In a New York Minute(84)

“So your work—”

“I’m not overflowing with clients, no. You and Eleanor have literally been my only client so far. I’m still trying to build my business, make connections, get whatever jobs I can. It’s why I told Serena I’d be available to work with her.” My voice broke on her name, and he looked confused. He wasn’t the only one. “This is why I should have never kissed you!”

Hayes said nothing. Instead, he walked over to a bench where there were two coffee cups, picked one up and popped the plastic lid flap open, chugging back a huge sip. Putting it back down, he turned to look at me. “I didn’t know if you’d want decaf or regular, so I got both,” he said, gesturing to the cups. I hated him for being kind right now.

“I don’t know what I did to make you think you couldn’t tell me the truth,” he said finally. “But if that’s what you want, fine. The most important thing is for you to be with your mom.”

I pressed my lips together, feeling hot and defiant.

“And you’re right.” He gave me a long, hard stare. “We’re nothing alike. I should have known that all along.”

“Thank you for everything today,” I said, wobbling a bit. My entire body felt numb. “I owe you one.”

A flicker of recognition registered on his face. I thought he might share, but instead he leaned over me and planted a kiss on the top of my head.

“Someday, Franny,” he said, his mouth lingering, “I’m going to take you up on that.”

He stood there for a moment, a pause that felt endless, and I almost expected him to take off his jacket and drape it over my shoulders, just as he did when we first met. But instead he turned without looking at me, digging his hands into his pockets as he left, lit up by the parking lot lights.

*



I had just woken up when a giant delivery of bagels from Zabar’s arrived at my parents’ house. I tore into the package like an animal. I had barely eaten anything since yesterday afternoon, and suddenly it felt like everything that had gone wrong in my life could be fixed by a bagel, cream cheese, and lox. I ripped open the card. “Food = love,” it read. “xx, Lola and Perrine.”

Whoa. I knew Lola and Perrine were exclusive, serious even, but they were now at the send-a-sympathy-food-basket level of dating? I texted Cleo immediately.

Just got a Zabar’s gift basket from Lola and PERRINE, I wrote.

!!!!!! Cleo wrote back. Wait more importantly Franny how is your mom?

Jim is going to come pick me up and take me back to the hospital. I think it’s going to be a long recovery, but she’ll be okay.



A series of heart emojis. Thank god.

I paused before I typed out the next thing I wanted to say. I had been up throughout the night thinking about it, agonizing over how I could actually help my mom. I texted Cleo my solution.

I’m going to stay out here for a bit to help out.



You’re a good daughter, she wrote back.

Your brother could totally stay at my place for the month while I’m here, I replied.

Ew, Fran, no. He barely knows how to do his own laundry.



I laughed at this, though she was probably right.

I’m serious, I wrote. I could definitely use the money, and then I can stay here and help my mom. Also I broke up with Hayes last night even though we were only together for like 24 hours. It was bad.

I didn’t have the energy to type anything else.

Franny WHAT?!



I’ll call you tonight I promise, I replied, but I gotta go do mom stuff xoxo.

*



Later, as I lay on my old twin bed, I thought about what it meant to be home. Growing up, I’d always felt out of place: With my mom and Jim. In my house. In my skin. But moving to New York, finding Lola and Cleo, discovering the world of art and design, creating my very own home in my little apartment—those things had shown me what it truly meant to belong. And then Hayes showed up in my life, and he felt both entirely new and utterly familiar, all at once. And all these things together made up the place I wanted to be more than anything in the world.

But I wasn’t there, where I belonged. I was here, staring at the cracked ceiling of my childhood home. I flopped around, trying to get comfortable. I turned over, and on the bookshelf next to me was a framed photo of me as a little kid, hair long and tangled, sitting in my grandmother’s lap, my mom seated next to both of us, her hand on my belly. We’re all grinning, and our smiles look almost identical, a thread connecting the three of us. I let out a sigh, felt the tears creep back into my eyes. Even if this wasn’t home—this place, this house, this family—they were still a part of me. And maybe in my own way, I did belong here too.

But there was one piece still missing, floating out there, ready for me to grab it. If I was ever going to truly know myself, I needed to know all of me. And so I grabbed my phone off the floor, opened up my email, and began to type.

Anna,

It’s been a crazy week here. My mom is in the hospital after having a heart attack, which has been awful and scary, though she’s doing okay. I’m still trying to figure out how to make the career I want in interior design happen.

On top of all of this, I met someone. A guy. Un uomo. (I’m trying to learn Italian!) He’s not like anyone I’ve ever dated, and I ended things in the worst possible way. I hope you don’t mind me dumping all of this on you, but it feels good to tell someone. Plus, you’re Italian. You all know something about love, right?