Chapter Eighteen – Ale #2
“This is one of the only spots where you can literally walk past a building that sold beef a hundred years ago and then pass a store that sells shoes worth more than a car.”
He slows down as the streets grow prettier — red brick buildings, stylish restaurants, and storefronts that scream “effortless wealth.”
“Very cute of you to bring me somewhere I clearly can’t afford to spend even a cent.”
“Alexandra, relax and enjoy checking off your dream list in style.”
A.J. pulls up in front of this gigantic building — RH New York — grabs some sunglasses from the glove box, tosses his hair back, and slides them on like we’re in a commercial.
I’m honestly glad he’s distracted because I need a minute. The place is stunning — classic, massive, and the entrance looks more like a five-star hotel than a furniture store. I get out of the car and freeze on the sidewalk as A.J. hands the keys to a valet. Yes. A valet. At a store.
If I thought A.J.’s building was tall, the ones around me look like they’re trying to kiss the sky. The storefronts shine too brightly for an overcast autumn day, and the blend of horns, hurried footsteps, and overlapping voices creates this chaotic melancholy that makes me feel a little dizzy.
“New York is a lot, huh?” A.J. says, noticing my ‘what even is happening’ face.
“How do people live here without freezing up all the time?”
He laughs.
“You get used to it. Or fake it.” He shrugs, and I turn my gaze back to the storefronts.
“You coming in, or are you just gonna stand there soaking in the city?”
“I’m coming, I wanna see what these ex-butcher shops have to offer. Just not buying anything — this dollar rate is wild.” I whisper, like someone might be eavesdropping on my bank account.
“You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Oh no, don’t even start, A.J.” I cross my arms, drawing an invisible line between us — the “I buy my own stuff” line.
“No way,” he says with a laugh, pulling out a black card from his wallet.
“Victor’s paying.”
I lean in to read the name. It says “VICIOUS BONDS” where the cardholder’s name should be.
“Corporate card?”
“Corporate black card,” A.J. corrects, already walking toward the entrance as a giant smile crosses my face.
“Well then, guess we’re decorating my little nook.”
“Can we go in now, or did you decide to shop online?” he asks, holding the door open with that smug little grin.
“Stop being a dork. We’re only buying what we need,” I say, walking past him. “But I doubt I’ll find my little Pinterest girl stuff in this palace.”
“They have everything.”
“But I want to hit a thrift store, and I suggest you don’t complain,” I say, pointing my finger at him in mock warning.
“I’m not complaining,” he mutters, clearly not thrilled.
“Good. You’d better be excited to carry the bags.” I warn, and he rolls his eyes, but still throws his arm around my shoulders as we head up the stairs. And all I can think is: Mom was right: This city really can make everything feel like a dream.
***
My first few minutes inside the store can be summed up in one word: fear.
Fear of breaking something super expensive and having to pay for it, obviously.
Just like at Galeries Lafayette, where A.J.
took me to see the view of Paris before our lunch at the Eiffel Tower, I walk strictly down the middle of the aisle here. Dead center. No sudden movements.
But everything is so elegant and beautiful that I give in.
I start picking out pillows, candles, picture frames…
and then change my mind five minutes later, because I always find something better.
A.J. stays patient, offering opinions and suggesting combos like only a truly observant guy would.
And I thank God my double-door fridge has a thousand and one uses.
An hour later, everything I could possibly buy in the fancy store is packed in the trunk and back seats. A.J. drives us to another part of the city to introduce me to thrift stores, and I couldn’t be more excited.
Especially when he parks right in front of a coffee shop.
“It’s getting cold. Let’s grab a coffee.”
“Thrift stores close at five, Alexandra !” A.J. shouts over the car as I’m already at the cafe entrance.
“If we don’t go in now, we won’t make it to any of them,” I reply, pushing the door open.
The smell of overpriced coffee and polished wood wraps around me. The tables are small and cozy, made for two at most, but I stop at the counter, not even glancing at them. The hanging menu terrifies me enough to ignore the numbers and look only at the letters.
“Welcome to your first overpriced, underwhelming coffee in New York,” A.J. says, stopping beside me.
I choose a Cinnamon Bun Latte. I have no idea what that is, but I go for it.
I pay for both mine and his hot chocolate, and we wait way too long for our paper cups with our names on them.
Mine, of course, is spelled wrong, but holding one of these while walking through New York makes me raise my arm instinctively.
“What are you doing?”
A cab stops a few meters away, and A.J. lowers my hand, shaking his head at the driver.
“Sorry, couldn’t help it.” I wave at the silver-haired, hawk-nosed cabbie, who curses me out in some language I don’t recognize, and I turn back to A.J. “You can’t hold an overpriced coffee in New York and not try to flag down a cab.”
“Seriously?”
I stare at him like he’s from another planet. Romanticizing this moment isn’t something I learned from Brazilian soap operas. This is American culture 101. I’m genuinely surprised he’s lived here this long and still doesn’t get it.
“You enjoying the view?” he asks. I blink twice.
“We need to add rom-coms to our movie list for this break. Animated movies alone aren’t going to teach you all the necessary culture,” I decree, walking off like I actually know where we’re going.
We spend the next forty minutes hopping in and out of thrift stores filled with old books, picture frames, china, napkins, and all sorts of things. Nothing really for the room, but I love it.
A.J. remains patient, holding bags, giving input when I ask. The only time he breaks his good-boy act is when I pick up another lamp.
“You’ve already bought two lamps, Alexandra.”
“But this one has a special charm!” I argue. He just shakes his head.
I put the tiny tree-shaped lamp with leaf bulbs back on the shelf and accept it doesn’t fit my room.
Still, I leave the store a little sulky.
By the time we get back to the apartment, the sun is already setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold. My body’s tired, my feet hurt, but my heart is full.
I don’t even think of taking a break.
I help A.J. carry everything in, and we start setting up my room in New York.
We hang the empty frames, place the string lights, arrange the luxe editions of my favorite books we picked up at a bookshop on the way home, and A.J.
mounts a vanity mirror on the free wall beside me.
It’ll be my recording backdrop, so it’s just the mirror and the desk chair for now.
While he hammers the thing into place with scary precision, I swap Pride and Prejudic e _bought at a thrift stor e _ with The Love Hypothesis and stare at his broad back, suddenly understanding the main character in my hands. Sometimes, all a girl needs is a giant, hot man.
But A.J. is a hot man beyond acceptable limits, so I slide Adam and Olive onto the shelf and head to the kitchen to grab something for us to drink.
“Dani loves that book,” he says, making me jump and flush, caught in the act of checking him out.
“It’s basically the favorite book of every girl who used to read good fanfic. I’m not surprised...”
“She made me obsessed with Adam Driver because of that author. I didn’t even think he was that attractive.”
“A.J., that man’s beauty is in the things he says. I’ll grab some water so we can clean up.”
“ We ?” he asks, kitten-voiced. I nod.
“Yes. It’s your apartment after all.”
He blinks like a puppy that just got dropped off at a new home, and I ignore it.
We get rid of enough cardboard and plastic to wrap my whole body like a burrito, but we keep the bubble wrap – for obvious reasons. A.J. looks at my bed, clearly hoping to crash, but I shake my head. We still need to wipe the floor.
Not long after, we turn off the lights and flop onto the bed – two survivors of a domestic war.
With our eyes fixed on the ceiling, lit up by the stars from my new lamp, A.J. plays with my hair, points at a specific constellation, and smiles at me while we pop bubble wrap over our heads.
I tell him to explain constellations some other day – I’m tired, the jet lag’s about to hit me hard, and honestly, I wish I were back home getting ready for my shows.
But when our fingers brush lightly, I smile back.
Because even if none of this was in my original plan, and New York still feels too big, too fast, too much… if all my afternoons come with this kind of closeness and company, I think I can get used to the city that never sleeps.