In a New York Minute(32)

“Wow, I had absolutely no idea what an accessories editor even was,” I huffed, trying not to let on that I was out of breath. She was pacing for a race next weekend, which meant she was trying to keep her miles under eight minutes each. I was a nine-minute-mile guy, and I was definitely hustling to keep up with her.

“I style photo shoots too.”

“That seems like a lot to do on top of training for the marathon,” I marveled.

“Well, that’s not even all of it. I’m also on a committee for a charity gala happening at the Museum of Natural History in August. All the proceeds go toward ALS research. My sister-in-law was diagnosed last year.”

“God, I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“I tend to channel my grief into productivity. I’m probably a little type A,” she said with a small laugh, though her face hinted at sadness. “Did Eleanor mention that?”

Eleanor had, in fact, mentioned that. But she’d also said Serena worked closely with her fiancé Henry’s group at the magazine and that he thought she was also “generally nice,” which was as good of an endorsement as any. And true to Eleanor’s promise, she was “hot.” Beautiful, really—with long tan limbs and sharp cheekbones and pale-blue eyes.

Serena was easily someone I’d normally be attracted to, and I could see why Eleanor thought she’d be a perfect setup. So why was I feeling absolutely no spark? It was probably work, and the stress of Damien quitting, I reasoned. I had too much going on.

“You have to come,” she continued. “We’ve sent out the formal invites, but I’ll email you the info and get one out to you.”

Six miles later, we leaned over a bridge by Sixty-Fourth Street, stretching. My calves throbbed, my arms ached, but still—I felt good. Serena was amiable and chatty, making me laugh once or twice. Our conversation was easy and familiar. Enjoyable, even. This had been nice. Perfectly nice.

“Oh!” she said, unstrapping her phone from around her bicep. “I almost forgot. Do you mind if I take a photo of us for my Instagram?”

“Oh god, I dunno,” I said. “I don’t exactly have the best track record on Instagram.”

“I saw.” She laughed knowingly. “But social media and influencing is literally my job.”

She opened up her phone and began scrolling through her feed. “I have to photograph my outfits every day. I have this hashtag called #SerenaStyle, and basically it’s become this whole thing.”

“How so?” I asked. It wasn’t like I didn’t get how Instagram worked, but I’d found that people used the phrase “whole thing” to describe, well, lots of very different things.

“I just have this specific pose, and now people copy it and do their own SerenaStyle shoots. Look.”

And, sure enough, there was photo after photo of people jumping in the air, all tagged back to her.

“Come on.” She waved me over with a massive grin. “It’ll just be in my Stories. Just a shot of our sneakers.”

She snapped the photo and pocketed her phone; then she leaned forward for a stretch, crossing her legs and bending at the waist, letting her hands touch the ground. “Would you wanna go grab a drink?” she asked, not turning to look at me. “I know a place with killer burgers and cheap beer.”

“Yeah, sure.” I crossed an arm in front of my chest to stretch it. I could go for some dinner, and I was genuinely interested in getting to know her better.

She stood up and smiled at me, and I smiled back, because after weeks of not quite feeling like myself, it felt like I was finally on my way back to the old Hayes.





Chapter Seven

Franny



My alarm went off the next morning, yanking me out of a dream. I’d been in Florida, riding on the back of a motorcycle with Hayes, and I was also working in a circus. It was ridiculous, but it had all made sense while I was sleeping. And the sensation of my arms around his waist, muscular and hard through his T-shirt, had felt incredibly real. I cursed as I yanked my eye mask up, mad that I could no longer feel his body against mine.

As usual, I reached for my phone the minute my eyes cracked open, and I saw a notification that I’d gotten a new email overnight. From the circus perhaps?

No, not the circus.

From: DNADiscovery.com

Subject: Your Results Are In!



“Oh my god,” I said out loud, opening the email with frantic, nervous fingers.

Hello, Francesca Doyle! Your results are in. Log in below to discover your ancestry, explore your health history, and trace your roots.



I clicked, and the site popped up, my log-in information saved and ready for this very moment.

Welcome, Francesca! You are:

10% Scottish

40% Irish

50% Southern Italian



Well, duh, I wanted to say. It was instantly underwhelming. I already knew my mom’s side of the family was Irish; I could trace them back generations. My grandma even knew the name of the village her family had left when they immigrated to the US. The southern Italian part was interesting, I guess, but there were tons of Italian Americans around New Haven. If my bio dad was there on vacation visiting family, chances were he was some part Italian too, just like most of the kids I’d gone to school with growing up.