Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Pippa
Stepping into Times Square is like stepping into a parallel universe designed by someone who overdosed on neon and chaos. I’ve seen it in countless movies, on postcards and prints, and even on the screensaver that used to pop up on my old computer.
But being here, in the flesh, is so different.
No picture can prepare anyone for this. It is like being swallowed up by electricity.
Every inch of the place pulses with light.
There are billboards stacked on top of more billboards.
Giant moving screens advertise everything from Broadway musicals to the latest cellphone upgrade.
The sky barely exists here because the buildings crowd upward, blocking it out, and their sides are plastered with more colors than my brain can register in one take.
And the noise. Dear god, the noise. Car horns blare, engines rumble, voices rise and collide in dozens of languages.
Street performers shout for attention. A guy in an Elmo suit waves at me like we’re old friends.
Music from a boombox bleeds into the opening chords of a busker’s guitar.
It’s pure chaos, madness, but it’s also amazing and alive, and I can’t help but be infected by the atmosphere of the place.
I feel giddy and light and excited, although I don’t know why.
I grip Rhett’s arm tighter than I mean to. “It’s like sensory overload squared added to an adrenaline rush times a thousand.”
He chuckles, his breath brushing my ear. “Welcome to the center of the universe.”
“It’s so much,” I say, wide-eyed. “It’s like Times Square is trying to eat me alive, but I think I like it.”
Rhett looks down at me, amused. “Stick with me, I’ll protect you.”
He takes my hand, and we move with the tide of bodies, the crowd sweeping us along.
People are snapping selfies everywhere, the glow of their screens reflecting off their faces.
A family poses in front of the giant Coca-Cola sign.
Two teenagers squeal and point at a Broadway marquee.
The smell of hot pretzels and roasted nuts drifts over to me from a vendor cart, tangling with the sharper scent of exhaust and city living that fills the air.
“Wait,” I say, tugging at his sleeve like an overexcited tourist, which, let’s face it, I totally am. “I need one of those pretzels. It’s basically a rule to buy one when in New York, right?”
“It sure is,” Rhett says, steering us toward the cart. “One pretzel, coming right up.”
He buys two. They’re warm, salty, and bigger than my head. I tear off a piece, chew, and practically melt on the spot.
“Oh my God. Why don’t the ones in London taste like this?”
“It’s the New York magic,” he says, deadpan, and takes a bite of his own.
We stand eating pretzels while the whole city whirls around us. I glance down at my ring again, unable to stop myself, and laugh.
“This is ridiculous. I’m eating street food in Times Square while wearing what must be the world’s most expensive piece of jewelry within a ten-mile radius. Talk about clashing aesthetics.”
Rhett winks. “You pull it off perfectly. Classy meets chaotic. It’s very on-brand.”
“On-brand?” I arch an eyebrow. “What brand is that, exactly?”
“The Pippa brand. Trademark pending.”
I roll my eyes sarcastically, but I can’t keep from grinning.
We wander further, weaving past a crowd gathered around a break dancer spinning on his head.
A woman in glittery angel wings poses for tips while a guy in a knock-off superhero costume flexes for photos.
I keep turning in circles, trying to drink it all in at once.
It’s messy and loud and absolutely different than anything I’ve ever experienced.
At some point, Rhett fishes out his cell phone and holds it up in front of us.
“Smile, dear fiancée.”
I make a face. “Ugh, do I have to?”
“Yes. Documentation purposes. Come on.”
I sigh dramatically, then lean into him, posing my hand so the diamond catches every ounce of light. He snaps a handful of selfies, but when I check them, I burst out laughing.
“We look so obnoxious, like one of those couples who everyone hates because they are disgustingly loved up.”
“That’s the goal,” Rhett says, clearly pleased. “Couple of the Year.”
I scroll again and pause on one of the pictures where I’m mid-laugh with my head tilted against his shoulder.
The ring sparkles as if it’s trying to steal the spotlight, but it can’t.
Something about the photo makes my chest ache, like it’s too real not to be real. I quickly hand the phone back to him.
“Ok, enough of that. What’s next?”
Rhett smirks. “We hit one of the souvenir shops. You can’t leave Times Square without something tacky.”
“You’re not wrong,” I say as we dive into a shop overflowing with I heart NY T-shirts, keychains, snow globes, mugs, tote bags, pretty much everything I expected and more. I pick up a foam Statue of Liberty crown and jam it on my head.
“How do I look?”
“Like a national treasure,” he says with a straight face.
“Liar.’ I grab a tiny plastic yellow taxi and hold it up. “Perfect for the mantel piece at your beach house.”
His mouth quirks. “The beach house doesn’t have a mantelpiece.”
“Details,” I dismiss airily, and toss it into our basket anyway.
If I show up back home without presents, I’ll never hear the end of it. And my parents, well, they’d never say it, but I know they’d keep whatever I give them forever, like a talisman of this weird adventure I’m on.
I end up buying way too much tatt. A few postcards, a silly magnet for Sandra, a cap for Lucy, a pair of matching mugs for Mum and Dad.
When we step back out of the shop and rejoin the throng of people, I feel like it’s even busier, and the billboards are blazing even brighter.
I look around, hugging the shopping bag to my chest, the ring winking like it’s in on the joke.
“This is crazy. I’ve never felt so tiny and so huge at the same time.”
“That’s New York for you,” he says, and threading his fingers through mine, the ring snug and solid between us, he pulls me back into the crowd.
A trio of musicians has set up at one corner, brass notes spilling into the thick air, cutting through the buzz of chatter and horns. I sway on the spot, chewing my lower lip.
“I feel like I should start tap dancing or something. This whole place feels like a stage.”
“Go on. Spontaneity is part of the magic. I’ll film it and make you go viral again,” Rhett encourages.
I give him a shove, laughing. “No way. I’ve humiliated myself enough on the internet this year, thanks.”
“Pity,” he says. “You have star quality. A natural in front of the camera.”
“Very smooth, Mr. Remington, but no thank you.”
We cross toward the famous red steps, the ones I’ve seen in every montage of New York ever made.
Climbing them feels like a rite of passage.
We sit near the top with the city buzzing below us, the billboards blazing brighter now that light is falling.
The glow paints Rhett’s face in flashes of blue, pink, and gold.
I lean back on my hands, staring down at my ring again.
“It looks even better up here.”
“Would you like to keep it?” Rhett adds, watching me instead of looking at the skyline.
Something flutters low in my stomach as my head comes up sharply. “No, of course not. It’s too expensive.” I then pretend to be deeply invested in a passing guy dressed as Batman.
“It’s yours if you change your mind,” Rhett says under his breath, but he lets me change the subject, and I ask him which Batman he prefers.
We people watch for a while, watching tourists with their cameras, locals darting past like they’re immune to the madness, and kids begging their parents for various souvenirs.
A woman bursts out laughing so loudly it carries even through the din, and the sound makes me laugh too, though I don’t know why.
It’s like everything here is contagious: the joy, the chaos, the light.
Finally, Rhett stands up and holds out his hand.
“Come on. Time for our next stop.”
I let him pull me up, curious. “Where now?”
“You’ll see.”
We weave through the crowd again until we find a caricature artist tucked to the side of the square. The samples taped to his booth are wildly exaggerated, with giant heads, goofy grins and huge noses. I laugh as soon as I see them.
“You cannot be serious.”
“Oh, I’m serious,” Rhett says, smirking. “Sit.”
I drop into the folding chair, still giggling.
“This is going to be terrible.”
“Yes, perfectly terrible,” he says, settling beside me.
The artist sets to work, glancing up at us, his pencil flying across the page.
I try to sit still, but I keep dissolving into nervous laughter.
Twenty minutes later, he flips the pad around, and I almost choke.
My head is enormous, my smile exaggerated into cartoonish sparkle, and the ring, oh god, the ring.
It is drawn bigger than my entire hand. I burst out laughing.
“I look like an alien who swallowed a disco ball,” I announce.
Rhett grins, clearly delighted. “You should frame it.”
“Never.” But I roll it up anyway, because I know I’ll keep it. Some things are too ridiculous not to.
We meander after that, letting the crowd carry us along, the neon glow sinking into our skin, the city’s heartbeat thudding beneath our feet. The ring catches every color it passes, flashing like it was made for this place.
And maybe, for tonight, it was.