City Love(57)

“Are you single?” Carrie asks.

“Yes and I am loving it, thank you.”

“That’s a great outlook. I wish I felt as positive as you. I’ve been single for three years. And I’m only twenty-three. What a waste.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is when I should be in a relationship. When I’m young and we can do whatever we want. But it’s more than that. I want a boyfriend.”

“Why?”

“I guess I want the sense of security a long-term relationship will bring.”

“But isn’t it fun to be single and date around?”

“I think it’s awesome that you’re having fun. I’m just in a different place. Dating around was fun for a while, but freedom is overrated. I want to have someone I can count on. Someone to go out with on Saturday nights and be my plus-one at events. Someone who wants to share his life with me. I just want to find my person and know that he will always be there for me, no matter what.”

This is not the Carrie I know. The Carrie I know would never say that freedom is overrated. She’d love the potential adventure an uncertain future holds. It’s only been a year since Italy. She was a wild child like me back then. Now she wants stability. What happened to her?

“Sorry for the rambling,” Carrie says. “I’ve been kind of . . . lonely. Not lonely in a friends way. My friends are amaztastic. Lonely in that way where you’re tired of waiting to meet him, you know?”

I nod. I get what she’s saying. We’re just in very different places.

Jude is the type of guy Carrie is looking for. Devoted. Adoring. Supportive. Any girl would be lucky to have him as her person.

Including me.

I would be lucky to have Jude as my person.

What Carrie’s saying clicks with a part of me that’s been buried. The part of me that used to hope and dream and was certain that people are inherently good, including men.

That part of me isn’t buried as deep as I thought it was. That part of me wants to feel how good it would be to hope again.





TWENTY-SEVEN

ROSANNA


OUR UPSTAIRS NEIGHBORS ARE AT it again. Moving furniture or break-dancing or whatever. I really don’t need this stress right now. Getting ready to go out with D is stressful enough.

Refraining from poking my eye with the mascara wand would help.

My hand is shaking. That’s how stressed I am. Last night I was stressing over paying at Coffee Shop, which is why I didn’t want to go. But Darcy wasn’t hearing it when I told them to go without me. My covert frugal approach was to order the least expensive thing on the menu (two eggs any style, comes with home fries and toast) and just drink water. Sadie and Darcy got pancakes. I wanted pancakes too, but they were four dollars more than the eggs. That’s four bagel dinners. So I stuck with the eggs, despite their protests. I made up a lie on the spot about needing more protein. While they were ordering, I mentally calculated their shares, freaking out that we might end up splitting the bill three ways. Covering a third of their extravagant beverage and side choices (and then a third of the higher tip) would have been a problem. My share was $8.00, plus 20% of eight for the tip. About $9.50. I had a ten-dollar bill and really wanted my fifty cents back, but the girls would have thought I was even more of a freak asking for fifty cents. Fortunately Sadie took charge when the bill came. She said that everyone should pay for what they ordered.

I give myself a hard look in the mirror. My hair is frizzing out from the humidity. Why can’t my hair just be normal like all the other polished women I see on the street? Better yet, why can’t my hair be straight? Straightening wavy hair with various tools and products is not the same thing. Girls with straight hair are always saying how they wish they had my hair. They ooh and aah over the volume, the texture, the waves. But I am so over trying to tame my hair. Especially considering that I have to leave in ten minutes or I’ll be late and I’m nowhere near ready. D cannot see me with frizzy hair.

I wipe specks of mascara from under my eye, trying not to worry about the time. Between racing against the clock, the relentless humidity despite the old air conditioner chugging away at full speed, and my dumbass upstairs neighbors, I’m a hot mess. Sweaty pits plus frizzy hair does not equal a sexy date. Seriously, what are they doing up there? Throwing each other off the couch? Every boom of the ceiling makes the walls shake and my adrenaline soar.

Boom boom boom BOOM.

Enough.

I dash to the front closet for the broom. As much as I’d like to stomp to the front closet, I reel in my frustration. Irritating my downstairs neighbors the way the elephants upstairs have irritated me would not be good karma. I’m about to attempt something I’ve never done before that I’m not sure will work. There’s a chance it will provoke one of the elephants to pound on my door, further sabotaging my date with D. I should have left five minutes ago. But this needs to be done. If I don’t take a stand, who will?

I stand on the couch, clutching the broom with the top of the broomstick close to the ceiling. When a surge of pounding erupts above me, I pound on the ceiling with the broom.

The elephants are startled into silence.

At this point I am so late that checking the time would be scarier than getting caught outside at dusk in I Am Legend. I can’t look. All I can do is run and hope that D won’t be waiting too long.