City Love(41)

Austin could only get a reservation for six o’clock, so by the time we leave it’s still before sunset.

“Want to walk the High Line?” I say.

“I was just going to ask you that!” Austin reaches for my hand. We hold hands all the way to the Gansevoort Street entrance.

The High Line is an elevated park that was built on an old railway. It extends above the street from the West Village to a bit above Chelsea. It’s my favorite green space. Taking an abandoned section of the city and rebuilding it into the sweetest outdoor space ever? That’s why I love urban design. I can’t wait to be the one who plans spaces like this. I love that Austin is also into design. Now we can geek out together.

“It’s cool how people can come together on the bleachers and the lawn, but still keep their personal space,” I say as we pass the 10th Avenue Square seating steps. “And how the walkways naturally blend people together.”

“I know. All these areas that invite people to sit together while still maintaining the flow of walkers. It’s a brilliant design.”

Since the High Line is all the way on the west side overlooking the river, the sunset views are spectacular. I hope the sunset is gorgeous tonight. One of my secret romantic fantasies is for Austin and I to come up here, cuddle on one of the lounge chairs facing the river, and watch the sunset together. Tonight will be the night that fantasy comes true. Which is why I’m not surprised that a couple gets up from what is now the only free lounge chair space when we start scoping one out. More perfect timing.

We lie back on the oversize wooden chair. Wooden lounge chairs are not the most comfortable to recline on, but they totally go with the whole minimalist, streamlined style of the High Line. I try to arrange myself in an attractive way while preventing my tailbone from ramming into the wood. Once I get relatively comfortable, I realize that we’re right below John Dalton’s place.

“My friend John lives there,” I say, pointing to his window high above us.

“Must be an awesome view. But this view is the best.” Austin isn’t looking out toward the sunset. He’s looking right at me.

I hold his gaze. Locking eyes with him is the ultimate test of boy confidence, especially after what he just said.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers.

We kiss in that movie love way where you’re on the High Line at sunset and you’re with the boy of your dreams and it’s the ultimate rom-com scene. The kind of scene people say can’t happen in real life. Except this is happening. And it couldn’t be more real.





TWENTY

DARCY


JUDE LOVES THESE BLUE GUYS something fierce. The phosphorescent paint they poured on their drums goes flying when they start pounding. We’re not in the first few rows where people are wearing rain ponchos and getting blasted with everything from masticated Cap’n Crunch to Tang. Still, a blast of electric purple paint makes me duck when it threatens to spatter my new dress.

Blue Man Group should be a rite of passage for anyone who is angling to achieve official New Yorker status. Everyone new to the city should see it within their first year. If I were in charge, I’d make it a mandatory theatrical experience. My parents brought me here over spring break in ninth grade. We stayed at the Gansevoort Hotel for five glorious days. They took me to see Blue Man Group. I was blown away then and I’m blown away now.

After our coffee two days ago, I tried really hard to convince myself to stay away from Jude. That was kind of impossible. So yesterday I decided that I could hang out with him while still keeping an emotional distance. Then I found him at the park, asked him out, and swung by the theater for Blue Man tickets.

Of course Jude has seen them before. I mean, hello, BMG are the ultimate performance artists. Any respectable artist learns from the most acclaimed ones. But he first saw them a long time ago, way before I did. Jude said he was like eight or nine when his mom took him. Watching Jude laughing as the paint flies, you wouldn’t know he’s seen all of this before. He was even getting excited before the show like a little kid. He reminded me of this little boy who was watching his act at the park yesterday. Same delighted expression. Same obvious joy. Same sense of wonder.

The blue men pound their drums harder. Paint zings in all directions. I love how the bright colors of the lights and paint are reflected in Jude’s wide eyes. This would be an amazing experience without him. But he’s making it even more amazing.

“What was your favorite part?” Jude asks me on the walk home.

“When they flung toilet paper.”

“Classic. Mine was the drums.”

“I could tell.”

Jude gives me an amused look.

“No, I mean . . .” I backpedal. “What’s not to love about paint flying everywhere?”

“The only thing better than flying paint is phosphorescent flying paint.”

“That is so true.”

The smell of roasted cashews wafts over from the Nuts 4 Nuts cart on the corner. Nuts 4 Nuts roasted cashews are like Auntie Anne’s pretzels. Once I smell them, I must have them.

“Dude, I have to get these nuts,” I say.

“Cashews?”

“How did you know?”

“You’re a woman of refined taste. Peanuts just don’t cut it. And walnuts are out of the question.”