City Love(52)

“This is it,” D says when we round the corner onto Central Park West. The “it” he is referring to is an impeccably maintained brownstone. I can’t believe this is where he grew up. Living in this house must have been like growing up in a fairy tale.

“It’s beautiful,” I say. “You must have loved living here.”

“The view of the park was nice. We weren’t that high, so the view was completely different than what you see from high-rises. I got to watch the seasons change in Central Park right outside my window.”

A few lit windows indicate that someone’s home. D’s parents are probably relaxing after dinner. What would I say if D invited me in to meet them? Would it be too soon? Or should I jump at the chance to show him that what we have isn’t casual?

Not that I even know what we have. All I know is how I feel when we’re together. When I’m with D, it feels like the shiny new life I’ve been visualizing for years is finally becoming reality. I can taste the flavor of New York the most when we’re together. The hope that everything will work out is always there under my anxiety. In moments of clarity, I can feel everything I’ve been working for my whole life come into focus. And for a bright spot of time, I can breathe again. I’m not sure why I feel the clarity mostly when I’m with D. Maybe because he’s showing me the New York he loves, the New York he’s lived and breathed his whole life, the true New York only someone who grew up here can share. He’s reminding me of what I looked forward to about living here when New York was just a dream.

We walk down Central Park West. Fuzzy dots of lamplight glow along the paths winding inside the park. Across the street, tremendous apartment buildings with immense penthouses are stamped out on the night sky block after block, an imposing representation of the power of money. The illuminated floor-to-ceiling windows are magnetic. I keep looking into them, catching glimpses of ornate chandeliers and pianos and elaborate built-in bookshelves. I’d love to have bookshelves like those someday. But only people with money are entitled to such beautifully designed homes.

“Let’s find a blanket before we go in,” D says near the park entrance at 72nd Street. “I don’t want your skirt to get dirty.”

Normally a statement like that wouldn’t make any sense. All the clothes I moved here with are pretty much falling apart. But tonight he has a point. The skirt Darcy bought me is almost too beautiful to wear. Almost.

There’s a Pottery Barn a few blocks away. We go in and find the blankets section. D insists that I pick out the one I want.

“This one,” I say, holding out a supersoft lavender blanket. It’s like my blanket back home except nicer.

“Good choice. It matches my shirt.” We take it to the register. Then I see how much the blanket is.

“Oh, this one’s too expensive,” I say. “Let’s find something cheaper.”

“It’s fine,” D says, taking out his credit card.

“No, there has to be—”

“Really.” D puts his arms around me and hugs me close. “It’s already yours.”

How amazing is it that D can buy an expensive blanket on a whim just for movie night while I’m thinking about reinforcing my wallet with a plastic bag? It blows my mind that he can just waltz into any store he wants, pick out whatever he likes without worrying about the price, and buy it like he’s buying bread at Food Emporium. Like dropping all that money on something he doesn’t even need is nothing. I have to admit, having money makes life a lot more convenient. Living that way must feel so free.

Sitting with D on our new blanket in the middle of the crowd while the movie plays on a gigantic screen, I almost feel like a real New Yorker.

“Here.” D moves behind me, his legs bent on either side of me. “You can lean back.”

I lean on D. He puts his arms around me. I am safe and adored in his arms. How much of my attraction to him is only physical? How can I even tell? What I feel for D is greater than the sum of its parts. Maybe the important thing isn’t to figure out why I feel this way, but to accept that I do.

Later, when we’re leaving the park, D pulls me aside to kiss me. I can’t let myself feel the fireworks I imagined our first kiss would bring. Not while it’s still hard for me to be intimate with a boy. But his kiss comes with a promise that things will only get better.





TWENTY-FIVE

SADIE


WHAT’S BETTER THAN BEING AT Coffee Shop with my roommates at two in the morning, eating pancakes and talking boys?

I mean, men. We’re with men now.

When Darcy came here with Zander in the middle of the night, she resolved to bring me and Rosanna back for late-night pancakes. I’ve always loved Coffee Shop. A few times I’ve walked by late at night and seen tons of people in here. I wished I was cool enough to be one of them. Darcy is definitely cool enough. And now, by one degree of Darcy, so are we. As soon as we were seated in the big curvy booth, I immediately proclaimed Coffee Shop at two in the morning to be our summer ritual.

Rosanna wasn’t feeling it at first. She said we should go without her.

Darcy was like, “I’m going to have to insist on your presence. We’re building memories here.”

Rosanna was still reluctant. She agreed to come, but she thinks it’s too late to make this into a ritual. Spoken like a classic morning person. Then the pancakes came and the conversation got good and she warmed right up to that invigorating friends high. She still doesn’t get why it’s more fun to come here so late. But as long as we come on a Friday or Saturday night moving forward, she’s in.