31
The air in the city is hot and humid and smells like car exhaust and garbage. The streets are teeming with people, including
a family of tourists who practically shove me and my suitcases off the sidewalk in their haste to get to Starbucks, and it’s
so loud I can hardly hear the scary guy with the angry political sign screaming obscenities at me. It’s chaos—total chaos—and
it’s scary and intimidating and brilliant .
Don’t get me wrong, I’m still totally torn up about leaving John. Part of me wishes he’d never come over last night, that
I could have left when things were tense and angry. It would be easier to deal with than this strange, squicky feeling I have
now, one that feels eerily close to uncertainty. But I can’t give in to that. I need to focus, instead, on the immense, shiny
buildings looming overhead, and the laughter of a group of girls my age passing by on the sidewalk, and the feel of the bright
New York sun beating down on my skin.
As I wait for the lady at the NYU admissions office to get my dorm keys, I watch people walk by on the street. Even in the sweltering midsummer heat, everyone seems to be moving purposefully from place to place, striding along the hot pavement as though they don’t have a second to waste. It couldn’t be more different from Waldon, where some of the locals’ favorite activities include sitting on a park bench and watching the ocean, sitting on a park bench and watching traffic go by, and sitting on a park bench watching absolutely nothing.
My dorm room is small but clean, and eerily similar to my old dorm at university. It’s like I’ve gone back in time, like I’ve
hit the reset button on my own life.
I don’t want to unpack right now because I have a feeling if I stop moving my grief will catch up with me, so instead I just
dump my suitcases in my room, change out of my grimy travel clothes, and head back out onto the streets. I’m not even going
to look at a map, I’m just going to wander around and stare.
Every corner seems to hold something interesting to look at, whether it’s a gorgeous building or a cute little park or a group
of models decked out in head-to-toe Chanel. Some of it is kind of scary, like a group of guys that leer at me and a woman
hissing nasty things at strangers, but as long as I keep walking, I can keep my nerves at bay. I’m like a shark. As long as
I keep moving, I won’t drown.
The shiny newness of the city keeps me going until late afternoon, but by the time I make it back to my dorm, I’m sweaty and
sunburned and my feet are two solid blocks of pain. I sit down on my unmade bed with a thump. I briefly consider ordering
a pizza for dinner, but that would be staying still, and staying still is death. Instead, I dig a summer dress and cardigan
out of my suitcase and look up the fanciest restaurant within walking distance. My parents transferred two hundred dollars
to my bank account as an early birthday present and ordered me to spend it all on a good meal.
I wind up at a restaurant called Frost, a small, ultramodern place with deep-blue lighting and white velvet booths tucked between faux ice sculptures. I hardly recognize a thing on the menu, so I pick something at random and order something called an Ice Melt cocktail to sip on while I wait. It’s absolutely gorgeous, a very pale-blue liquid with a single ice cube in the shape of an iceberg in a fancy glass with a sugary rim. I take a sip—yikes, that’s strong—and rest my chin on my hands, letting my eyes move over the restaurant. It’s really early, barely six o’clock, so it’s not that busy, but there are a group of young girls nearby dressed in cocktail dresses and an elderly woman with a heavy silver necklace sitting alone. Her hands tremble slightly as she takes a sip of her water, and I wonder if she has someone to help her at home. For a moment, I think about doing a little caregiving work here in New York.
Then I shake my head and take another sip of my drink. There’s no way I want to mess around with US healthcare. If one of
my clients fell and broke their hip here, their family would probably sue me for negligence. John’s mother has a friend who
works as an obstetrician somewhere in the States, and when she told me how much he pays in malpractice insurance, it literally
made me sick to my stomach.
Plus, I’m not going to have time to do any caregiving. I’m going to be way too busy with classes, and my internship, and my
duties as dorm supervisor. In fact, my life will be so exciting and full, I doubt I’ll even have time to think about Waldon
or John. The days will fly by, and before long I’ll be like, John who?
I take another sip of my drink. While I’m just sitting here, waiting for my food, I may as well do today’s Wordle.
FROST, I type in.
The R is green, the O is yellow.
My gaze wanders the restaurant again. At the table nearest me, the group of girls are giggling as they give the handsome waiter
their order.
ORDER, I type.
Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. The O is yellow, the R is green, the E is yellow, and the second R is yellow. That means it has to be—
ERROR, I type in.
Crap.
It’s right.
I really hope that’s not the universe’s way of telling me I’ve made a mistake.
But it can’t be a mistake. It just isn’t possible. This is the start of my new, exciting life. In ten years, when I’m a curator
at some fabulous museum in London and I’m married to some gorgeous British guy who’s absolutely nothing like John, we’ll be
sitting in our white-marble kitchen one day and I’ll tell him this story and say, “Can you believe I almost gave all of this
up?” And he’ll laugh and say, “Yeah, for some mechanic in Nowhereville.” And then I’ll say, “It wasn’t Nowhereville , asshole, it was Waldon, PEI, and that mechanic was a million times better than you’ll ever be—”
Wait.
No, that last bit’s wrong.
I sigh heavily just as my food arrives.
“Everything okay?” the waiter asks. He’s the same handsome waiter that the other table was giggling over, and his expression is warm and interested. Call it intuition, but I can just tell that if I say something witty right now, he’ll banter back and maybe even wind up asking for my phone number.
“Mm-hmm,” I say instead, lowering my eyes. The interest in his gaze falls away, and he retreats with a polite, impartial smile.
I stare down at my meal. It looks delicious—a glazed piece of fish and tiny little vegetables drizzled artfully with a pale-green
sauce—but I’ve kind of lost my appetite. I make myself finish it all, but when the waiter comes to ask if I want dessert,
I shake my head and ask for the bill.
It’s still bright and hot outside, but I head back to my dorm room and set about unpacking. Maybe if I set up my new room,
it’ll start feeling like my new home. I leave my door open, just in case any other students are around, but three hours pass
and no one walks by. The lady I got the keys from said the dorms are basically empty this time of year. Most of the students
won’t arrive for another month.
At ten o’clock, I give up and close my door. I sit at the little desk and stare out the window, which overlooks the street.
People are still striding by purposefully, but the scene doesn’t seem nearly as compelling as it did earlier. In fact, just
for a second, the city seems loud and kind of exhausting.
I take out my phone and open my texts. My thumb briefly hovers over John’s name, but I force myself not to click on it. Instead,
I email my parents to tell them about the meal I had and wish them a safe flight home from New Zealand, and then answer Rose’s
cheerful text asking if I’ve arrived safely.
A few minutes later, my phone dings, but it isn’t my mom or Rose.
[10:07] Kiara: Hope NYC is good so far.
[10:07] Kiara: We all miss you.
My eyes well up unexpectedly. I look up at the ceiling and blink quickly until the tears go away.
[10:08]: I miss you all too.
I hesitate, then type again.
[10:09]: This really sucks.
[10:10] Kiara: I know.
[10:10] Kiara: But you have to do what’s best for you.
[10:10] Kiara: Sorry I was kind of weird the last time we met.
[10:11] Kiara: I’m just really going to miss you. ?
[10:11]: It’s okay.
[10:12]: I’m going to miss you too.
I send a heart emoji, then I put my phone down and press the heels of my hands into my eyes. The ache in my throat is so fierce I feel sick. But I’m not going to break down. I’m not going to spend my first night here crying. I’m not, I’m not .
I force myself to look out the window again. Look at those lights. Listen to the sound of this city.
I’m going to be happy here.
I am.