Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Ella
“You might be thinking, why on Earth should I read a book about SALT? But after you read Salt: A World History by Mark Kurlansky, you’ll think EVERYONE should.”
—Ella’s Staff Pick
Although I had my own closet-sized studio in Hell’s Kitchen, tonight I was making the hour-long trek into Queens for my little brother’s birthday.
Despite having to spend way too much time on a train that smelled like urine, the ride to my parents’ house was always comforting.
I’d spent so many years going straight from school to The Last Page to home that I could make the commute in my sleep.
It was definitely cheaper to live out in Queens with my parents than in Manhattan, but I wanted the space to create my own life.
The Last Page didn’t have the budget to pay booksellers extraordinarily well, but we paid above the minimum wage, which was more than Barnes & Noble could say.
As a manager, though, I made more, so my Hell’s Kitchen studio wasn’t as big of a stretch as it’d seem.
But ever since Leo died, I’ve found myself going up to Queens more often, birthday dinners or not.
I pushed through the turnstile of the subway, lost in thought.
I couldn’t tell anyone at the store because the minute I did, my words would morph and spread like wildfire, but I was, obviously, freaking the fuck out that I hadn’t heard from Leo’s lawyer yet.
I tried not to let the anxiety simmer, but I couldn’t stop imagining the worst. According to the screen time on my phone, I’d spent at least three hours on the mail app daily, just refreshing and hoping for an email.
Maybe I wasn’t the best person for the job, but I was the one Leo had wanted. I sighed, centering myself. I had to trust that Leo had taken care of the will in time.
I moved to stand in the middle of the platform, trying to get a glance at the updates board. I groaned when I saw the F train was delayed, per usual, stretching my commute from an hour to an hour and a half. I slid my wired headphones in, blasting The Cars.
I’d snatched Marie Antoinette: The Journey by Antonia Fraser from Leo’s desk to start on the train, but it was buried at the bottom of my tote bag.
I was slowly working through all the books Leo left on his desk to read next.
He had to have picked them for some reason and I yearned to remain connected to him in some way.
Leo used to read everything, refusing to shy away from any genre (imagine having to explain what knotting was after a used copy of Their Perfect Omega by Maya Nicole came in).
As I rifled through my bag, someone touched the back of my arm and my fight-or-flight kicked in. I threw out a straight arm, smacking whoever touched me right in the neck. I was immediately met by choking sounds, and I whipped around to face them.
Some guy was bent over, holding his neck near his Adam’s apple.
“Oh my God,” he wheezed.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, slapping my hand over my mouth. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to sneak up behind someone in the subway?”
“I said ‘Excuse me,’ ” he choked out, glancing up at me, his blue eyes watering. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to wear headphones in the subway?”
“No, actually,” I said, laughing.
“Well, maybe your first instinct shouldn’t be to attack someone.” His hands fell to his knees as he began to cough.
My tongue clicked. “Ah, you aren’t from New York.”
“That’s what you’re taking away from this?” After a moment, he straightened and pushed his glasses up his nose. His neck was a little red from where my hand thwacked him.
Look, I worked in a bookstore. I saw cute men every single day of my life. Men that were readers and slipped paperbacks into their back pockets. Men in peacoats.
But this guy was in a league of his own.
My cheeks burned bright red once I got a good look at him.
He was in a heavy brown jacket, a black baseball cap with an orange T snug on his head with a bit of light brown hair peeking out.
He was broad—tall, too. His nose was a little crooked, a beauty mark at the corner of his mouth.
He was the rugged kind of handsome. But he had a slight drawl to his deep voice that caught me off guard, even as he fought to catch his breath.
“You’re right, I’m sorry. The train, especially the West 4th Street station, can be a little scary nowadays. And, well, I took a self-defense class last year and I think I’ve just been a little too eager to test out my skills—”
He raised his eyebrows as I rambled.
“But not the time and place. Got it.”
“I guess I should feel lucky you didn’t pepper spray me,” he said.
“You should be lucky I didn’t body flip you.”
He titled his head, a little impressed. “Can you really do that?”
I paused. “They taught it in the course.”
He laughed. “That’s a non-answer.”
“I think if I tried really hard I could.”
He held his hands up. “You know, I don’t think I want to find out.”
“Fair enough. I am sorry about, you know … lightly tapping your neck.”
A smile crept up his face. “Forget it. My phone died and I’m just tryin’ to figure out if the F is going to Times Square.”
“You can get off at Bryant Park, then walk a bit.” I hesitated. “Is your hotel in Times Square?”
“No, I live here. I just … wanted to see it.”
“You live in New York?” I raised my eyebrows, skeptical.
“It’s not obvious?” He held his arms out as I took him in, trying not to look too closely. I smiled at the hint of eagerness in his voice.
“I think accosting someone on a train platform was a dead giveaway.”
“You attacked me.”
“You could’ve had a knife,” I said defensively. “I stand by my choices.”
He smiled, a faint blush appearing on his cheeks. “I guess I should just feel lucky you didn’t body flip me.”
The train screeched into the station and together we moved into the same car. Part of me figured he’d move away from me, but he sat right next to me, even though the train was half full.
Like I said, definitely not a New Yorker.
“You don’t think I should go to Times Square,” he said once the train began moving. “It was written all over your face.”
A few NYU students were on the other side of the train from us. They were trying to balance a phone on one of the empty seats to film a TikTok.
“I don’t think anyone should go to Times Square,” I clarified. “Shitty food, even shittier people around there. All of them are either tourists who can’t walk at a New York City pace, or assholes who are mad they work in Times Square.”
“But people love it,” he said, confused.
I shrugged. “You’d be better off going somewhere else entirely. Hell, Rockefeller Center would be a better bet if you were trying to sightsee.” I peered at him curiously. “If you live here, then why do you want to see Times Square?”
“I’m new in town.”
“It shows,” I said helpfully.
“Thanks,” he said flatly. “I figured if I got all the touristy stuff out of the way, then I could focus on exploring the more interesting parts of the city.”
The train pulled off at the next stop and he looked at me expectantly. “I’m riding on this train a lot longer than you. But listen, you don’t need to go to Times Square to see an interesting part of the city. It’s probably the least interesting part of New York.”
“You know, everyone talks about how cool the city is, but I’m not really buying it,” he muttered.
I leaned closer, addicted to his accent.
I’d seen plenty of movies stereotyping Southerners, but I thought the deep drawl was an overexaggeration.
But his voice warmed my chest, like drinking a nice cup of honeyed tea on a cold day.
“If one of the biggest tourist attractions isn’t worth checking out, then what is? ”
“Literally everything else,” I replied, nudging his shoulder. “Do you not like New York or something?” At his silence, I gasped loud enough to attract attention from the TikTokers.
He held his hands up defensively. “It’s … a lot. I walk out of my apartment and I’m assaulted with smells and sounds. I must be missing something because everyone loves it. But it’s dirty and—”
“Well of course you think that if you’re going to places like Times Square! You just haven’t done New York right. Word of advice, if you walk through hell, it’s going to look like hell.”
“Okay, maybe I need to venture outside of what’s shown in Home Alone,” he said, the side of his mouth kicked up in a sheepish grin.
“You’ll fall in love with New York,” I said. “That’s a guarantee.”
When the train approached his stop, he stood and looked down at me. “Sorry for startling you.”
“Sorry for hitting you in the neck.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Thanks for the company,” I replied. He hesitated before turning around and stepping out of the train. The doors quickly closed behind him and the train took off.
It was useless to fall in love with a stranger like that.
I knew I’d never see him again. Besides, I grew up consuming every bit of literature I could.
I’d given up on finding the love in an Emily Henry novel in real life.
Still, I hated the hope I felt that New York would pull that stranger and me back together again.
Because that guy was right—New York could be demoralizing and scary and wear you down.
But it was also full of surprises. Around the corner Laufey could surprise a café with a performance or you could meet your next best friend waiting in line for the bathroom at a dive bar.
The city gave you exactly what you needed.
Maybe I’d see him on the train tomorrow. I was due for some good luck anyway.
Stepping into my parents’ house in Queens felt like going back in time. Not much had changed since I moved out, not even the tablecloth on our kitchen table.
I grew up in a small two-story house in Forest Hills. Maybe it was a little cramped, but every inch was filled with laughter and love and maybe a few too many candles of the Virgin Mary.