Chapter 2
BLAIR
The coffee shop door swings shut behind me, muffling the low hum of conversations and the hiss of the espresso machine.
I step onto the sidewalk, adjusting to the rhythm of the city as it swirls around me.
Fifth Avenue feels particularly alive today, a mix of purposeful strides and aimless wandering.
For a beat, I stand still, caught in the chaos before heading north toward Central Park.
I hadn't planned to stop for coffee this morning. I was on my way to the park for a run—a habit I've developed to keep the restlessness at bay. But when I passed the shop, I couldn’t resist the smell of roasted beans. And then she happened.
Olivia Barnes. It only takes a quick search on my phone to find her wedding planning business; she's at the top of the Google search engine and her picture is prominently plastered over the welcome page.
I weave through the crowd, dodging a group of tourists clustered around a map.
She's quite the character. All bite, polished to an inch of her life in that crisp blazer and heels.
Her irritation at my interruption was practically radiating off her, but she didn't budge, protecting her space.
That's the part that intrigued me; it was highly entertaining.
Most people would have moved to another table or ignored me entirely.
Not her. She stayed, sparred, and even laughed. Well, eventually.
I'm not entirely sure why I offered to be her fake girlfriend. It wasn't a serious proposal. I was simply fighting boredom. Maybe that's why I couldn't resist pushing her buttons a little.
Passing the edge of the park, I make my way to my usual starting point near The Mall.
The wide, tree-lined pathway is dappled with sunlight filtering through the leaves.
The air smells faintly of damp earth and fallen leaves, with a hint of roasted nuts from the vendor cart nearby.
A few early joggers pace along the path, their steady footsteps blending with the distant sounds of a saxophonist playing near Bethesda Terrace.
I shrug out of my zip-up hoodie, tie it around my waist, and start running.
My feet find their rhythm on the pavement as I navigate the familiar trails.
Central Park has always been my escape, a place where the chaos of the city fades into the background.
There’s different kind of energy here—less frantic.
I take the path that loops around the lake, my pace quickening. Ducks glide across the water and a loved-up couple leans against the railing of Bow Bridge, their heads close together, lost in their own world. I weave around them, the cool air filling my lungs.
As I run, my mind drifts back to Liv. Not in a romantic way—more like an amusing puzzle I'm not quite done with yet. She's got a presence, that's for sure. A confidence that could intimidate a room the moment she steps inside. I wonder if she'll find someone to play 'Sailor' with her.
I've always been good at reading people.
It's a skill I've honed over years of negotiating and assessing risks.
Liv is pretty transparent. The way she clutched her latte like it was a lifeline, the tension in her shoulders that didn't fully ease even when she laughed — she's carrying more than she lets on.
I reach the reservoir where the water gleams under the mid-morning sun, and the city skyline rises beyond it, a jagged silhouette against the bright blue sky. I slow to a jog, then stop by my usual park bench, leaning against the backrest to catch my breath.
"Blair?"
A voice pulls me from my thoughts. I turn, already half-smiling, and there she is. Valerie. Shopping Cart Valerie, at least that's what I've called her in my head for years now.
She's wearing the same patched-up coat I've seen a hundred times before, her hair a wiry tangle that refuses to obey any logic. She's pushing her shopping cart—her constant companion, piled high with an assortment of bags, blankets, and God knows what else.
"Hey," I say, still catching my breath. "How are you? You need anything today?"
She grins, revealing a set of teeth that's seen better days. "Nope, just a cigarette for the road."
I glance at the cart, wondering what road she's talking about. Valerie's been walking circles around Central Park for as long as I've been running here. But I don't press. I just pull out a cigarette from the pack I keep in the pocket of my sweats. I don't smoke myself, but Valerie does.
She takes it with a nod of thanks, lighting it with a battered Zippo. "Missed a hell of a squirrel fight earlier," she says, exhaling a plume of smoke. "Two of 'em went at it like it was the end of the world."
I laugh, shaking my head. "Who won?"
"Hard to say. They both took off before I could declare a champion. But one of 'em's missing a patch of fur now." She parks her cart within arm's reach and perches on the bench.
"What happened to you today? You're late."
I sit down next to her and smile. This is the strange ritual we've fallen into. Valerie doesn't know anything about me, and I don't know much about her. But for some reason, this—sitting and catching up over nothing—always feels like the most normal part of my day.
"Met someone interesting," I say. "She's... weird."
"Oh, yeah?" Valerie's eyes glint with curiosity. "How so?"
"She was..." I pause, searching for the right words. "Maybe looking for a fake girlfriend to bring to her sister's wedding. Something like that anyway."
Valerie takes a long drag of her cigarette, exhaling slowly. "Well, that's a new one. That stuff only happens in movies."
"Exactly! That's what makes it so absurd. She's got this whole imaginary person already cooked up. Her name's Sailor."
Valerie chokes out a laugh, smoke curling around her. "Sailor? What is she, a pirate?"
"Apparently, she's a finance director."
Valerie snorts. "I bet the imaginary girlfriend owns a golden retriever named Captain." She leans back on the bench, taking another drag. "Sounds like she's got more drama than the squirrels."
Valerie stubs out her cigarette and tucks what's left into a small tin she keeps in the cart. "Well, I'm off. Got places to be, creatures to argue with."
"You mean the pigeons?"
"Obviously. Those are the only ones worth my time." She grins, wheeling her cart away without another word.
"Are you sure you don't need anything?" I call after her.
She turns, narrowing her eyes at me. "What? You getting sentimental now?"
I laugh it off, but the question lingers between us. "Anything. Food? A room? A bed?" It's not the first time I've offered. It won't be the last.
Valerie waves me off, a flick of her hand as dismissive as it is final. "I'm fine. Told you before, I've got everything I need right here." She gestures to her cart like it's a treasure chest.
I think about giving her my number, but I don't. She probably doesn't have a phone. Even if I gave her one, she wouldn’t be able to charge it. Valerie seems content in her own way, and who am I to disrupt that?
I've done absolutely nothing for six months now, and it's starting to bug me.
Six months that were supposed to be all about relaxation and freedom, and yet here I am, finding normality in a homeless woman in Central Park.
I sold my company to escape the grind, but maybe I underestimated how much I'd miss having something to do.
I could be anywhere right now. I could be halfway across the world, drinking cocktails on a beach or hiking through mountains.
But instead, I'm here, running the same paths, sitting on the same bench, talking to Valerie.
It's not that I don't enjoy it—I do—but there's something unsettling about the quiet.
The lack of urgency. I spent years building something enormous from nothing. And now, I've stopped. Completely.
Some days, it feels like a relief. Other days, it feels like a void.
I watch Valerie wheel her cart away. She's a constant in a city that never stops changing. She's unshakable in her own way, navigating her life with a clarity I can't understand. I envy her, sometimes. The simplicity of it. The certainty.
The park is starting to fill up now, the trails filled with runners, families, and tourists. I stretch and start running again.