Still, that’s not why I’m here, I remind myself. I’m here to write. Except that’s not really happening either, is it?
I sag against my pillow with a weighted sigh.
“You okay?” Emily asks, leaning closer to the screen.
“I don’t know. I’m so grateful for Cat and Geoff. But… I’ve hardly written anything. What if moving here was a mistake?”
“What? No way.” She shakes her head. “You just need to give it some time. It’s only been a few weeks! Of course you haven’t written anything. You’re probably still dealing with the culture shock and getting settled in. Once you’re more settled, you’ll write. But I think moving there was such a good thing for you.”
“My mother doesn’t think so,” I mutter, sipping my tea. She’s been calling non-stop and I’ve been avoiding her. I’ve texted her so she knows I’m alive, but with everything up in the air regarding my living situation I just felt like I couldn’t face her.
Emily snorts. “I know. She’s been calling me to check in.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. She wanted to see if I’d heard from you because you haven’t called her—which I totally get. You’re doing your own thing and she doesn’t understand that.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“She asked me to try and convince you to come home,” Emily admits. “She said you’re living in a fantasy world.”
“Seriously? What did you say?”
“I told her it was your choice and we shouldn’t interfere.”
I think back to the conversation I overheard the morning after my birthday, but instead of feeling upset, irritation shoots through me. I’ve moved all the way over here and got a job, made new friends—and now, thankfully, I have somewhere nice to live. How can she keep saying I’m living in a fantasy when I’m here, making it a reality?
Determination solidifies in my chest. Emily’s right; I was getting settled in and adjusting to everything. But now, I can commit to my writing. I might not be reeling in the men over here, but that’s fine. In fact, I think Cat’s suggestion was good. Being single is the thing I need to help me find my writing focus, at least for now. Maybe in the future I can date again, but right now the idea makes me want to scream.
I wrap up the call with Emily and sign into my blog, scrolling back through my old posts. They’re from a few years ago, and as I reread them, I can see the optimism in old Alex—the belief that Prince Charming was out there. And I think again of Travis, of how I’d convinced myself that he and I had a future, and how he’s with someone else now.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I delete all my old posts and give my blog a new name: Single in the City.
Then I open up a spreadsheet and start making a list of every online magazine, website and blog that I want to contribute to, so I can contact them. It’s time to put in the work and start taking this seriously.
I’m here to write, and I’m not going to let anything stop me.
13
My finger hovers over the “unfollow” button and, despite myself, I hesitate. I should have unfollowed Travis when we broke up, but because he never posts anything it didn’t occur to me. Well, he started posting, alright. That’s the problem with people getting all bloody loved-up—they want to share every sordid detail with the world. And if I have to look at one more picture of Travis with the new “love of his life,” I’m going to vomit.
With a deep sigh, I tap “unfollow” and toss my phone onto the kitchen counter. I don’t love how this whole thing played out, but I think it was the push I needed. After learning about Travis a week ago, I’ve been writing my ass off and reaching out to websites that I think would appreciate my writing. I considered asking Cat to give me Mel’s number, since she said she worked for a women’s website, but it seemed a bit forward to be asking her for favors, especially after everything Cat and Geoff have already done for me. Anyway, it feels good to be taking control of this and doing it on my own—even if no one has replied yet.
I pull the fridge open, contemplating my dinner options, and there’s a clatter out in the foyer. When I look through the peephole, Agnes is coming in out of the cold November air. She has a black and white hounds-tooth coat over her slightly stooped shoulders. I step into the lobby and my eyes land on a bag of groceries spilled across the floor.
“Hello, dear.”
I gesture to the groceries. “Can I help?”
She gives me an appreciative smile. “If you don’t mind.”
I gather her things into her carry bag and wander with her towards the stairs. She reaches a thin arm out for the bag and I’m about to hand it to her, then stop. “I’ll carry them up, if you like?”
“That would be lovely. Thank you.”
I sling her groceries over my arm and we begin to climb slowly, me helping her as we go.
“So, how are you liking New York?”
“I love it.” It’s true: after everything I’ve been through getting settled in over here, I do love the city itself. Sure, it can be smelly and dirty, it can be noisy and overwhelming. But it just has this energy, this life that pulses beneath my feet. And even though it’s starting to feel familiar I also, paradoxically, don’t think I’ll ever get used to the feeling of living in such a magical place.
“That’s good,” Agnes says as we step onto the second floor landing and turn up the next set of stairs. “I do love it here. This building has been my home for thirty-seven years now and I wouldn’t live anywhere else.”
I’m overcome with questions, wanting to
