“Right,” I say, pulling out a wad of bills. God, they all look so similar. I sense someone approach the counter behind me and turn to see the same handsome businessman from earlier, a sandwich in one hand, his head bowed as he’s engrossed in something on his phone. He glances up to see me ahead of him again and heaves out a sigh, shoving his phone in his pocket.
“Can I just pay for this?” he asks Dave, right over my head.
Heat sweeps across my cheeks. I might not fit in with this New York crowd, but how bloody rude to act like I’m not even here.
Dave’s eyes dart between the two of us. “Uh…”
I thrust some bills onto the counter, taking my coffee. Flustered, I spin around to get out of the guy’s way just as he steps up to the counter. But I’ve turned the wrong way and our bodies collide: my head hitting his chest, his foot crushing my toe.
And crumpled between us, in my hand, is the paper cup that held my coffee.
I gasp as the hot liquid soaks into the front of my dress, scalding my stomach. That’s when I notice it’s soaking into the businessman’s crisp, white shirt too.
Oh God.
I glance up into his deep brown eyes. His face is seething with fury, as if I somehow did this on purpose.
“Shit. I’m so sorry,” I stammer, my heart thudding hard. I pull my dress away from my skin, trying to ignore the burning sensation through the thin fabric.
He takes a handful of napkins from the counter and attempts to mop up his shirt, cursing under his breath. His jaw is clenched like he’s trying to stop himself from yelling at me.
Mortified, I grab a napkin and dab at his shirt, attempting to stop the stain from spreading, because—good God, that’s a firm stomach. I pat at the stain, following it down his torso where the liquid has spread, mentally cursing myself. I should have been more careful, I should have—
He leaps back, shooting me a look of surprise.
Whoops. Perhaps I went a little low with the napkin there. Accidentally, of course. It’s not like I was trying to go feeling around his crotch.
“Fuck. Sorry,” I mumble again, my face flaming. This could not get any worse.
He huffs, pulling out his wallet to pay for his sandwich.
I really do feel bad. He could have been more patient, sure, but I didn’t do this on purpose. And now he’ll have to wear a stained shirt to his board meeting or whatever.
“Here.” I take the pen off the counter and write down my number on a napkin. “Please, send me the dry cleaning bill.” I hold the napkin out to him and mop at my own soggy dress with another, wincing as I pat against my stinging skin.
He snorts. “Dry cleaning? You’re kidding. I’m going to need a new shirt.”
I gulp. A new shirt for him will probably cost the same as my apartment deposit. I open my mouth to protest, but he’s glaring at me and I shrivel. “Okay,” I squeak. “Send me the bill.”
He snatches the napkin, glowering. “Fine.” And with that he strides out of the coffee shop.
Dave hands me a fistful of napkins and a new coffee. I give him a weary smile and retreat to my table, thoroughly humiliated.
Sipping my coffee and mopping at my dress, I sigh. This is so far from how I wanted my first day to go, I’m on the verge of tears.
The door swings open and a short woman with chin-length gray-blond hair, ripped black jeans and chunky combat boots steps in. A tiny pug dog follows in after her and she scoops it up into her arms before surveying the coffee shop. Her eyes land on me and my suitcases, and she heads over.
“Alex?”
I nod.
“I’m Cat. I came as quickly as I could.”
4
Finally, a friendly face.
I’m so relieved to see Cat, I have to hold myself back from throwing my arms around her. “Thank you. Oh my God, it’s been a nightmare, I’m so sorry Emily had to bother you…” I start rambling, but she holds up a hand.
“It’s okay, I understand,” she says brusquely. “But I have to get back to the shop, so can we go?”
“Oh. Of course.” I rush to gather my things, knocking over one of my suitcases which nearly crashes into the table next to me. I try to apologize but Cat is already marching out the door and I scramble after her.
“I just live a few blocks from here,” she calls over her shoulder, her short legs moving fast. The little pug trots along beside her and my luggage bumps over the pavement as I struggle to keep up.
Even though we’re powering along, I can’t help but take in everything around me. The streets are short, all one way, criss-crossing over one another. Some are even cobblestoned, lined with trees and brick townhouse-style apartment buildings, steps leading up off the footpaths—no, sidewalks. That’s what they call them here. And being mid-October, the ground is covered in a layer of orange and yellow leaves. It’s kind of jarring after just being in spring back home, like I’ve somehow skipped summer. But I don’t mind. I love the way the West Village looks like something out of a movie, and—oh!—on some steps there are even pumpkins and Halloween decorations!
Despite the awful morning, I’m buzzing as we thread through the streets, hearing the distant sound of sirens. I can’t believe I’m actually here, in America—in New York. It’s like I’m walking through a dream, it’s so surreal.
We round a corner and stop outside a redbrick building with steps up to an arched doorway and a black fire escape zig-zagging down the front. It’s everything I’ve pictured a New York apartment to be and a thrill runs through me.
We
