hair down, clears her throat, and straightens up. Sadie is shaking her head like she can’t believe we’re such tourists.

  Claire goes into an upscale gift shop. Her dark sunglasses make it hard to tell for sure, but I swear as we’re loitering outside the window gawking at her, she’s looking right at us and recognizing us as the fools she passed a few minutes ago. She’ll know we’re following her unless we act normal. Claire Danes cannot know we are the crazy fangirl stalkers we are.

  “Let’s keep going,” I mutter. “That way it’ll look like we were just checking out the dipped candles.”

  We walk on by like we didn’t even recognize her, playing it off super casual. We allow ourselves to stop and sque
e two blocks later.

  “I can’t believe we saw Claire Danes!” Rosanna shrieks. “I love her!”

  “Not that we stalked her or anything,” Sadie clarifies.

  “Of course we didn’t stalk her,” I say. “We’re not creepers. We were just on our way to . . . somewhere over there.”

  “Right.” Sadie nods. “That place.”

  “You guys,” Rosanna says. “She was right there. We could have reached out and touched her.”

  “That wouldn’t have been creepy at all,” I say.

  Rosanna is freaking out. “Did you see her skin? It was like porcelain. She looks incredible. I hope I look half as hot when I’m that old.” She whips around to see if Claire left the shop. “Can we walk back? I have to see her one more time.”

  “Let’s go,” I say. Rosanna is exuding a whole different energy than when I met her this morning. She’s not a reserved girl fussing over the kitchen table anymore. She’s an excited girl who’s opening up to the possibilities of this amazing city. Our wild and free summer is off to an excellent start.

  One of the best things about being wild and free with a superhigh credit limit is being able to treat my friends. I’m thrilled when the girls accept my offer to buy them dinner. We find a bistro with a cute outdoor garden and settle in for what I hope will help build the foundation of a solid friendship. I don’t want to blow it. Especially since I need to make up for being such a douche to Rosanna this morning.

  “Should we do coffee and dessert?” I ask the girls when our dinner plates are cleared away.

  “I’m okay,” Sadie says.

  “You’ve already been way too generous,” Rosanna adds.

  “Stop,” I tell them. “We’re doing coffee and dessert. End of discussion.”

  The girls beam at me. I love that they’re so appreciative.

  While we’re waiting for dessert, I decide to share a secret about one of my biggest fangirl crushes.