In a New York Minute(73)

“My grandma’s got a real resting bitch face going on,” I joked, despite the racing of my heart.

“She looks like she doesn’t take crap from anyone,” he replied. “Reminds me of someone I know.”

He said this with a playful nudge of his elbow to my ribs, and I felt a surge of self-confidence.

“I wish I could meet her.” The words got caught in my throat. I knew all along that learning more about my newfound family would be intense, but I still wasn’t prepared for the emotion it churned up inside me.

“You have to get to Italy,” he said as if it were a thing I could do tomorrow.

“Someday,” I agreed. Though I’d never offered up any further information, as far as I knew Hayes was still under the impression that my business was booming, an immediate success story. I knew I’d eventually have to come clean about it. But for now, this night was too good to spoil with my money woes.

“At least I can tell my sister I finally had gelato, so she won’t be totally ashamed of me,” I said.

“I’m sure she’ll be very impressed,” he said, a lightness in his voice that matched the smile on his face. “Have you told your mom?”

I shook my head. “I just don’t know how she’d handle it. Any of it,” I said, thinking of the other things I’d kept from her lately. “I’m seeing her this weekend, but I don’t think it’s the right time to tell her.”

I tucked myself into him, so warm and inviting. I could feel the weight of what was unraveling between us, the unspoken acknowledgment that this—this—was something. We were people who shared things, intimate things, deeper than just kissing. All my worries, insecurities, and thoughts of not being good enough, suddenly seemed so pointless now. Because I knew that there was nothing that could compare to this.

“I know it’s crazy that I’ve never been here before,” I said. “But honestly, that’s what I love so much about this city. That you can live here for years and still not have experienced everything. That there are still surprises left. That it’s still…”

I stopped, searching for the right word.

“Magical?” he suggested.

“Yes!” I smacked his leg, and he laughed, my new favorite response to get out of him.

Hayes let out a breath, stretching his arms until they reached out behind us, resting on the edge of the bench and also gently against my shoulders. Warm skin on warm skin in warm air. Heaven.

“God, I love this stupid city.” I leaned my head back, connecting to him with the smallest touch, though it felt like plugging into a socket.

“Same,” he said with a nod.

“Are we doing that thing?” I asked him, pulling my knees into my chest. “Are we being tourists in our own city?”

“I mean, sure,” he mused. “But I think it’s good to look up and not take all of this for granted once in a while.” He gestured with his free hand, waving it like a magician at the city and the river and the skyline stretching out in front of us. I knew exactly what he meant—New York could be overwhelming and all-encompassing, but sometimes—often—you moved through it without really seeing it.

And then his fingers pressed ever so gently against my neck, as if to say “This too.” It sent a jolt through the parts of my body I often forgot existed; I could feel the tendons in my calves come to life. I dared to glance to my right and caught a glimpse of his eyes crinkling into a smile as he stared straight ahead. He kept finding new ways to drive me crazy, and I didn’t mind it. Not one bit.





Chapter Twenty-Two

Hayes



I was walking a tightrope between not wanting this night to end and not wanting Franny to catch on that I didn’t want this night to end. I cared about what she thought of me, more than I wanted to admit, and the idea of appearing too forward or desperate, or annoying—or something—terrified me into subduing my excitement. But it was almost midnight, and we were standing on Front Street, pulling piping-hot slices of pizza out of a box and shoving them into our mouths. It had been Franny’s turn to gasp in horror when I’d told her I’d never been to Grimaldi’s before.

“You lectured me about never walking the Brooklyn Bridge, and yet you have the audacity not to eat the best pizza in the city, located directly under the bridge? Shame on you.”

Her horror was earned—I’d give her that—but I made up for it by eating three slices without hesitation. The line in front of Grimaldi’s had dwindled, and one of the cooks shuffled up to the window behind us and flipped the sign to CLOSED.

Rationally, I knew I should feel exhausted. The past few hours had been filled with food, alcohol, and walking. But I was on fire, fully charged. It felt like with every look in Franny’s direction, my body would spontaneously combust or rocket into the air.

She took the now-empty box out of my hand without saying a word and walked it over to the blue recycling bin on the corner, the familiarity of this gesture sending a buzz from my heart to my stomach.

“So,” she said, “I should head home.”

I stuffed my disappointment down and nodded, opening my mouth to agree with her—perhaps too eagerly—that of course it was time for this night to end.

“Would you want to walk with me?” she said, cutting me off before I could start talking. My eyes darted to hers, and they were wider than normal. “It’s not that far from here. Five minutes, tops.”