I’ve been sitting with this feeling over the past couple weeks, not turning to my usual distraction devices, like tequila—in case I accidentally put down a deposit on a penthouse in Paris, or something—and I think it’s not so much about Travis as it is about all men. About dating, and wanting to meet someone, and failing. I’m still single after ten committed years of trying to meet my other half. Sure, I’ve had boyfriends, but each time I’ve hoped it would lead to happily ever after, it only led to disappointment.
Case in point: Travis.
Although now that I’ve had the distance of two weeks—and thousands of miles—I can see things with Travis more clearly. And the fact that I even imagined there could be a fairy-tale ending there shows me how deluded I’ve been. Which makes me think my mother is right.
And now that I’m thirty it’s all starting to feel a bit pathetic. I might not have much control over whether or not I fall in love, but I can take back control of my career, and that’s why I’m here in the city.
“I don’t know if I want to meet anyone right now,” I say, staring down into my wineglass. “I came here to focus on my career. I’d always wanted to live here and write. I’m sort of… a writer. Well, I want to be.”
“Wow.” Cat raises her eyebrows. “That’s awesome. And I can’t believe you just packed up and moved here to do that. That takes real guts.”
She’s right, actually. It did take guts. Or rather, it took me being so drunk I didn’t know what I was doing, then feeling like I couldn’t back out without looking like an idiot and losing thousands of dollars. Which, you know, is pretty much the same thing.
The glass of wine has gone straight to my head after not eating all day and being jet-lagged. I lean back on the sofa, enjoying the warm buzz as it spreads through my body. Then a thought occurs to me and I sit up with alarm. “Where’s your dog?”
Cat laughs. “You mean Stevie?”
“Stevie?”
“Yeah.” She grins. “Stevie Nicks. She’s with Mark, my ex. We share custody.” She makes a face.
“Oh.” I relax back onto the sofa with a chuckle. “I was worried for a moment.”
Cat ponders me over her wine glass. “You’re really nice. I feel awful about how shitty I was to you earlier. Will you let me take you out, to make it up to you?”
“You’re letting me stay here for the night. You don’t have to make it up to me,” I say. Her face falls and I feel bad. “But I’d love to go out,” I add, even though I’m still exhausted.
Her eyes light up. “Great!”
I groan inwardly at all the effort it will require, but my mouth twitches into a smile. My first night in New York and we’re going out! Maybe it will be fun.
Now I just have to find something to wear and wash twenty hours of travel off me.
5
“My brother owns Bounce,” Cat says, locking the front door behind us. “It’s kind of a dive, but we get cheap drinks.” She drops her keys into her bag, turning to me. “You want to walk? It’s only twenty minutes.”
“Sure.”
Big mistake. I’d forgotten how fast she walks, and by the end of the block I’m nearly breathless from trying to keep up with her. Fuck, I’m going to have to get much fitter to survive this city.
We stride along Waverly Place and my head is spinning in the evening light, taking in everything: the clink of cutlery from restaurants that open out onto the sidewalk, the smell of pizza cooking in a stone-oven, the conversations from people passing by, the multitude of yellow cabs honking in the evening traffic. All around me the city feels alive, like it is living and breathing on its own beneath my feet, and I feel a thrill that I’m here, part of this.
We stop quickly at Washington Square Park and I stare up at the arch in wonder, before Cat hurries me along. As we head across Broadway, Lafayette and Bowery, I notice how the rows of residential brick buildings give way to bigger, more commercial buildings, and the narrow avenues open out onto big, busy intersections. It’s not long until we’re in the East Village, where the buildings are similar to the West Village but not as tidy, not quite as fancy. It has a funky vibe and, despite my jet-lag, I’m excited to be out, the pulse of the city filling me with renewed energy.
“I’ll grab us drinks,” Cat says over the music as we push into Bounce. “You find a table.”
I check out the crowded room, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the low lighting. The place is packed three-deep to the bar, which runs down the left hand side. The right wall is exposed brick, lined with tables and red vinyl booths—not one of which is free.
“Where?” I ask, turning back towards Cat, but she’s already making her way to the bar.
Right, okay. Find a seat somewhere. I can do that.
But as I glance around, that prickly feeling of self-consciousness crawls over me again, like it did in Starbucks. I feel as if everyone can sense I don’t belong here. I know this isn’t a classy bar, but the women just look different from the women back home—more cool, more comfortable with themselves, more at ease. I have the strong urge to turn and run back to the apartment.
No, I tell myself. This is my first night in New York, and I’m not going to run away just because
