You Are Not Alone(57)

I’ve asked him two questions. That was deliberate, to keep the conversation going.

I dig into my hummus plate, suddenly ravenous. While I crunch on a carrot stick, I begin to scroll through photos of other available men who meet the parameters I set: between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty-eight, single, within twenty miles of me, and seeking a serious relationship.

It’s unbelievable how many there are: So many guys want the same thing I do. I’ve probably passed a few of them on the street or stood next to them in line at the deli or on the subway. There could even be one in this bar.

Some universally known signals indicate when people are off the market—an engagement ring, a wedding band, even a claddagh ring—but no similar items let the world know you’re looking.

I scroll through more photos. Quite a few guys are appealing, even after I’ve discounted the ones in muscle shirts flexing, or others who seem to be trying to show off their status by standing next to expensive cars or boats.

I read through dozens of profiles. Some are funny, some are straightforward, and a lot are so spare they’re little more than biographical details.

But no other seems as attractive as Ted.

Just as I think this, the cupid icon bursts onto my screen. One!

I quickly click on the number, and the moment I see Ted has replied, I realize that’s exactly what I was hoping for.

Shay, that’s a tough one, but I’m an equal opportunity pizza connoisseur. Anything but anchovies. So where’s your favorite place to get pizza? I’m pretty new to New York—I just moved here from Colorado a couple of months ago—and I’m still trying to learn more about the city. Kind of a culture shock, but I like it, even though my current apartment is the size of my old closet, haha.

I feel my lips curve into a smile. Ted only waited about fifteen minutes before responding. I like that; he isn’t playing games. And if he just moved here from Colorado, he probably doesn’t know many people. Maybe he’s lonely, too.

I’m not going to play games either. Still, I wait until I’ve finished my wine before writing back.

I totally agree with you about the anchovies. Who puts fish on pizza?;) My favorite place to go is Grimaldi’s in Brooklyn—classic thin crust. You’ve got to try it if you haven’t already.

I hesitate, thinking about what to write next. I could ask him more about his job, but I don’t want to make him feel like his occupation or income level is important to me.

So I continue, I’ve only visited Colorado once, when I went skiing with my college roommate and her family. It was so beautiful. I’d love to go back someday.

Ask him another question, I remind myself. I look at his pictures again—he seems even more appealing now—and notice he’s got a coffee mug by his left hand in one of them.

I write, Are you a lefty?

Then I backspace over it. I don’t want him to think I’ve been scrutinizing his pictures. I’m so new at this; I don’t know what the rules are.

I play it safe, choosing this question: Do you ski?

Then I hit Send.

I pay my bill and step back outside. It’s even colder now, and completely dark, but the city feels vibrant. I wonder where Ted is right now; maybe in his closet-size apartment. Or maybe he’s still at his office. He could be in any of the buildings I pass.

Knowing he’s around makes the city seem smaller, somehow, in a good way.

Superstitions aren’t logical, but I can’t help playing a little game with myself: If I don’t check my phone until I get back to my apartment, he’ll have written back.

I reach home, and as soon as I’ve slipped off my coat and shoes, I take out my phone.

Ted has written back. He asked two questions of his own:

How about we continue this conversation in person? Can we meet for a drink Friday night?





CHAPTER FORTY-ONE



AMANDA


Two months ago

A TRICKLE OF BLOOD ran down Amanda’s shin.

She cursed and reached for her washcloth, pressing it against the small cut, then turned off the shower. She’d rushed while shaving her legs because she was late. Just as she’d been getting ready to end her shift, a delivery truck had rear-ended the back of the Explorers Camp bus on the FDR. A half dozen kids had been rushed to the ER with injuries ranging from whiplash to bruises to the most severe, a fractured wrist and possible concussion. She couldn’t leave with crying children filling up exam rooms as parents flooded in.

It was the worst possible time for the bus accident.

She’d stayed an extra hour, comforting a little boy whose arm was in a sling, until the boy’s father arrived. She snuck the child a lollipop on her way out the door, feeling guilty that she’d rushed through the release paperwork.

She was due at a bar called Twist near the northern part of Central Park in a little over an hour. She was going to be late.

Normally, if she was heading out for a night on the town, she’d style her hair, creating gentle waves around her shoulders. But now she quickly blow-dried it before pinning it in a loose twist. She spent precious time on her makeup, applying tinted moisturizer and darkening her brows with a light brown pencil. Luckily she’d already picked out her outfit: a wheat-colored sundress with wide shoulder straps, gold hoop earrings, flat sandals, and a small purse.

She filled it with a burner phone, some cash, a credit card, and a pair of black cat-eye glasses with clear, nonprescription lenses, since her vision was perfect. She opened the cabinet beneath her bathroom sink and reached behind the extra toilet paper, feeling around until her fingers closed on the little plastic mouthwash bottle. She double-checked that the cap was secured before she slipped it into her bag.