City Love

by Susane Colasanti

  The only boy drama left is with Darcy and Jude. Darcy wasn’t telling me everything about the Jude situation when we had lunch at Chat ’n Chew. There’s more to the story than she wanted to admit. Or maybe she doesn’t realize that things are more complicated than she thinks. I can’t quite put my finger on what it was. I’m just not sure how believable her whole fun-and-free approach to boy adventures really is.

  “Here we are.” Austin pulls up in front of a small restaurant on the corner of Hudson and Jane. “Why don’t you get out here and I’ll find a spot? I don’t want you to have to walk too far if I can’t park close by.”

  “That’s okay. I want to go with you.” How sweet is it that Austin is such a gentleman?

  Dinner is incredible. It’s delicious and romantic and just the best dinner ever. Austin knew I would love this old-school Italian place where the chef comes right up to your table to tell you the specials. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’ve been here before with my parents. Piccolo Angolo is known as the best Italian place in the West Village. The atmosphere is casual but special, the kind of place I’ve been wanting to come to with my future boyfriend. The boyfriend who would be sophisticated enough to bring me here.

  Austin could only get a reservation for six o’clock, so by the time we leave it’s still before sunset.

  “Want to walk the High Line?” I say.

  “I was just going to ask you that!” Austin reaches for my hand. We hold hands all the way to the Gansevoort Street entrance.

  The High Line is an elevated park that was built on an old railway. It extends above the street from the West Village to a bit above Chelsea. It’s my favorite green space. Taking an abandoned section of the city and rebuilding it into the sweetest outdoor space ever? That’s why I love urban design. I can’t wait to be the one who plans spaces like this. I love that Austin is also into design. Now we can geek out together.

  “It’s cool how people can come together on the bleachers and the lawn, but still keep their personal space,” I say as we pass the 10th Avenue Square seating steps. “And how the walkways naturally blend people together.”

  “I know. All these areas that invite people to sit together while still maintaining the flow of walkers. It’s a brilliant design.”

  Since the High Line is all the way on the west side overlooking the river, the sunset views are spectacular. I hope the sunset is gorgeous tonight. One of my secret romantic fantasies is for Austin and I to come up here, cuddle on one of the lounge chairs facing the river, and watch the sunset together. Tonight will be the night that fantasy comes true. Which is why I’m not surprised that a couple gets up from what is now the only free lounge chair space when we start scoping one out. More perfect timing.

  We lie back on the oversize wooden chair. Wooden lounge chairs are not the most comfortable to recline on, but they totally go with the whole minimalist, streamlined style of the High Line. I try to arrange myself in an attractive way while preventing my tailbone from ramming into the wood. Once I get relatively comfortable, I realize that we’re right below John Dalton’s place.

  “My friend John lives there,” I say, pointing to his window high above us.

  “Must be an awesome view. But this view is the best.” Austin isn’t looking out toward the sunset. He’s looking right at me.

  I hold his gaze. Locking eyes with him is the ultimate test of boy confidence, especially after what he just said.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers.

  We kiss in that movie love way where you’re on the High Line at sunset and you’re with the boy of your dreams and it’s the ultimate rom-com scene. The kind of scene people say can’t happen in real life. Except this is happening. And it couldn’t be more real.

  TWENTY

  DARCY

  JUDE LOVES THESE BLUE GUYS something fierce. The phosphorescent paint they poured on their drums goes flying when they start pounding. We’re not in the first few rows where people are wearing rain ponchos and getting blasted with everything from masticated Cap’n Crunch to Tang. Still, a blast of electric purple paint makes me duck when it threatens to spatter my new dress.

  Blue Man Group should be a rite of passage for anyone who is angling to achieve official New Yorker status. Everyone new to the city should see it within their first year. If I were in charge, I’d make it a mandatory theatrical experience. My parents brought me here over spring break in ninth grade. We stayed at the Gansevoort Hotel for five glorious days. They took me to see Blue Man Group. I was blown away then and I’m blown away now.

  After our coffee two days ago, I tried really hard to convince myself to stay away from Jude. That was kind of impossible. So yesterday I decided that I could hang out with him while still keeping an emotional distance. Then I found him at the park, asked him out, and swung by the theater for Blue Man tickets.

  Of course Jude has seen them before. I mean, hello, BMG are the ultimate performance artists. Any respectable artist learns from the most acclaimed ones. But he first saw them a long time ago, way before I did. Jude said he was like eight or nine when his mom took him. Watching Jude laughing as the paint flies, you wouldn’t know he’s seen all of this before. He was even getting excited before the show like a little kid. He reminded me of this little boy who was watching his act at the park yesterday. Same delighted expression. Same obvious joy. Same sense of wonder.

  The blue men pound their drums harder. Paint zings in all directions. I love how the bright colors of the lights and paint are reflected in Jude’s wide eyes. This would be an amazing experience without him. But he’s making it even more amazing.

  “What was your favorite part?” Jude asks me on the walk home.

  “When they flung toilet paper.”

  “Classic. Mine was the drums.”

  “I could tell.”

  Jude gives me an amused look.

  “No, I mean . . .” I backpedal. “What’s not to love about paint flying everywhere?”

  “The only thing better than flying paint is phosphorescent flying paint.”

  “That is so true.”

  The smell of roasted cashews wafts over from the Nuts 4 Nuts cart on the corner. Nuts 4 Nuts roasted cashews are like Auntie Anne’s pretzels. Once I smell them, I must have them.

  “Dude, I have to get these nuts,” I say.

  “Cashews?”

  “How did you know?”

  “You’re a woman of refined taste. Peanuts just don’t cut it. And walnuts are out of the question.”

  “Do they even have walnuts?”

  “They’re nuts for nuts. How could they not have walnuts?”

  “They don’t have walnuts.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  I stop to look Jude in the eye. “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “What we’re betting.”

  “Whoever loses treats for dinner next time.”

  Taking this bet could be risky. Jude could see it as a romantic dinner instead of a casual dinner. But I’m positive they don’t have walnuts. Almost positive. About 98% positive.

  “Deal.” We shake on it.

  I dart to the Nuts 4 Nuts cart. Walnuts are on the menu.

  “Yes!” Jude triumphantly shakes his fists above his head. “Walnuts in the hizzouse, son!”

  “Preposterous,” I object. “Who eats roasted walnuts? How is that even a thing?”

  “Are they roasted? I thought they were candied.”

  “Even worse.”

  Jude smirks at me. “Is someone being a sore loser?”

  “The only losers are the unfortunate people ordering walnuts when, as we can see from the bogus menu, several far more delicious nuts are available.”

  “What can I get you?” the nuts guy asks us.

  “One cashews, please,” I order. Then I glance at Jude. “Unless you’d like some walnuts?”

  “You’ve been scandalized enough.”

  I pay for my cashews and offer some to Jude. We continue our walk home.


  “Is this a good time to tell you . . .” Jude steps closer to me. He is so freaking adorable. Even the scar above his left eye is adorable. “. . . where I’d like to be taken to dinner next time?”

  “Speaking of next time, you said you’d tell me what you’re working on next time. This is next time.”

  “It’s an invention. Well, more of an improvement of an existing invention. You know how you can never pump the last bit of lotion or shampoo out of the bottle?”

  “And you pry off the top and bang the bottle upside down and you still can’t get the rest out? So annoying.”

  “Not anymore. I’ve found a way to modify the pump mechanism so the bottle empties every time. You can also hold spray bottles any way while you’re spraying. They don’t have to be upright for the last bit of liquid to spray out.”

  “Wait. You’re saying I can spray Windex from any angle?”

  “Too nerdy?”

  “No, it’s totally brill. Why didn’t anyone think of that before? Why didn’t I think of that before?”

  “There are so many things I kick myself for not thinking of I can’t even tell you.”

  “You didn’t tell me you were a genius.”

  “A genius in disguise never tells.”

  The distinct sound of a harmonica approaches us from behind. I turn around to see a guy in a fedora holding a coffee cup in one hand and playing the harmonica with the other. He’s trucking along like playing an instrument while walking down the street is completely normal. That’s another thing I love about New York. I love how people aren’t afraid to be exactly who they are. No explanations. No apologies. No pressure to conform. Just raw, honest reality in your face.

  “So when can the world start benefiting from your genius invention?” I ask.

  “My team is meeting with potential investors next week. We think these guys are serious. After we have financial backing, the product can be manufactured and sold to companies that will hopefully replace all of their pumps and sprays with ours.”

  Jude is made of way more awesome than I initially detected. It rules that he has the whole creative/going with the flow/living outside the lines thing happening, but he’s also brilliant and dedicated enough to work on a project that could potentially blow up.

  “Most free spirits don’t focus on any one thing long enough to finish what they started,” I say. “You’re different.”

  “Only because I want it more. Anyone could figure this stuff out if they spent enough time on it.”

  “But you’re smarter than they are.”

  “I don’t know about that. I just managed to wrangle investors who will probably fund me.”

  The certainty in his eyes makes me believe they will. He makes me believe that his invention will have a huge impact. His conviction is inspiring.

  We’re almost at my building when Jude flaps the front of his shirt that says MULTI-TALENTED a few times in an attempt to cool off. “My shirt is soaked.”

  “Feel free to take it off.”

  “Right here on Fifth Avenue?”

  “You’re allowed. I’m not.”

  “Actually, I think women have the right to be topless outdoors in New York.”

  “When’s the last time you saw a topless woman walking down the street?”

  “Um, I think it was”—Jude consults a phantom watch on his wrist—“half past never?”

  “Because I’m pretty sure it’s illegal.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  “Oh, I’m good. You already won dinner. I couldn’t handle losing again.”

  “So you admit I’m right.”

  “I admit nothing. Other than how sexy you are.”

  “Damn, girl. Were you born this confident or what?”

  “Half born, half what.” The truth is, I’m not really sure where my confidence comes from. I wasn’t a shy little girl. When I was four, a lady friend of my mom’s came over wearing a fabulous red dress that hugged her curves in all the right places. I remember telling her she was a sexy lady. My mom and her friend laughed hard over that.

  Some boys would be intimidated by girl power. Not Jude. He seems to appreciate my spark. And I’m sure he’s appreciating that I’m not pressuring him for any kind of commitment. Free spirits like Jude don’t want to be tied down. This way is better for both of us. No strings attached. No hidden disappointments, strained conversations, or passive-aggressive games. Just two people enjoying being with each other and having fun. Isn’t that the point?

  Enjoy the freedom, dude. You’re welcome.

  TWENTY-ONE

  ROSANNA

  CAN SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME what my upstairs neighbors are doing? Consecutive hours of high-impact cardio? Dragging furniture across the floor? Why don’t they ever sit down? And why does it sound like a herd of elephants pounding on the floor every time they walk? What is this boom boom boom instead of normal people walking? Who walks like that?

  Like no. Just stop.

  The situation is entirely unacceptable. If I were a more confident person, I’d march right up there and ask them to simmer down. Perhaps they’d be interested in relaxing on the couch with a good book? Or relaxing on the couch doing anything as long as they stop pounding on the floor please god. I may be new to this city, but I’m pretty sure your upstairs neighbors walking around shouldn’t cause your whole apartment to vibrate. For graduation my grandma sent me a framed print of Seurat’s Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, which is hanging in my room. It shouldn’t shake when those meatheads pound across their floor. That’s just wrong. I mean, seriously. What exactly are they doing up there?

  But I’m not a more confident person. My opinions are confident. My moral standards are confident. My views regarding how society should operate are confident. Now all I have to do is find a way to be as confident on the outside as I am on the inside.

  Tha-RUMP bump bump! go the elephants.

  Prior to the disappointing discovery of wildlife inhabiting the apartment above ours, I was excited about the possibility of staying here freshman year. UNY lets freshmen live off-campus because the school’s housing is limited. Apparently the university is facing a housing crisis where they don’t have enough dorm space. They’re scrambling to find places for everyone. Some subsidized apartments and shares like this one are available by lottery. Students already in summer shares have the option of keeping their apartment for the upcoming year. When I talked to Sadie and Darcy about staying, they were totally on board. We’ll find out if we get to keep this place in August when the university notifies everyone of their housing situation.

  What if I’m placed in a different apartment with noisy neighbors again? Or if I stay here and have to deal with these idiots upstairs all year? It’s one thing during the summer when I’m only working. But what about when classes start? It will be a whole other thing when I’m trying to study and read and write papers on three hours of sleep. Which will likely be my life, considering that I’ll have to work at least twenty hours a week on top of my full course load. The circus upstairs makes it impossible to concentrate on anything.

  So does D.

  Our date at Press Lounge was one of the top five highlights of my life. And by far the most romantic experience I’ve ever had. The way he looked at me when he said there’s a lot to fall in love with. How I melted when he put his hand over mine. My stomach was in knots the whole way home in the cab, wondering if D was going to kiss me. When we pulled up in front of my building, D kissed me on the cheek. That’s when I realized I definitely wanted more.

  Seriously. What are they doing upstairs? Now it sounds like someone is doing jumping jacks. Pound pound pound. Is making this much noise even legal? After some quick research online, I learn about NYC Quiet Hours as specified in Local Law 113. Quiet hours are from 10:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. The noise code states the following:

  No person shall make, continue or cause or permit to be made or continued any unreasonable noise . . . Unreasonable noise shall i
nclude but shall not be limited to sound, attributable to any device, that exceeds the following prohibited noise levels:

  (1) Sound, other than impulsive sound, attributable to the source, measured at a level of 7 dB(A) or more above the ambient sound level at or after 10:00 p.m. and before 7:00 a.m., as measured at any point within a receiving property or as measured at a distance of 15 feet or more from the source on a public right-of-way.

  So I guess filing a formal complaint would require a measurement of the decibel level. Which I might be forced to take if they don’t shut up. They’ve pounded around every night. The first couple nights didn’t bother me. But now it’s been over a week. Every additional day of tolerating their noise is grating on me exponentially.

  Something about the unsettling effect of neighbor noise invading my space is making me homesick. I miss my supersoft lavender blanket my mom got on sale when I was little. Getting under that blanket at night soothed me. I felt protected despite all of the obstacles in my way. Maybe it was stupid to feel that way about a blanket. But it’s upsetting to be in my new bed without my supersoft blanket, even though it’s too hot to use. Shipping it would have taken up too much box space.

  Thinking about my blanket is tolerable. It’s when I think about how much I miss my family that I have to fight back tears. I miss their comfort. Their familiarity. I miss knowing I had a support system no matter what. My family and I have always been really close. I knew that being so far away from them was going to be hard, but it’s harder than I expected.

  My upstairs neighbors are relentless. I have to get out of here. Hopefully Mica can meet up with me.

  “Classic,” she says when I call and tell her about the elephants. “You wouldn’t be having the full New York experience without noisy neighbors. I feel your pain. Neighbor noise is the worst. Even worse than traffic and construction noise put together.”

  “Do you have neighbor noise?” Mica still lives at home on the Lower East Side. She’s in the same financially challenged boat as I am. Her plan is to live at home freshman year and save up enough at her work-study job to move out next year.