CHAPTER FIVE
ELLE
“The hell are you grinning at?” A white-haired woman walking a fluffy apricot poodle shoots me a glare and clears the sidewalk as I pass. “Psycho!”
I resist a chuckle and continue making my way along West Fifty-Seventh, en route to a little coffee shop I’ve been wanting to try since last year but never could find the time since I was typically chained to my desk on the opposite side of town.
I’ve smiled at eight strangers so far this morning. Granted, it’s not a very “New York” thing to do, and they probably all think I’m certifiable, but that’s the whole point—I’m teaching myself not to care what people think. Smiling at passersby hurts no one. Sprinkling bits of kindness and humanity is the sort of thing we should all be doing.
“Morning.” I nod to an elderly gentleman, who spends half a second processing my greeting before his eyes spark. With a slight grin and a tip of his kelly-green fedora, he sends me on my way.
Warmth blooms in my chest as I continue on, squinting to read the street sign half a block down. To my left, a theater sign advertises a one-day-only sale on matinee tickets for some off-Broadway production I’ve never heard of. All these years I’ve lived in the city, I’ve maybe gone to a total of three shows, which is a shame.
It’s wild how a person can be surrounded by so much art and beauty and brilliance . . . only to forget that it’s there.
I stop at an automatic ticket machine and purchase a seat for the one-thirty showing of Unconditional Splendor, starring Lola Lourdes and featuring Billy Cordova. I don’t know who they are or what the show’s about, but I’ve no doubt it’ll be magnificent.
Pocketing my ticket, I head to the end of the block and turn left on Tenth. I toss a few more smiles at passing strangers—all ignored, not the end of the world—and continue past a quaint café that smells of cinnamon, cocoa, and fresh-brewed coffee. Seated across from one another at a corner table for two is a young couple holding hands among an assortment of water glasses and tea-light centerpieces. He hasn’t taken his eyes off her, and she hasn’t stopped blushing. For a moment, I’m reminded of my time with Matt—before I knew everything coming out of his mouth was a bald-faced lie.
I was still newish to the city when a handsome stranger bought me a drink and cozied up beside me at some trendy Lower Manhattan bar. Twelve years my senior, he worked in the financial district as a hedge fund manager, wore pricey tailored suits, towered over me at a perfect six feet two, and smelled like money and top-shelf cologne. He was charming and protective, and having grown up in the city, he loved nothing more than taking me under his wing and teaching me everything he thought I needed to know.
Unfortunately, in doing so, he left his mark all over my adopted stomping grounds.
Every restaurant, every shop, every park, every place we used to frequent now reeks of his memory. But my gripes are infinitesimal in comparison to what his wife must be going through. I can’t imagine building an entire life with someone only to have him take a steaming dump all over it.
I think of her often and what I would do if I ever ran into her again—though I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say that would change the circumstances or make her pain disappear. Sometimes I wonder if she thinks the same about me as well and what she might say if she were to see me again.
Peeling my attention from the lovey-dovey pair, I take a couple of steps only to realize my shoe has come unlaced. Shuffling to a park bench up ahead, I take a seat a couple of feet from a young sandy-haired girl in cutoff jeans and a floral crop top.
“Hi,” I say when I feel the unexpected weight of her watchful eyes.
Sniffing, she turns away . . . and I think nothing of it. The city is filled with Manhattanite progeny who ditch school to run amok on their parents’ dime. At least she has the street smarts to not talk to strangers.
Kudos, city girl.
“Hi.” A small voice offers a faint response.
Tugging the bow on my laces, I glance up—only to be met with mascara-streaked cheeks, a quivering lower lip slicked in cherry blossom lip gloss, and a set of glassy baby blues.
“Are you lost?” I sit up. She can’t be much more than fourteen, maybe fifteen.
She shakes her head.
“What’s wrong?” I angle toward her, crossing my legs and settling in.
“What isn’t wrong . . .” She huffs, dabbing a wayward tear with the back of her hand.
I refrain from informing her she reminds me of myself at that age—every setback was the end of the world, no matter how big or how small.