In a New York Minute(72)

“But you’ve”—he shook his head, exasperated—“never walked across it.”

I shrugged and made a face. “It seemed too touristy.”

“Oh my god.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “And you’ve lived here what, nine, ten years?”

“Twelve,” I confessed with a grimace. “If you count college.”

“Twelve?!” He threw up his hands at me and gaped.

“You’re going to really be horrified by this, but my apartment’s only a few blocks away from the bridge too.”

“Franny, no!” I’d never seem him this animated, and it made me smile.

“Look, I biked across the Williamsburg Bridge once,” I said, holding my hands up defensively. “I’ve been to the Cloisters. I know where to get the best whitefish salad in the city. I’m not a total monster.”

“Okay, well, do you have thirty more minutes?”

“I’ve got all night,” I said, my eyes bright, my words obviously flirty. I took a second to try to remember back months ago, when he seemed so cocky and loathsome on that bright NYN morning show set. How had this side of him not been evident all along? My brain struggled to remember exactly what about him I’d found so horrible in the first place.

“Perfect,” he said, tugging at my wrist. “Let’s go.”

We crossed Fulton Street to the sidewalk that led us to the mouth of the bridge. Even though it was nearing eleven, there were people in packs ahead of us, enjoying the unending warmth of the day. The wooden planks of the walkway stretched on for what felt like forever, with the occasional cyclist speeding through the crowds in that no-bullshit way only a New Yorker on a bike can possess.

Up, up, up we went, the buildings around the edge of Manhattan rising to meet us. The farther we walked, the closer the Statue of Liberty seemed to get, almost like she was peeking around the corner, coming out to greet us. To the left of us, a Q train slogged its way over the Manhattan Bridge. Even though the city felt like hot soup, a cool breeze swept by us, and the sounds of the people milling around created a soothing cacophony of white noise. It was oddly meditative, and I wondered if Hayes felt it too. After about fifteen minutes of walking and weaving through crowds in silence, he rested a hand on my shoulder.

“Wanna sit for a sec?” he asked.

I nodded and followed him toward a bench that was, miraculously, empty. Even though I was in Converse, my feet were tired, and it felt good to sit. In front of us, a teenage girl in platform sneakers posed with her arms stretched out overhead, leaping in the air, as her mom snapped a photo. “Lemme see?” she asked, grabbing the phone out of her mom’s hand. It took a second to register, but then I realized exactly what she’d been doing: Serena’s pose, the one with the hashtag, which her followers did along with her.

At the thought of Serena, my brain immediately reached for all the usual insecure feelings I often clung to, but my heart piped in and pushed them aside. Cleo had said something to me that day we’d run into Serena in Central Park, something like “You’re all those things, and more.” It was true, and it was time I let myself believe it.

Gazing out at the harbor in front of us, I felt the oddest sense of calm wash over me. So much of the past few months had been filled with tension, and yet in this moment, I was at peace. I was reaching into my bag to snap a photo of the bridge when I noticed I had a new email. I peeked at it, just to be sure it wasn’t something work-related. When I saw who the sender was, I gasped.

“What?” Hayes shifted to look at me.

I sat there silently reading for a second. “My half sister in Italy wrote back,” I said finally, still not looking up from my phone, where I was rereading every single word.

“Oh my god.” I grabbed for his arm excitedly on instinct, like I would reach for Lola or Cleo. “She sent some photos too.”

The look on Hayes’s face was utterly patient. “Do you feel like sharing what she said?”

I passed the phone over to him so he could read it.

Dearest Franny,

How wonderful that we both work in design. We are connected beyond just our DNA, it seems. My apologies for my delay. I have been traveling for work. Would you like to arrange a time to talk via video chat? My English is much better in conversation than writing. I’ve attached a recent photograph and a picture from when I was a baby, of me with our dad and our grandmother, Giuseppa. She’s 88 and still lives in their village.

—Anna



“Wow,” he said, passing the phone back to me. “How do you feel?”

“Okay,” I replied, and I could almost feel my shoulders release, relaxing for the first time in forever. “Good, actually. Should I open the photos?”

“Of course,” he said eagerly. “I mean, if you want to, then you should. Of course.”

I pressed the first attachment, and a face popped up, smiling dark eyes, and curls like mine, only longer. Hayes leaned in over my shoulder.

“It’s uncanny,” he muttered. “Obviously, you’re related. But still.” I’d always assumed my hair came from my birth father, because everyone else in my family was walking around with fine brown hair. But to really see it, and know it, felt entirely different. The sureness steadied something inside me.

The next picture was grainy and harder to see, but there was a short older woman, with a handkerchief in her hair, gazing sternly at the camera. Standing next to her was a taller man, with a broad smile and thick jet-black hair that grew long on the sides, a slight mullet. In his arms was a tiny baby, with the same inky hair.