Chapter Eighteen
After a long, tearful goodbye with Angel, during which I may or may not commit to reuniting at a ski chalet in Zermatt (I can’t ski) and a Sub-Saharan African safari that would require three new vaccines (I’m afraid of needles), I gather my belongings.
As I pack my bag, I notice that Nico left a small notebook under his side of the bed, the very bed we shared just last night.
The ledger. It must have fallen out of his backpack when he left in a hurry.
Without thinking twice, I slip what feels like illegal cargo into my purse and embark on the next phase of my journey.
Armed with my brand-new, friend-provided MetroCard, I descend the subway stairs, doing everything I can to focus on the image of Ryke that I have in my head and not the feeling of Nico’s strong arms pushing my body down into the mattress.
Or the look of hurt on his face when he said I was still living in a fantasy.
Or the way something fundamental splintered inside me when he turned his back on me and walked away.
But you know what? Good riddance! Why should I care what a suddenly sweet-tongued Nico is doing?
Or, you know, who he’s doing it with? We spent one night together.
Our tryst was merely a chapter, a footnote.
Every romance protagonist needs a misleading blond-haired love interest before she finds her soul mate.
Granted, they’re usually patient and agreeable.
Golden retriever boyfriends. Sunshine and roses.
Everything Nico is not—and never has been.
But that’s, you know, beside the point.
I just hope it isn’t awkward the next time I see him at Sunday dinner.
I’m still mulling over these details as the train pulls into Grand Central and I scurry off with the rest of the commuters.
It’s still early enough that New York is hazy with a soft golden light.
People are lugging their sleepy, sluggish bodies to the office in anticipation of their first cups of coffee.
I take a moment to appreciate the ceiling of the terminal.
Painted in a chipped bright turquoise and adorned with gold embellishments, Grand Central boasts an astrological skyscape featuring several Grecian constellations: Aquarius, Aries, and Cancer, along with Orion, the hunter, and Pegasus, divine stallion of the gods, sired by Poseidon, horse god of the sea.
The latter reminds me so much of Ryke and Merriah.
Ryke.
Furnace help me. After years of obsessing and pining over my book boyfriend, I’m about to actually meet the man who inspired the myth. The legend. To shake his hand and feel that strong, calloused grip. To look into the golden orbs of his eyes.
Suddenly, nausea overtakes me. I run to a nearby trash can in case I actually hurl.
What if Ryan Mare doesn’t like what he sees?
Will he think I’m too much? Too loud? Too different?
Pull yourself together, Joon, I hear Nico whisper in my head.
You’re a force.
You are love.
I swallow, rolling my shoulders back and holding my head up high. Imaginary Nico is right. I have to do this, to see this through. If I turn around and give up now, I’ll always wonder: What if?
According to the ancient iPhone Roy lent me, Ryan Mare works in a glass building on Fortieth Street and Park Avenue, one of those gauche new towers that takes up an entire city block and ruins the New York skyline.
There’s a hideous sculpture of a twelve-foot-tall pink balloon animal parked right in the middle of the lobby and turnstiles that remind me of going through security at the airport.
The structure is cold and sterile, like the rest of the office buildings in the area.
Nothing like the warm charm of Mystic.
I station myself across the street like a certified stalker, sitting on the unassuming steps of a beautiful Gothic church, next to a Nuts 4 Nuts cart and a horde of pigeons.
I’m nursing a one-dollar coffee in a paper cup that resembles a Greek ceramic urn and claims to be happy to serve me.
I take this second nod to the Greek gods as a sign.
There’s no doubt about it. This is what I’m meant to be doing, where I’m supposed to be.
So I sit and wait for Ryan Mare.
I flip through a few pages of a discarded old copy of Vinyl magazine before I get bored and check the Salty Girls group chat instead.
No Ryan Mare.
I take out my copy of A Tale of Salt Water he’s quickly weaving through the crowds, clearly in a hurry. Maybe to save the world from a dark unknown force. Maybe to grab lunch.
I wait for it to set in: the unbelievable feeling of rightness, permeating my skin all the way down to my bones.
A clenching spasm in my gut and a lightness in my head.
Shaking hands and sweaty palms. A pulse in my core.
The unmistakable telltale markers of love at first sight as they’ve always been described to me in books.
But like the ancient, mythical maecena, it never comes.
All I feel, once the shock settles, is a sense of nostalgia. Of déjà vu. It’s as if I’ve spied an old childhood friend with whom I’ve lost touch or a family member who has been exiled from Thanksgiving. Seeing them again is surprising—comforting, even.
But it doesn’t send a tingle down my torso or make my breath catch.
Can this be it?
Could years of waiting for the perfect man culminate in such an anticlimactic moment?
A wave of panic washes over me as a new disturbing thought sets up camp in my brain: What now?
But you know what? No. I refuse to let this be the end of my story with Ryan Mare. I need to get closer. To engage him in conversation and hear the deep rumble of his voice. Maybe then, our bond will kick in.
My heart will recognize what it’s been missing.
What if your heart has been whole all along? Imaginary Nico asks.
“Shut up,” I mutter to absolutely nobody.
It’s decided, then. I need to see this through.
Love at first sight is an overrated trope anyway. Who the hell likes reading instalove?
Resolute, I collect my things and follow Ryan Mare down a quiet side street before I can change my mind.