In a New York Minute(71)

“This is urgent, Franny,” Hayes said, folding his arms and squinting at me. “These are your roots! You can’t be Italian and never try gelato. That’s basically the same as never having pizza.”

“You’re not even Italian.” I gave him a sassy, disparaging look. “Who made you an authority on what I’m supposed to eat?”

He tilted his head at me, like he was trying to figure out just how serious I was. When I finally stuck my tongue out at him, he snorted again, that relaxed laugh still so unfamiliar to me that it made me grin every time.

“Wait a second,” I said, leaning back in my chair to give him my best analytical look. “You never eat sugar. What’s the twist?”

“I told you.” He extended his hand, and I took it, letting him pull me up out of my chair. “I just like to save dessert for special occasions.”

He gave my hand a squeeze and then dropped it, and as he stuck his wallet in his back pocket, I let his words soak in. He’d been saving it for a special occasion. For me.

Fifteen minutes later, we were standing in line inside an Italian bakery crammed with tiny wood tables and rows of perfectly sprinkled cookies behind the glass counter, their sweet smell wafting through the air. Old men in white paper hats and aprons worked quickly behind the counter, with serious expressions on their faces. Hayes looked at me expectantly. “Well?” he asked, his brows raised, hands open to the space around us.

“I love it,” I sighed, taking a minute to inhale the mix of sweet desserts with the lingering smell of espresso.

He smiled, revealing those dimples that made his whole face shine.

“And,” I said, “I’d been sure you were going to drag me to that trendy gelato place on Ludlow, so I am pleasantly surprised.”

He held out his hand for a high five, and instead of slapping his palm, I reached up and interlaced my fingers with his. Maybe it was just liquid courage again. But the alcohol was burning off, and this desire I’d felt to yank him closer and closer seemed to only get stronger. His cheeks burned, I could tell, their pink tint spreading to his dimples. But if he was flustered, he didn’t let on.

His eyes followed our hands as I lowered them between us and leaned in to bump my shoulder to his. “Thank you,” I whispered. Our heads were so close I could smell his scent drifting off his shirt, that woodsy mix of shampoo, deodorant, laundry, aftershave: daily life. It was a smell no bottle could contain. It was purely him, a scent that had wafted by me so many times before but only now seemed to permeate the air around me.

Minutes later, we were outside, cups of gelato in hand and a small box of warm pignoli cookies in my bag. “Shall we walk?” he asked, and I nodded in between bites of two scoops of pistachio and chocolate, stacked high. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I think of my first gelato?” I asked, toying with the spoon in my mouth.

“Nah, I’m pretty confident that you love it already,” he said. I pushed my shoulder into his side but said nothing else. He was right, of course. He seemed to always be right. Jerk.

*



Deep into downtown New York we went, past parks lit up with late-night soccer games and cafés overflowing with couples and groups enjoying the magic of a warm city night. This was my favorite time of day in New York, the hours before midnight, when everyone in the city reemerges after work, and a week’s worth of stress, to celebrate Friday in the darkness. Somehow, the city seemed even brighter and more bustling at night, electric with energy, one giant caffeinated surge of life. Before we knew it, we were standing in front of City Hall.

“This is my favorite building in the entire city.” Hayes’s voice was full of reverence.

“I would have expected something more modern, or minimalistic, from you,” I mused. “Energy-efficient. Solar panels. Should I keep going?”

“No, thank you. You’ve made your point.”

He took a couple steps forward.

“In all seriousness, though,” he said, “in another lifetime, I almost became an architect, and when I was deciding whether or not to ditch my finance career and apply to grad school, I used to come down here and sit in the park and just stare.”

He pointed to the spires of the building; they looked like fingers dipping into the inky blackness of the night sky.

“I love that this building is a relic that seems to last as everything around it changes,” he added. “That dichotomy is New York to me, in a nutshell. Everything changes, and somehow it still stays the same.”

I tried to see what he saw; it was beautiful, sure, but it was magic only to him. I didn’t mind. I didn’t say it out loud, but that was my New York in a nutshell: those special things that we share only with ourselves, the treasures whose shine only we can see. The unremarkable street corners or nameless coffee shops that held worlds of their own.

“What would you do after you sat and stared at a building?” I asked.

“I’d run the length of the Brooklyn Bridge and back, and then sprint to my old apartment in the East Village.” He laughed. “I had a lot of stress to burn that year.”

I nodded. “Cool.”

“Franny.” He laughed and gave me a look of disbelief. “Don’t say it.”

“I’ve driven across it plenty of times!” I said, knowing exactly where he was going with this.