Chapter 2
Chapter
In less than forty-eight hours, I’m on the first flight to JFK.
The book I brought sits untouched in my purse and I don’t bother to look at the selection of films “curated for my viewing pleasure.” If ever there’s a slight hint of turbulence, my fingernails dig into the armrests on either side of me.
Not because I’m a fearful flier, but because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.
It’s been five years since I’ve been in New York and as each minute goes by, this starts to feel more and more like a bad idea.
My first instinct was to reach out to Chloe, who lives in the city—well, Connecticut; don’t tell her I said they’re the same thing—but my trip is for only forty-eight hours and socializing is not on my agenda.
Not even with my best friend. Not because I don’t want to.
I want nothing more than to see Chloe and hang out like we used to.
Not to mention it would be actually much more economical to stay with her, take the train in, and save hundreds of dollars in hotel costs.
Believe me, I thought about it. But what comes with that is an explanation.
An explanation for why I’m out of a job…
again. An explanation for why I’m back in the city, and a real explanation for why I left.
My goal is to go in and out. Easy peasy, painless, like it never happened.
“We’ll begin our descent into JFK in twenty minutes,” I hear a muffled voice say on the intercom. “The local time is 1:13 p.m. For your safety and the safety of those around you, please remain seated with your seat belt fastened and keep the aisles clear until we are landed.”
My chest stings when the plane gently leans to our left and I catch a brief glimpse of the Manhattan skyline.
It’s just a mere moment, but it feels like I never left.
I’m that bright-eyed girl who left Toronto to study theater.
My days consisted of rehearsals and drama classes, my nights were filled with shifts at the local bookshop. That girl was hungry, and I miss her.
It’s not possible, but I swear I can hear whispers of the city’s rhythm beneath me. The buskers, the sound of subway tracks, the sirens wailing in harmony with the bustling traffic. As predicted, in no time the plane’s wheels touch the ground, and I’m back.
I’m back in New York.
I haven’t used public transportation in ages, and I’m not sure if I love or hate how naturally getting on the E train comes to me.
Like muscle memory. Though driving is something I had to get used to once I moved to Los Angeles, the alone time in bumper-to-bumper traffic slowly became second nature.
But sitting on the subway, I remember the way people are so exposed to one another here, how you can feel a sense of community.
My instinct is to get off at West Fourth Street and pick up a slice at Joe’s Pizza, one of my favorite spots on this side of town.
But I fight the urge, remembering I’m here for business, not pleasure.
Once I get to the hotel in Tribeca, comparable to your typical Hilton or Marriott, I’m assaulted by the clear snapshot of Manhattan from my room.
It’s a beautiful, sunny, late-September afternoon, and seeing the city from this high up, I find it’s easy to remember what the appeal is. Forcing myself to look away, I pull out a wool sweater from my carry-on and find the address Mara shared in her email.
It’s a modern building, clean, and with a mostly white interior. Very sterile. The elevator takes me up to the eighteenth floor, where I see the plaque on the wall that reads Bower I couldn’t tell you, because everything that’s happening is a blur, but somehow, I manage to stand up and turn around.
For the first time in five years, I’m face-to-face—well, face-to-chest—with Adam Harper.
The realization dawns on him, except the blood isn’t rushing to his face the way it is to mine.