“I want to see what you see.”
“That would be extensive travel for you. You’ve never even been to Jersey City.”
“See how overdue I am?”
“Have you been to Hoboken?”
“What do you think?”
“We’ll go to the Hoboken waterfront. The view is better than Jersey City.”
“When can we go?”
“When do you want to go?”
“Right now.” I don’t want Austin to leave. The thought of Austin getting in his car and driving away is devastating. I hate that I miss him already when he’s still right here next to me. Why can’t tonight last forever?
I’m expecting Austin to tell me how busy he is and that tonight won’t work but we’ll go another time. Instead, he surprises me by saying, “Okay. Let’s go.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
I whoop so loud an old lady passing us picks up the little dog she’s walking and scuttles to the other side of the path. I’m so excited I’m scaring old ladies.
When we get to Austin’s car, he opens the passenger door for me. “We can only stay for a few minutes,” he says. “Then I’ll bring you back. There’s some work I have to catch up on tonight. It’s going to be a late one.”
Austin was right about the view. The Hoboken waterfront is a bit north of where we just were in Hudson River Park. You can see everything along the Manhattan skyline from above Central Park to below One World Trade. Now I know why I never came here before. Coming to this side of the water was a first experience meant to be shared with Austin. I was meant to wait for this moment.
We sit on a bench and take in the view. Being near the water is so refreshing. I should spend more time near the river, being still like this and enjoying the Now like Darcy says. Next time I’m looking out across the water from the other side, I’ll try to find our exact spot. It would have been cool to go to the Jersey City waterfront. I want to see Austin’s neighborhood. I’m dying to see his apartment and where he hangs out and stuff. But I’m sure he’ll show me everything next time.
A flash of light explodes over the river. It takes me a second to realize it’s a firework.
“Did you see that?” we ask each other at the same time.
More fireworks explode. Not just any fireworks. These fireworks are the magnificent ones that light up the whole sky. They’re like the Fourth of July ones. They’re even being launched from a barge in the river where the official Fourth of July fireworks are launched.
“Dude,” Austin says. “They’re testing for the Fourth of July!”
“No way.”
“How else would you explain this?”
He’s right. The series of fireworks bursting in front of us is so dazzling it could only be testing for the big day. We’re watching a preview of the fireworks that the world will be watching one week from tonight.
The same fireworks we were just talking about across the water.
No. Freaking. Way.
This has to be a non-coincidence. A non-coincidence is a phenomenal event that is too magical to be random. Non-coincidences are much bigger than that song you were just thinking about coming on the radio. Or your friend calling you when you were just about to call her. Non-coincidences are the kind of events you’d think were impossible if you read them in a book. You couldn’t make this stuff up.
We were obviously meant to come here tonight. The Universe is giving me a clear sign that Austin is my destiny. How else could you explain this ginormous non-coincidence?
TWENTY-THREE
DARCY
I SWEAR I COULD LIVE at the Strand. Eighteen miles of used books is reassuring, like no matter what you’re searching for you can find the answer here. The atmosphere manages to be both intellectual and laid-back. The smell of old books is intoxicating. I love perusing the skinny aisles between bookcases, running my fingers along the cracked spines. There’s so much history here. So many stories behind the stories. These books have been held by thousands of people, everyone from the casual reader who grabbed a best seller at the airport to the avid reader who equates books with oxygen. If these shelves could talk . . .
The Power of Now was so enlightening that I’ve come in search of similar guidance. Anyone who knows me knows that my typical approach to life involves zooming head-on at an alarming speed. But ever since the ex fiasco, I’ve felt a need for balance. Long story short: You may currently find me shamelessly scavenging in the self-help section.
So many choices. So much room in the big Strand bag I picked up on the way back to the shelves. It is my obligation as a New Yorker to occasionally rock a Strand bag. This orange-and-red striped one will look good in October with skinny jeans, a long sweater coat, and biker boots.
I spread my six book choices on one of the overflowing book carts. Once I read the first couple pages of each book, I can get a better sense of which ones I’m going to buy.
A boy is rummaging through books on the other side of the cart. He was bent down behind the cart when I spread out my books. I didn’t even see him. But now that he’s checking out the top row, I can’t help noticing him. His cuteness factor is off the charts. No exaggeration. If I had to rate his cuteness on a scale of one to ten, this boy would be a sixteen. And a half.
“That’s a good one,” he says, gesturing at the book I’m holding.
Our eyes meet over the book cart. An immediate spark ignites between us.
“What did you like best about it?” I say, trying not to stare at his pouty lips.
“It really helped me get through a tough time,” he says. “My parents had just gotten divorced. My sister and I were miserable. That book helped me see things in a different light. Highly recommended.”
I nod appreciatively, flipping the book over and reading the back cover again. There’s no way I’m not buying this book, but I want to make it look like I’m still considering it.
The boy wanders over to a section a few aisles down. I look through the other books, decide which ones I want, and make my way down to the aisle across from his. Except he’s not there anymore. Panic hits me. He was hot. And smart. And sweet. This is one boy adventure I am definitely having.
Eventually I spy him in memoirs. Who under the age of fifty reads memoirs?
“Hey.” He looks over at me. “Self-help to memoirs. Very classy.”
“I try. Are you looking for something in particular?” I ask.
“Something I couldn’t be less interested in. I’m researching for a class.”
Obviously he’s stuck in memoirs under duress. This boy is way too cute to be stuffy.
“I’m taking summer session, too,” I say. “Where do you go?”
“School of the Future.”
“That’s like . . . a specialty college, or . . . ?”
“It’s not a college. I’m in summer school.”
I give him a blank look.
“Um. High school?”
“You’re in high school?”
“Only on a technicality. I was supposed to graduate, but I have to make up English credits.”
“Oh.” This boy’s cuteness factor should be rapidly dwindling given this disturbing information. Not only is he in high school, he didn’t even graduate on time. Who doesn’t graduate from high school on time? What excuse could he possibly have for being such a dumbass? But here’s the thing. For some reason, his lack of responsibility is making him even hotter. Maybe I’m entering a bad-boy phase.
“I’m eighteen.” He smiles at me. My heart speeds up. “Totally legit.”
He’s only one year younger than me. What’s one year? Why should age even matter? Especially when two people have intense chemistry.
“Want to get out of here?” I ask before I realize what I’m saying.
The boy takes a step closer to me. I can feel his body heat. I can smell his cinnamon gum. When his eyes lock on to mine, tingles flash up my spine, making me shiver.
“What did you have in
mind?” he says.
“Everything.”
“Then let’s go.”
“Yeah, I can come back for these.” I drop my books on a cart. When I walked into the Strand, the last thing I thought I’d be walking out with was a boy. Talk about finding a good deal.
We walk up to Union Square. I have no idea where we’re going. We’re not really talking that much. Hot desire has taken over all rational thought. It’s clear that this will be a one-time hookup, like a one-night stand minus the walk of shame the next morning.
We want each other right now.
The boy stops us at the corner of 15th Street. He slides his hand to the back of my neck, kissing me everywhere but my lips. He kisses my cheek, my jawline, my neck, behind my ear. Shivers ripple through me again.
“What about Park Bar?” I say, pointing to it up ahead on the right.
“I can’t get in.”
“I can get you in. I have a fake ID. Trust me, we can get in anywhere.”
He peers into the dark bar. “Happy hour. Too crowded.”
We keep walking. I slip my hand into his back pocket. He puts his arm around me. This should be a lot stranger than it is. The strangest part is how not strange it feels.
“There’s a Gap three blocks up,” the boy says when we hit 5th Avenue. “I’ve been to that one before. No one checks the dressing rooms.”
“Works for me.”
The Gap is a perfect place for an anonymous hookup. Anyone can sneak into anyone else’s dressing room. Not like at upscale boutiques where you’re hyper-monitored by sales clerks asking how you’re doing in there every three seconds. Sneaking into one of those dressing rooms would be a major coup. If I’m going to hook up with a random boy in a dressing room, the Gap is the place to do it.
We branch off to the opposite men’s and women’s sides of the store. I grab some jeans and a few tops and hit the dressing rooms. No one’s monitoring the entrance. I dart to the back section of rooms and snag the big one in the corner. The boy ducks in, locking the door behind him.
“We’re in,” he says. He throws some tees on the bench.
I’m suddenly nervous. Flirting in a bookstore and kissing on the street is one thing. But being locked in a dressing room with a boy I met ten minutes ago is a whole other thing. Shit just got real. Then I remember that I picked him up. I wanted this. I’m in control and I can have him if I want.
I want.
He pushes me up against the wall, pulling my leg up so it bends around his body. His lips attack mine. I kiss him aggressively, scratching my nails down his back. He grabs my ass to grind against me harder.
We have to be quiet the whole time. Which makes it even hotter.
Intense chemistry is not easy to find. When you do, you have to go for it or you’ll regret missing out for the rest of your life. I want my memories to be filled with amazing adventures. No regrets.
So then why, when we go our separate ways after and I’m walking home alone down 5th Avenue, am I regretting what I just did?
What went down in the dressing room was so. freaking. hot. It was so hot I never even got his name. But all I can think about is Jude. How could I do that to him? Picturing his face when I tell him what happened makes me feel horrible.
Only . . . do I really have to tell him? We’re not exclusive. Far from it. We just met. Jude is free to hook up with any girl he wants. He has the same freedom I do. I’m as free as a bird and flying high this summer. No one can tie me down.
Jude knows all this. Why am I even worrying?
Wandering aimlessly down Greenwich Avenue, I discover a fun retro T-shirt shop. There’s a Princess Bride tee in the window with Inigo Montoya. He’s standing there in battle stance, ready to avenge the death of his father. Above the print it says HELLO in huge, bold black letters. Only serious Princess Bride fans could appreciate the geeky fabulousness of that shirt.
I go in and buy it for Jude.
TWENTY-FOUR
ROSANNA
MY HEART IS POUNDING SO hard as I approach Cafe Lalo that I almost have to sit on the bench outside to avoid passing out. I convince myself to keep walking toward the stairs. D could be here already. He could be watching from the other side of this wall of windows. I want him to think I’m way more confident than I am. And way more certain that I’m doing the right thing. Should I even be here? Should I keep moving things forward, knowing we’re not the best match? Or should I end it before we get hurt?
Everything shimmers at Cafe Lalo. Even the trees outside are glittery with delicate purple lights. I take a deep breath, go up the stairs, and immediately see D when I walk in the door. He looks even more adorable than he did the last time I saw him at Press Lounge. He’s at a table near the front, looking at desserts in the display case. D has the kind of confidence people notice right away. Most people sitting alone would find something to distract them so they look less alone. Not D. He’s just sitting there, calm and still. Completely at ease with himself. Taking in how gorgeous he looks in his lavender button-down with the sleeves rolled up and the kind of trendy jeans I could never afford makes me grateful for Darcy’s generosity all over again. She bought me a beautiful, flowing silk skirt that dances around my knees when I walk. Feeling its slippery smooth material against my skin is helping me pull off a somewhat confident vibe.
D smiles when he sees me. I love how he has this intense laser focus when he smiles at me. I’ve seen him smile at other people and the laser focus definitely isn’t there. When he smiles at me, you can totally see the difference.
D stands up and kisses me on the cheek. “It’s good to see you,” he says.
“You, too.” Clips of the fantasies I’ve been imagining in bed flash behind my eyes. My face burns. I’m too embarrassed to look at D, so I fidget with my bag, then hide behind a menu. Not that there’s any way he can tell what I’m thinking. Or that I’ve been thinking way more about him than I should. But I’m embarrassed anyway.
“Who were you in high school?” I ask D after we order and I can look at him again.
“What do you mean?”
“Were you a popular jock? A nerdy brainiac? An artistic nonconformist?”
“Who do you think I was?”
“Pretty much the same person you are now.”
“How would you describe me?”
“Oh, you know. Just the typical confident, driven boy who can pull off being both intelligent and socially skilled. Who isn’t that well-rounded?”
D reaches across the tiny café table. He covers my hands with his. “You’re too generous. But I like it.”
And I like Donovan Clark.
I can’t deny my feelings anymore. I can’t keep fighting our attraction. Sitting with him in this charming café, the sweet smell of brown sugar in the air, our legs touching under the table making every cell in my body hum, I can almost see my resistance breaking down in chips and shards.
I’m falling for this man and there’s nothing I can do about it.
“Who were you back in Chicago?” D asks.
“The same person I am now,” I say, although I’m not being entirely accurate. He doesn’t need to know about the plan to reinvent myself. Part of having a fresh start comes with the opportunity to be the best version of yourself. This shiny new version of me is the only version D needs to know.
D smiles with so much warmth in his eyes my heart swells. “You mean the altruistic, brilliant girl who has no idea how beautiful she is?”
My face gets warm again. I press my lips together, trying not to smile.
“Yeah,” D says. “I thought so. You went to public school?”
I nod. What a joke to think my family could afford private school. One more thing D doesn’t need to know about me. A loud surge of grinding coffee beans accentuates this point.
“You’re lucky,” he says. “Private school can be insane. Especially in Manhattan. I went to Dalton. They don’t let you get away with anything there.”
“So you were a bad
boy?”
“More like a typical boy. I had a problem with the amount of homework I was slammed with every night. My teachers weren’t exactly sympathetic when I tried to explain that each of them assigning two hours of homework a night meant that kids had to stay up until three in the morning to get everything done. My main argument was that sleep deprivation is inhumane.”
“You told your teachers that?”
“Every one of them.”
“What happened?”
“Didn’t make a bit of difference. They still got their panties in a bunch when I didn’t do my homework.”
“How did you get into Columbia if you were a slacker?”
“My grades were good. And the Ivies like extracurriculars. I ran track, I was on yearbook and in chess club and—”
“I’m sorry. Did you say you were in chess club?”
“Proud member of Pawn Stars.”
“You just became a hundred times cooler.”
“Nerdy equals cool in your book?”
“Definitely.”
“I knew you were the right girl for me.”
I shift in my chair. Does that mean he wants to get serious with me? Is that where this is going?
“Anyway,” D continues. “Teachers constantly up in my business calling my mom every time I got an incomplete on homework pissed me off at the time. But now I’m thankful I had good teachers who whipped my ass into shape.” He laughs. “Never thought I’d be saying that I had good teachers. Guess that’s the kind of perspective you can only gain three years after graduating.”
Three years. It’s been three years since D was in high school.
The coffee grinder erupts again with a staccato beat. The aroma of fresh coffee beans wafts over to us. The lights dim a bit.
“Did the lights just get dimmer?” I ask.
“Some places do that as it gets later. I know a few restaurants that dim the lights in stages every hour. Way to create ambiance, right?”
“I like it.”
D reaches across the table to stroke my cheek delicately. Tingles run down the back of my neck.
“I like this,” he says.
“You like the Snickers cheesecake,” I point out, glancing at his empty plate.
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