I so do.
Goodbye, past. Hello, present.
Ten fast, fantastic years later, I’ve moved out of that first windowless, condiment-scented coffin and into a one-bedroom on the Upper West Side.
Bonuses include a window, the smell of lilacs, and the blissful absence of eight-legged creepy crawlies.
I’ve worked my way up to a better job, and I’m making more moolah and loving life in my favorite place on Earth.
This city.
I have oodles of friends, loads of inspiration, and a ton of found family.
After years of feeling a little bit lost, New York is now my home.
I’m ready for whatever’s around the corner.
Ideally, it might include a four-letter word like, gasp, love.
Then, one morning I walk into my office, and I learn that the real dirty word is next.
1
HEATH
I’ve become resigned to the meager offerings on the new-release shelf in my neighborhood bookshop, disappointed by both the number and content. I pick up today’s featured contender—a photo book of the most social-media-ready spots in all of London, compiled by, let’s see, a quartet of Instagrammers.
Great.
I scoff as I flip through the pages. It’s like every top-five London list ever—Big Ben, the Tower of London, Tower Bridge, blah, blah, blah. So many unique views in this city, and not one of them included.
Missed this great spot. Missed that great spot.
I snap the book closed in disgust.
“Something displeases you, Heath?” The question comes from Nigel, the shopkeeper.
I glance his way and see that he hasn’t even looked up from the counter.
“About this?” I hold up the offending book. “That’d be . . . wait for it . . . just about everything.”
“Then you should grab the green book next to it. It has you written all over it.”
I give him a side-eye, but it’s wasted. Nigel’s attention doesn’t stray from his tablet. I step closer to the counter so I can see the screen where he swipes at numbers in boxes on the screen. “Can’t you have the decency to do Sudoku with an actual pencil? And, say, on paper? Like, in a book, with pages?”
Nigel shakes his shaved head. Not a speck of hair covers his gleaming skull. “Nope.”
I harrumph and turn back to the shelf, then recoil when I spot a mint green paperback the size of a deck of cards. And the author is . . . the wit and wisdom of Twitter. “Seriously? You’re peddling this tripe? It’s not really a book. It’s a collection of inspirational quotes curated from a social media feed. I bet it has pictures of sunsets, and teacups with steam rolling off them, and twinkling chili-pepper lights strategically hung on doorways.”
At last, Nigel raises his face. He flashes me a toothy grin, pearly white against his dark skin. “And it sells like half-off tickets to a strip club in Leicester Square.”
I don’t have to open it to know I’m right, but I do, shaking my head as I ingest the bland banalities. Follow your dreams; today is a gift; embrace the future. “Books are for stories. Any kind of story. Adventure, romance, mystery, horror. Or for useful information. But this? This is just regurgitated musings on taking a bath at the end of the day or drinking wine when coffee won’t do the trick. I could find all of this insight on the internet like that,” I say, snapping my fingers and reshelving the excuse for a book.
Nigel’s eyes widen in exaggerated surprise. “You know how to use the internet? Miracles abound every day.”
“It’s that thing where you type in any question, right? Like, ‘Why is everyone an arsehole today?’”
“Now that would be a good book. Hmm. . .” He scratches his jaw. “Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure we’ve got that very title right behind the new biographies.”
And I’m pretty sure he’s taking the piss out of me. “Is that so?”
“Yes, behind the bio of that reality show socialite.” He snaps his fingers as if to jog his memory. “The one who had a boob job. Or . . . wait . . . was it arse implants? Something got bigger, something got smaller, someone was sued, someone’s a twat. Take a look behind it. You’ll find the book you’re looking for.”
I fold my arms and stare him down. “Why not just tell me what’s at the end of this scavenger hunt?”
Finally, Nigel clears his throat and returns his attention to his puzzle, giving in and muttering, “There’s a new Trevor Masters. It’s fantastic. You’ll find it tucked behind the bio, you fucking prick.”
Oh, that is indeed the one I want.
I move the torrid tell-all aside. Nothing wrong with tell-alls, but it’s not what I came for. My grin broadens with satisfaction when I find the prize. “I knew you were holding on to something good. Admit it—you tucked this nugget away just for me.”
He scoffs. “I did nothing of the sort. I saw it there and couldn’t be bothered to move it.”