In a New York Minute(74)

“Yeah!” I sounded too eager. Rein it in, Hayes. “Yeah, of course.”

I crossed and uncrossed my arms and then stuffed my hands in my pockets. When did my hands become so cumbersome?

“Although please remember that I am definitely going to give you a hard time again for never walking across the Brooklyn Bridge until tonight,” I said.

“That’s fair,” she said, looping her arm through mine. “Although aren’t you glad I waited to do it with you for the first time?”

I was.

Franny steered us down Everit, until we made a left on Cranberry Street. “Seriously?” I said as we passed the street sign. “Cranberry Street? That is so quaint it feels like it should be in a movie.”

“It is in a movie.” She turned and gave me the eye.

I shook my head. “I have no idea which one.”

“Hayes,” she said, annoyed but smiling. “Come on. I’ll give you Grease, but this is a New York City classic.”

“Um…” I actually tried to come up with something. “Home Alone Two?”

“Dear god, Hayes!” She let go of my arm and dashed into the middle of the street. “Who am I?”

She started pacing back and forth, kicking the air with her right foot.

“A Rockette?” I asked, genuinely perplexed. “That’s literally my best guess.”

She dashed back toward me, getting up in my face. “Hayes,” she said, her grin wicked. “Snap out of it!”

I shrugged. “I’m seriously trying, but now I am just very confused.”

“Oh my god, Hayes, I need you to come with me.”

She grabbed my hand and dragged me toward a light-blue wooden town house with a white gate lining the street, and steps dotted with flowerpots that ended at a bright-red door.

“Is this your place?” I asked, marveling at how downright sweet it looked.

“Yup.”

“You might live in the only house in New York City with a white picket fence.”

She looked up from her purse, where she was digging for what I assumed were her keys. “I know. It’s absurdly perfect, and I can never move, even though I should not be paying this much in rent right now,” she said, clicking the keys into the lock of the basement apartment, the door swinging open.

“Come on,” she said, ushering me in.

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t imagined Franny’s apartment many times over in my head. For weeks now, I’d watched her delicately caress plants, sigh over lighting fixtures, and stare for what seemed like hours at empty walls, her brain churning in ways mine could never comprehend. I saw everything in lists and columns, numbers and equations. But Franny saw the world in shapes and colors.

Still, I wasn’t expecting how light a space could feel, especially one so tiny and filled with color. Her apartment was about the same size as my new personal office. I followed behind her as she walked in and dropped her purse on a plush couch that seemed to take up the entire wall. In the bay window, a table stacked with books was surrounded by plants that surely clamored for all the light that must pour in every morning. I moved a few steps closer and could see the titles: Rothko, Kahlo, one simply titled Uffizi Gallery. Of course she’d devour art books.

A faded leather chair sat regal but unassuming in the corner, next to a mantel covered in soft twinkle lights and small pots of succulents. I bent to examine her fireplace, only to discover a small flat-screen TV inside, hidden behind a gold screen.

“You put your TV in your fireplace?” I said, marveling at her ingenuity.

She shrugged. “It was the easiest place to tuck it away. When it’s behind the screen, you don’t even notice it, and when I want a fire, I just find one on YouTube.”

Her kitchen was small but spotless—wooden countertops, a small white farm sink. Even her fridge seemed half-size. A bistro table was nestled in the corner with just two chairs, a small pitcher holding crisp white tulips on top.

“Bathroom?” I asked.

“Here,” she said, waving at me to follow. A few steps past the kitchen was a small bathroom, with barely room for one person. “This is technically a studio, but I put up this curtain rod so my bed feels like its own space.” Her living room was one thing, but seeing her bedroom felt intimate, personal, like knocking on someone’s door and having them answer in their pajamas. She tugged the curtain open, revealing a nook as bright and cozy as the rest of her place—a bed draped in a blue patterned duvet, yellow throw pillows, a small side table with a lamp and potted succulent. A book rested on the edge, and I leaned closer as I walked by to get a peek. Nora Ephron. I smiled. We had been trying to out–New York each other all night, but the Ephron book pushed Franny just ahead of me to first place.

Her bathroom: black-and-white tile. I gazed into the mirror as I washed my hands in the tiny sink. What the hell was I doing here, close to 1 a.m.? What I wanted to do—drag Franny to her bed and never leave—was butting heads with what I felt I should do—say good night, head outside, and get a car back to Manhattan. Run. Maybe go into the office tomorrow, prep for my Seattle trip, rehearse my pitch.

Return to normal.

But walking back out into Franny’s apartment, I was immediately hit with the smell of popcorn. Popcorn? She was standing over the stove, barefoot, shaking freshly popped kernels into a large glass bowl. “Beer? Water?” she asked over her shoulder.