City Love

by Susane Colasanti

  “Didn’t like that at all.”

  “How did you find this place?”

  “I used to come here all the time. My parents’ brownstone is a few blocks away. We can walk past it on our way to the park if you want.”

  “Yeah. I want to see where you grew up.”

  “Done.” D signals our waitress for the check. Then he whips his laser focus back to me. No one has ever looked at me with such intense laser focus before. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Well, apologize for, really.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been kicking myself for bringing up other girls I’ve dated on our first date. Old girlfriends are like the number one thing you’re not supposed to talk about on a first date. Everyone knows this. Apologies for being such a douche.”

  “No worries.”

  “Your strength is a little intimidating.”

  “Really?” I look down at my skinny arms. I should think about lifting at some point.

  D laughs. “I meant your strength of character. You just graduated from high school, but you already have your shit together. Most people don’t have their shit together until they’re thirty. If that. But you . . . it’s like you were born this way. No one will be surprised when you take over the world.”

  D seems like he’s been there, done that with everything. But it still sounds like he admires me, which makes me feel special. I’ve never really felt special before.

  When the check arrives (on a little brass tray with two chocolate mints, making me fall in love with this place even more), I pick it up. “This one’s on me.”

  D snatches the check out of my hand. “I don’t think so.”

  I snatch it back. “I insist.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I want to. You always treat. You deserve to be treated for once.”

  “Thanks. That’s sweet of you.”

  As I take the check up to the register, I try not to freak out. Treating D was not my plan. It’s just something I decided to do spontaneously. I try to avoid snap decisions. But I’m falling for him so hard I can’t think straight. And I don’t want him to think I expect him to pay for everything. Even though he has more money than he knows what to do with and he’s reassured me he wants to treat, I feel like I owe him.

  Standing in line, I can feel D’s eyes on me. I wouldn’t be surprised if I could sense his intense laser focus all the way back in Chicago. I sneak a glance at the check while pretending to admire the elegantly decorated cakes in the display case. I didn’t even see how much it was. The total almost gives me a heart attack. Our dessert and coffee is basically my grocery money for the week.

  Do not freak out. You will find a way to make this work.

  New Yorkers don’t deal well with waiting in line. Even waiting for one or two minutes seems to challenge them in perplexing ways. Is it that they always want to keep moving? Or that they’re always running late? Or maybe they’re just naturally restless. Their restless nature is what probably brought a lot of them here.

  It’s my turn to pay. My first mistake was not getting my money ready. I can never pay fast enough when there are people behind me in line. Their impatience is palpable. The lady behind me in line at a deli the other day actually pushed right up next to me and started putting her stuff down on the counter when I didn’t even have my wallet out yet. Rude and rude.

  The cashier repeats the total amount due. As if the image of the check isn’t burned into my brain in horrifying detail. I root through the change pouch of my wallet for exact change. The cashier turns to talk to a waiter behind her. The guy behind me in line stares at my wallet. I nervously fumble for dimes. My ancient wallet is not cooperating. The coins have slipped under the lining and it’s taking forever to pull them out. The guy behind me sighs impatiently. I almost rip a five in half trying to yank it from the clutches of my busted wallet. I need a new wallet. But good ones are expensive. If I buy another cheap one, it will rapidly deteriorate to a similarly pathetic condition. Maybe I can line the ripped coin pouch with a baggie.

  After I pay, I can’t help giving the guy behind me a harsh look. How can anyone be so disgruntled at Cafe Lalo? It could not be more wonderful here. Lalo is the kind of place you come to unwind and share a leisurely pot of tea with someone special. It is not the kind of place you come to huff at the person in line ahead of you for being slow.

  D appreciates Cafe Lalo the way it was meant to be appreciated. And he wanted to share it with me. I can picture him here at various points in his life. Four years old, sitting with his parents at one of the bigger tables, chocolate frosting smeared on his face. Eleven years old, here with his mom after a Saturday afternoon soccer game. Sixteen years old, at an intimate corner table with that pretty girl from chem class. This place holds the history of D’s life. These tables have heard his stories, bridged connections with friends, and charmed his girlfriends. This is where he grew up.

  “Ready?” D says, waiting for me by the door.

  If he only knew how ready I was.

  We burst out into the warm summer night. When D told me about his idea to see an outdoor movie, I couldn’t have been more thrilled. I can’t wait to experience outdoor movies. I want to take advantage of everything New York has to offer. I want to do everything real New Yorkers do, the kinds of activities that will make me fall in love with this city even more.

  D puts his arm around me as we walk along West 83rd Street. The delicious aroma of Lalo lingers on us. My clothes, my hair, even my skin all smell like fresh-roasted coffee. The streets are alive with weeknight activity. Cabs and trucks and bikers fly down Broadway. A bunch of high school boys zip past on skateboards. People scatter across the sidewalks, coming home from work or on their way to dinner. No matter what day or what time it is, there are always a million things going on.

  “This is it,” D says when we round the corner onto Central Park West. The “it” he is referring to is an impeccably maintained brownstone. I can’t believe this is where he grew up. Living in this house must have been like growing up in a fairy tale.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say. “You must have loved living here.”

  “The view of the park was nice. We weren’t that high, so the view was completely different than what you see from high-rises. I got to watch the seasons change in Central Park right outside my window.”

  A few lit windows indicate that someone’s home. D’s parents are probably relaxing after dinner. What would I say if D invited me in to meet them? Would it be too soon? Or should I jump at the chance to show him that what we have isn’t casual?

  Not that I even know what we have. All I know is how I feel when we’re together. When I’m with D, it feels like the shiny new life I’ve been visualizing for years is finally becoming reality. I can taste the flavor of New York the most when we’re together. The hope that everything will work out is always there under my anxiety. In moments of clarity, I can feel everything I’ve been working for my whole life come into focus. And for a bright spot of time, I can breathe again. I’m not sure why I feel the clarity mostly when I’m with D. Maybe because he’s showing me the New York he loves, the New York he’s lived and breathed his whole life, the true New York only someone who grew up here can share. He’s reminding me of what I looked forward to about living here when New York was just a dream.

  We walk down Central Park West. Fuzzy dots of lamplight glow along the paths winding inside the park. Across the street, tremendous apartment buildings with immense penthouses are stamped out on the night sky block after block, an imposing representation of the power of money. The illuminated floor-to-ceiling windows are magnetic. I keep looking into them, catching glimpses of ornate chandeliers and pianos and elaborate built-in bookshelves. I’d love to have bookshelves like those someday. But only people with money are entitled to such beautifully designed homes.

  “Let’s find a blanket before we go in,” D says near the park entrance at 72nd Street. “I don’t
want your skirt to get dirty.”

  Normally a statement like that wouldn’t make any sense. All the clothes I moved here with are pretty much falling apart. But tonight he has a point. The skirt Darcy bought me is almost too beautiful to wear. Almost.

  There’s a Pottery Barn a few blocks away. We go in and find the blankets section. D insists that I pick out the one I want.

  “This one,” I say, holding out a supersoft lavender blanket. It’s like my blanket back home except nicer.

  “Good choice. It matches my shirt.” We take it to the register. Then I see how much the blanket is.

  “Oh, this one’s too expensive,” I say. “Let’s find something cheaper.”

  “It’s fine,” D says, taking out his credit card.

  “No, there has to be—”

  “Really.” D puts his arms around me and hugs me close. “It’s already yours.”

  How amazing is it that D can buy an expensive blanket on a whim just for movie night while I’m thinking about reinforcing my wallet with a plastic bag? It blows my mind that he can just waltz into any store he wants, pick out whatever he likes without worrying about the price, and buy it like he’s buying bread at Food Emporium. Like dropping all that money on something he doesn’t even need is nothing. I have to admit, having money makes life a lot more convenient. Living that way must feel so free.

  Sitting with D on our new blanket in the middle of the crowd while the movie plays on a gigantic screen, I almost feel like a real New Yorker.

  “Here.” D moves behind me, his legs bent on either side of me. “You can lean back.”

  I lean on D. He puts his arms around me. I am safe and adored in his arms. How much of my attraction to him is only physical? How can I even tell? What I feel for D is greater than the sum of its parts. Maybe the important thing isn’t to figure out why I feel this way, but to accept that I do.

  Later, when we’re leaving the park, D pulls me aside to kiss me. I can’t let myself feel the fireworks I imagined our first kiss would bring. Not while it’s still hard for me to be intimate with a boy. But his kiss comes with a promise that things will only get better.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  SADIE

  WHAT’S BETTER THAN BEING AT Coffee Shop with my roommates at two in the morning, eating pancakes and talking boys?

  I mean, men. We’re with men now.

  When Darcy came here with Zander in the middle of the night, she resolved to bring me and Rosanna back for late-night pancakes. I’ve always loved Coffee Shop. A few times I’ve walked by late at night and seen tons of people in here. I wished I was cool enough to be one of them. Darcy is definitely cool enough. And now, by one degree of Darcy, so are we. As soon as we were seated in the big curvy booth, I immediately proclaimed Coffee Shop at two in the morning to be our summer ritual.

  Rosanna wasn’t feeling it at first. She said we should go without her.

  Darcy was like, “I’m going to have to insist on your presence. We’re building memories here.”

  Rosanna was still reluctant. She agreed to come, but she thinks it’s too late to make this into a ritual. Spoken like a classic morning person. Then the pancakes came and the conversation got good and she warmed right up to that invigorating friends high. She still doesn’t get why it’s more fun to come here so late. But as long as we come on a Friday or Saturday night moving forward, she’s in.

  The conversation has evolved into listing different types of love.

  “There’s the instant chemistry, can’t stop thinking about the person, can’t wait to see him again, burning to touch him love.” Darcy.

  “There’s the chemistry and connection that’s there from the start, that gets more intense over time and eventually turns into a deeper love.” Me.

  “There’s the friends first that suddenly shifts when you look at him one day and see him differently.” Rosanna.

  “I know!” I say. “You’re like, When did he get so cute? Was he always this cute and I just never noticed?”

  “Or how the marginally cute guy gets cuter every time you see him,” Darcy adds. “What is that? Being so desperate you’ll force yourself to see something that’s not there?”

  “I think it’s an underlying attraction that gradually builds up,” Rosanna says. “He has qualities that resonate with you on a certain level, but you’re not fully aware of them yet. Then suddenly things fall into place.”

  “Once you start considering a boy as BF material, all bets are off,” Darcy says. “He could be the worst possible boy for you and you don’t even see it.”

  “You can’t see any red flags when you’re in it,” I say. “It doesn’t matter how many friends tell you he’s bad for you. They could point out his problems a thousand times and it wouldn’t matter. All you can see are the good parts.”

  “Love is blind,” Rosanna says.

  “Love is crap,” Darcy declares.

  We look at her.

  “Not crap,” she says. “Just . . . not the way it should be.”

  “It is if you’re with the right person,” I say.

  “But how do you know who’s the right person? You think you’re with the right person. You’re totally in love. And then out of nowhere, everything changes. Why put all that time and energy into something that will never last? It’s not worth the effort. Better to go with the flow and have fun.” Darcy fidgets with the sugar caddy. Despite playing it off like she couldn’t care less about love, I can tell she doesn’t completely believe what she’s saying.

  “Relationships don’t always end,” I say. “Soul mates are real. True love is real. You just have to believe you’ll find that kind of real love one day.”

  “And refuse to settle for less than you deserve,” Rosanna points out.

  “Does that mean you should be alone until you find your person?” Darcy asks.

  “No. We learn from every relationship we have. How can we be ready for the right relationship without the experience that prepares us for it?”

  “Every relationship is an opportunity to learn about ourselves,” I add. “I’m constantly thinking about the kind of boy I want to be with. What’s important to me. What used to be important but doesn’t matter anymore. What my deal breakers are. If you have a clear idea of what you’re looking for, it’s easier to recognize once you find it.”

  “We don’t only learn about ourselves from relationships,” Darcy says. “Every interaction we have matters. You can have one amazing night with a boy and learn more about yourself than you would in a long-term relationship.”

  The three of us contemplate this in silence. We all had amazing boy adventures tonight. I went to New Jersey with Austin and had that ginormous fireworks non-coincidence. Rosanna went to Cafe Lalo and a movie in Central Park with D. Darcy hooked up with some random boy she’s refusing to talk about. We’re still buzzing like neon from tonight. Our boy adventure wave activity is vibrating at such a high frequency that if you captured the energy at this table, I’m sure you could supply the entire country’s electrical needs for a year. When it comes to boys charging girls up, we’re more powerful than a hurricane.

  Rosanna breaks the silence. “Which type of love is better? Or more real? Is true love only about the immediate butterflies? Or does it qualify as true love if you feel the butterflies eventually?”

  “First you have to believe in true love,” Darcy mumbles.

  “The butterflies have to be there,” I say, brushing off Darcy’s cynicism, “but I don’t think it matters how long it takes to feel them. If you feel them right away, that’s love at first sight.”

  “By ‘butterflies,’ do you mean chemistry?”

  “Butterflies are more than just attraction. They’re that thing where you can’t eat or sleep or concentrate on anything. All you can think about is the boy. You can’t wait to be with him again. And when you’re with him, you feel alive in a way that you’d always hoped was possible.” That’s exactly the way Austin makes me feel. Alive.

&nbs
p; “Kind of the way you feel about Austin?” Rosanna says.

  “We see that smile, girl,” Darcy teases. “You’re glowing so bright they need to turn the lighting down up in here to maintain the ambience.”

  I jump at the opportunity to talk about Austin some more. “It’s ridiculous how well Austin knows me already. Did I tell you he showed up tonight with pink roses?”

  “Awww!” Rosanna swoons. “He’s so romantic!”

  “He made the board gaming group so much fun. It would not have been the same if I’d gone by myself. He makes everything way more fun than it normally is. Like walking home along the river. I can’t tell you how many times I took that same walk alone, hoping to walk with Austin someday. It’s like I knew him before I knew him. I imagined what it would be like to walk with him for so long that I almost couldn’t believe it when he was finally right there. Walking with him was the most romantic thing ever. We were those people making out on the street. You know, those people who are so passionate about each other they have to stop in the middle of the sidewalk to kiss? We were those people I’d always wanted to be.”

  “That is so hot I can’t even,” Darcy says.

  “He’s perfect for me. We’re totally falling in love. Is it weird that everything’s happening so fast?”

  “All that matters is that you’re happy,” Darcy says. “You love being with him. You love how you feel when you’re with him. Go with it.”

  “You know I hung that sign over my bed for a reason. Austin is exactly who I was hoping to find. I always knew movie love was real. Now I finally get to live the dream.”

  “That is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard,” Rosanna proclaims.

  “Really? Because Cafe Lalo and Central Park movie night sounds pretty romantic.”

  Rosanna blushes. “It really was.” She gathers her long, wavy hair into a low pony. Then she twists it into the black elastic that’s always on her wrist.

  “What was your favorite part?” Darcy asks.

  “Probably when we were sitting together on the blanket. He told me I could lean on him . . . and it felt amazing to just lean against him. He put his arm around me and rubbed my back. He made me feel safe. Which was a big deal for me. I’ve never felt safe with a man before.”