City Love

by Susane Colasanti

  “Why not?” Darcy asks.

  Rosanna is immediately snapped out of her warm fuzzy reverie. “No reason,” she says. Her tone is brittle. Whatever part of her was opening up with the memories of her romantic night has shut down. “Anyway. Enough about me. Are you going to tell us about your latest boy adventure or what?”

  All Darcy said when we were walking over was that she hooked up with some guy she met at the Strand. We could tell by the way she announced her accomplishment that she was proud. Darcy thinks hooking up with random boys is hot, which I can understand in a flingy kind of way. But it’s just not me. I’m not wired that way.

  “There’s not much to tell,” Darcy says. “Unless I tell it like the kind of cheesy romance novel housewives hide under their mattress. Our eyes locked over the towering book carts near self-improvement. He mentally undressed me from head to toe—”

  “I hate that expression, ‘head to toe,’” Rosanna interjects.

  “—drinking me in like he was desperate to quench his thirst.”

  “Quench?” I say. “Really?”

  “Oh, yes. And the sweat . . . ran down his chest as he heaved himself over the stacks, books splaying every which way, his lust an uncontainable force to be reckoned with.”

  “Gag,” Rosanna says. “I am never reading your book. No offense.”

  “None taken. I know I can bring the cheese when I want to.”

  “Way to deflect the question,” I say.

  “What question?”

  “Hello! We’re dying to know what you did tonight.”

  “Nothing worth mentioning. I’d rather focus on the Now. The Power of Now says that all we ever have is Now. Now is the most important part of our life. Essentially the Now is our entire existence. Think about it. Besides, what’s funner than late-night pancakes and boy talk with my girls?”

  Darcy is working hard to avoid talking about her hot fling. Of course Rosanna and I want to know what happened. But I respect Darcy’s need for privacy. I know exactly how she feels. There are things I don’t want to talk about, either.

  “Okay,” Darcy says. “We did the love thing. Now let’s talk sex.”

  I glance at Rosanna. We don’t need to have this discussion for me to know that I’m not the only virgin at the table.

  “When is the right time to have sex?” Darcy asks. “I’ll go first. For me, it’s simple. When I want to and it feels right.”

  Rosanna yanks the elastic out of her hair. Then she twists it back up, staring at the table.

  “When I really know the person and I’m in love with him,” I say. “I have to be in love first. That’s nonnegotiable.”

  “You don’t ever see yourself going too far in the heat of the moment?” Darcy asks.

  “‘Heat of the moment?’” I inquire. “Are you writing more of your book?”

  “It may not be a best seller, but the ladies love it.” Darcy takes a sip of her coffee. She looks at Rosanna expectantly over the rim of her mug.

  Snap-snap-snap go Rosanna’s fingers. She is dying for a subject change.

  I swoop in to save her. “Three brunettes equals girl power. We decide where, when, and with whom. That’s all we need to know.”

  I look around to see who else goes to Coffee Shop this late. Not many people are here. Partly because it’s the middle of the night. Partly because the city is dead in the summer. People start going out to their summer shares in the Hamptons or wherever right after Memorial Day. Having Manhattan all to myself in August is an annual perk I enjoy. The serenity almost offsets the gross heat/humidity combo. There’s a couple in the window booth who are obviously crazy in love with each other. You can tell by the way they’re looking at each other like the rest of us aren’t even here.

  “See that couple in the window booth?” I ask Darcy and Rosanna.

  They turn to look.

  “Oh,” Rosanna sighs. “The way he’s looking at her.”

  “The way he’s touching her arm,” Darcy says.

  We stare at the enchanting couple, in awe of obvious soul mates. I wish I had stationery and a glitter pen to write them a warm fuzzy. They should know how inspiring they are.

  “True love is real,” I say. “That’s what it looks like.” That’s what I’ve always wanted. That’s what I have with Austin. Now we’re the couple who inspires other people to find their own true love.

  What might be around any corner in the future is irrelevant. The search is over.

  TWENTY-SIX

  DARCY

  THERE’S NOTHING LIKE ENCOUNTERING A creeper on the subway to brighten up your day.

  This one is a piece of work. A character like him—old guy, warm-weather grandpa outfit ready for an afternoon of shuffleboard and bridge at a retirement center down in Miami, tattered socks stuffed into nasty man sandals—would normally be a trip. But he’s got some serious attitude adjustment to work on. He’s been snarling at me for the last six stops. Just sitting across from me, snarling like I canceled the buffet spread at his regular early bird special. I do not know what his damage is.

  Here’s what I do know: I refuse to let some random creeper on the subway intimidate me.

  These guys want to get a rise out of you. They want to see how you react to being stared at or yelled at or otherwise harassed. They get off on watching you squirm as you struggle to stay focused on your screen or page or friend, pretending not to notice the lunatic growling in your face about how your grandpappy hunted his grandpappy for sport. A couple days ago I saw a girl break down. She was being harassed by a guy who sat right next to her even though there were plenty of free seats. He proceeded to tell her all the things he wanted to do to her, as if they were filming porn instead of heading uptown on the express. She got off at the next stop. He glanced at me, but I gave him a hard glare. Not me, the glare said. Don’t even try it. My sharp vibe made him move on to the next victim.

  The creeper across from me continues to snarl. He can snarl all he wants. He will never get the satisfaction of watching me squirm. I’m the one in control here. He will not witness me so much as flinch.

  He snarls.

  I stare back defiantly.

  He snarls.

  I stand my ground.

  He snarls.

  My stop is next. I get up slowly so he doesn’t think he ran me off the train. As the train slows down and I make my way to the door, he sticks two fingers up in a V-shape. At first I think he’s acknowledging my victory. But then he puts his fingers on either side of his mouth and waggles his tongue at me.

  I give him the finger as I walk out the door. I’m not afraid of him following me. No man will ever take advantage of me again, including perverts on the subway.

  When I emerge from the muggy subway station to the street, I take a second to breathe. No one takes a second to breathe here. Everyone exists in a perpetual state of running/working/doing/shopping/freaking out. The only stationary people on the sidewalk are either waiting for someone or tourists. I revel in standing still while the city undulates around me. Physical tranquility is an excellent catalyst for mental tranquility. Mental note: Be still more often.

  The Upper West Side is new territory for me. I’ve come in search of beach gear. Moving to New York doesn’t always allow one to bring everything they own with them. Everyone knows how small the closets are here. Most of my stuff is still back home. Sadie, Rosanna, and I are talking about going to the beach over Fourth of July weekend. So my desire to find the right beach bag and towel has officially been promoted from want to need. This girl in my art history class told me about some fun shops up here she thought I’d like.

  I’m not even half a block from the subway when a girl swiftly steps in front of me, blocking my way. Am I seriously about to deal with the second creeper of the day? What am I, some creeper magnet all of a sudden? But then I realize I know her. It takes me a second to figure out where I know her from.

  “Darcy!” she yells. “I thought it was you!”

  “Ca
rrie! What are you—oh right, you live here!”

  We hug. Carrie is this awesome girl I met while I was backpacking through Europe. She was making her way from Paris to Rome over the course of a week. We took the train from Milan to Monaco together. Four hours of nonstop bonding over the addictive nightlife of Paris, the mellow Côte d’Azur of Nice, and the stunning architecture of Milan. Carrie and I were flying on the same unmistakable travel high. She understands the kind of freedom solo travel provides. We loved the thrill of being able to do whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted, without anyone else to drag us down. No pathetic walking tours. No standing in line for half the day. Just taking in culture at our own pace. Seeing her stirs a rush of nostalgia. Coming back from Europe wasn’t easy.

  “Your dress is so cute!” Carrie says. “Is it vintage?”

  “ModCloth.”

  “I love ModCloth! Oh my god, it is so good to see you. I was just thinking about you the other day.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Eleventh Street at Seventh Avenue.”

  “Get. Out. I’m on Eleventh and Fifth!”

  “Of course you are.”

  “Wait. Why aren’t you surprised?”

  “This is classic New York serendipity. Of course we live two blocks from each other. And of course we had to come all the way up here to find out. You wouldn’t believe how many people I run into on the street that I haven’t seen in forever. A lot of them don’t even live here! I know it sounds crazy, but it happens all the time.”

  “I just moved here like a week ago and not only did I already run into you, you’re my neighbor.”

  “Big city, small world.”

  Does this mean I might cross paths again with Random Boy from last night? I was kind of hoping to never see him again. Not because I’m ashamed or anything. By the time Sadie asked about the hookup at Coffee Shop, I didn’t feel horrible about it anymore. There was no reason to feel horrible. Summer Fun Darcy sees what she likes and goes after him. It actually felt kind of fun giving Sadie and Rosanna a hint of what I’d done. But something still didn’t feel right. If I don’t understand my own feelings about something, I’m not exactly motivated to talk about it. The last thing I want to do is encounter the person who’s making me feel awkward for unknown reasons.

  “It’s freaky how many people I’ve run into,” Carrie continues. “One time something told me to walk down a street I never go down. One thing you’ll learn about New Yorkers is that we’re entrenched in our routines. We walk the same way every day without even thinking about it. Suddenly walking a different way for no logical reason is a bigger deal than it sounds. So I walked a different way and turned a corner and there he was. The boy I liked in ninth grade. This other time I was on the N train—which I never take—and an old friend of my mom’s I hadn’t seen in ten years got on. Not only on the train I never take at a time when I’m never on the subway, but the exact same car. There’s no way that was a coincidence.”

  “It’s a non-coincidence. That’s what my roommate Sadie calls those kinds of things.”

  “Non-coincidence. I like that. Did Sadie make it up?”

  “No, I think she heard it somewhere.”

  “Everything happens for a reason, right?”

  I smile and nod. But if everything happens for a reason, why did I get dumped so hard for no reason at all?

  “Well, I’m happy to be a part of an exclusive New York phenomenon,” I say. “I guess this means I should get ready for reunions with friends from Santa Monica.”

  “Totally. So what are you doing on the Upper West Side?”

  “I’m on the prowl for adorable beach paraphernalia. Any suggestions?”

  “Hmm. Let me think.” Carrie looks across 79th Street. “I can’t think of anyplace off the top of my head. I’m hitting Zabar’s and Fairway.”

  “Is Zabar’s that place with the good cheese?”

  “Zabar’s has the good everything. Fairway is ridiculous. You won’t even believe it. Are you into cooking?”

  “That would be a no.”

  Carrie laughs. “I’ll have you over for dinner sometime. You’d be surprised how easy it is to make a good meal.”

  “Oh, I’m good with the million best restaurants ever right outside my door. Trust me, you would not want to eat anything I cooked. Except for toast. I can usually manage not to burn toast.”

  “How about cereal?”

  “Never burned cereal, either. No one makes cereal like I do. My cereal is so delightful it can almost be classified as a work of art.”

  “Then maybe you should have me over for dinner sometime. Breakfast for dinner is always a good thing.”

  “Get ready for the best cereal and toast of your life. Just don’t ask me to do anything complicated like eggs.”

  An ice cream truck rolls by, its signature music tinkling in the afternoon sunlight.

  “I also make good ice cream,” I add. “And by ‘make,’ I mean ‘scoop.’”

  “Do you put it in a bowl and everything?”

  “Not just any bowl. We have a matching set of bowls from Target.”

  “How adult of you. Speaking of cooking . . . I have to go. Fairway at rush hour is a scary place.”

  As we exchange contact info and make promises to get together soon, I can’t help feeling like something’s off. We were so close on the train in Italy. We even spent the rest of the day exploring Monaco together. But then Carrie had to leave and we went our separate ways and we haven’t talked since. It was super fun running into her, but there’s a new awkwardness between us I can’t quite identify. Maybe certain friendships are more dependent on past experiences than present ones.

  “Are you good with getting around?” Carrie asks. “The subways are usually reliable, but they can be a nightmare if you’re not sure where you’re going.”

  “The subway is already a nightmare. I just had a disgusting encounter I’m pretty sure is only the first in a long chain of repulsiveness.”

  “What happened?”

  I tell Carrie about the lewd creeper.

  “He reminds me of my ex,” Carrie says.

  “Was your ex a creeper, too?”

  “He was the worst kind of creeper. You know, the kind that likes scamming on other girls behind your back?”

  “Uck. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It was better that I found out earlier than later. I can’t tell you how many girls I know who are stuck in miserable relationships because they’ve invested so much time in them already. I’m like, This isn’t about time. It’s about being happy. If you’re not happy with your boyfriend, what’s the point?”

  “Exactly.” A stray breeze sweeps down Broadway, providing some momentary relief from the oppressive humidity. Temperature extremes usually don’t bother me. But I’m suddenly overheated.

  “Are you single?” Carrie asks.

  “Yes and I am loving it, thank you.”

  “That’s a great outlook. I wish I felt as positive as you. I’ve been single for three years. And I’m only twenty-three. What a waste.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is when I should be in a relationship. When I’m young and we can do whatever we want. But it’s more than that. I want a boyfriend.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess I want the sense of security a long-term relationship will bring.”

  “But isn’t it fun to be single and date around?”

  “I think it’s awesome that you’re having fun. I’m just in a different place. Dating around was fun for a while, but freedom is overrated. I want to have someone I can count on. Someone to go out with on Saturday nights and be my plus-one at events. Someone who wants to share his life with me. I just want to find my person and know that he will always be there for me, no matter what.”

  This is not the Carrie I know. The Carrie I know would never say that freedom is overrated. She’d love the potential adventure an uncertain future holds. It’s only been a year since Ital
y. She was a wild child like me back then. Now she wants stability. What happened to her?

  “Sorry for the rambling,” Carrie says. “I’ve been kind of . . . lonely. Not lonely in a friends way. My friends are amaztastic. Lonely in that way where you’re tired of waiting to meet him, you know?”

  I nod. I get what she’s saying. We’re just in very different places.

  Jude is the type of guy Carrie is looking for. Devoted. Adoring. Supportive. Any girl would be lucky to have him as her person.

  Including me.

  I would be lucky to have Jude as my person.

  What Carrie’s saying clicks with a part of me that’s been buried. The part of me that used to hope and dream and was certain that people are inherently good, including men.

  That part of me isn’t buried as deep as I thought it was. That part of me wants to feel how good it would be to hope again.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ROSANNA

  OUR UPSTAIRS NEIGHBORS ARE AT it again. Moving furniture or break-dancing or whatever. I really don’t need this stress right now. Getting ready to go out with D is stressful enough.

  Refraining from poking my eye with the mascara wand would help.

  My hand is shaking. That’s how stressed I am. Last night I was stressing over paying at Coffee Shop, which is why I didn’t want to go. But Darcy wasn’t hearing it when I told them to go without me. My covert frugal approach was to order the least expensive thing on the menu (two eggs any style, comes with home fries and toast) and just drink water. Sadie and Darcy got pancakes. I wanted pancakes too, but they were four dollars more than the eggs. That’s four bagel dinners. So I stuck with the eggs, despite their protests. I made up a lie on the spot about needing more protein. While they were ordering, I mentally calculated their shares, freaking out that we might end up splitting the bill three ways. Covering a third of their extravagant beverage and side choices (and then a third of the higher tip) would have been a problem. My share was $8.00, plus 20% of eight for the tip. About $9.50. I had a ten-dollar bill and really wanted my fifty cents back, but the girls would have thought I was even more of a freak asking for fifty cents. Fortunately Sadie took charge when the bill came. She said that everyone should pay for what they ordered.