City Love(48)

“Dude,” Austin says. “They’re testing for the Fourth of July!”

“No way.”

“How else would you explain this?”

He’s right. The series of fireworks bursting in front of us is so dazzling it could only be testing for the big day. We’re watching a preview of the fireworks that the world will be watching one week from tonight.

The same fireworks we were just talking about across the water.

No. Freaking. Way.

This has to be a non-coincidence. A non-coincidence is a phenomenal event that is too magical to be random. Non-coincidences are much bigger than that song you were just thinking about coming on the radio. Or your friend calling you when you were just about to call her. Non-coincidences are the kind of events you’d think were impossible if you read them in a book. You couldn’t make this stuff up.

We were obviously meant to come here tonight. The Universe is giving me a clear sign that Austin is my destiny. How else could you explain this ginormous non-coincidence?





TWENTY-THREE

DARCY


I SWEAR I COULD LIVE at the Strand. Eighteen miles of used books is reassuring, like no matter what you’re searching for you can find the answer here. The atmosphere manages to be both intellectual and laid-back. The smell of old books is intoxicating. I love perusing the skinny aisles between bookcases, running my fingers along the cracked spines. There’s so much history here. So many stories behind the stories. These books have been held by thousands of people, everyone from the casual reader who grabbed a best seller at the airport to the avid reader who equates books with oxygen. If these shelves could talk . . .

The Power of Now was so enlightening that I’ve come in search of similar guidance. Anyone who knows me knows that my typical approach to life involves zooming head-on at an alarming speed. But ever since the ex fiasco, I’ve felt a need for balance. Long story short: You may currently find me shamelessly scavenging in the self-help section.

So many choices. So much room in the big Strand bag I picked up on the way back to the shelves. It is my obligation as a New Yorker to occasionally rock a Strand bag. This orange-and-red striped one will look good in October with skinny jeans, a long sweater coat, and biker boots.

I spread my six book choices on one of the overflowing book carts. Once I read the first couple pages of each book, I can get a better sense of which ones I’m going to buy.

A boy is rummaging through books on the other side of the cart. He was bent down behind the cart when I spread out my books. I didn’t even see him. But now that he’s checking out the top row, I can’t help noticing him. His cuteness factor is off the charts. No exaggeration. If I had to rate his cuteness on a scale of one to ten, this boy would be a sixteen. And a half.

“That’s a good one,” he says, gesturing at the book I’m holding.

Our eyes meet over the book cart. An immediate spark ignites between us.

“What did you like best about it?” I say, trying not to stare at his pouty lips.

“It really helped me get through a tough time,” he says. “My parents had just gotten divorced. My sister and I were miserable. That book helped me see things in a different light. Highly recommended.”

I nod appreciatively, flipping the book over and reading the back cover again. There’s no way I’m not buying this book, but I want to make it look like I’m still considering it.

The boy wanders over to a section a few aisles down. I look through the other books, decide which ones I want, and make my way down to the aisle across from his. Except he’s not there anymore. Panic hits me. He was hot. And smart. And sweet. This is one boy adventure I am definitely having.

Eventually I spy him in memoirs. Who under the age of fifty reads memoirs?

“Hey.” He looks over at me. “Self-help to memoirs. Very classy.”

“I try. Are you looking for something in particular?” I ask.

“Something I couldn’t be less interested in. I’m researching for a class.”

Obviously he’s stuck in memoirs under duress. This boy is way too cute to be stuffy.

“I’m taking summer session, too,” I say. “Where do you go?”

“School of the Future.”

“That’s like . . . a specialty college, or . . . ?”

“It’s not a college. I’m in summer school.”

I give him a blank look.

“Um. High school?”

“You’re in high school?”

“Only on a technicality. I was supposed to graduate, but I have to make up English credits.”

“Oh.” This boy’s cuteness factor should be rapidly dwindling given this disturbing information. Not only is he in high school, he didn’t even graduate on time. Who doesn’t graduate from high school on time? What excuse could he possibly have for being such a dumbass? But here’s the thing. For some reason, his lack of responsibility is making him even hotter. Maybe I’m entering a bad-boy phase.

“I’m eighteen.” He smiles at me. My heart speeds up. “Totally legit.”

He’s only one year younger than me. What’s one year? Why should age even matter? Especially when two people have intense chemistry.

“Want to get out of here?” I ask before I realize what I’m saying.