Ah, New York. The city that never sleeps. Which explains why everyone is so crabby.
I’m thrown back against the seat as the driver stomps on the gas, grumbling something about lousy tourists under his breath. I consider apologizing on behalf of myself and my fellow sojourners, but decide to keep my mouth shut, figuring anonymity is my best shot at survival. But I seriously contemplate booking a return flight as soon as I arrive at Brynn’s place. My childhood best friend would be disappointed but would ultimately understand. That’s the one perk to being dubbed Quincy the Quitter… no one bats an eye when you bail.
After all, I’d done that very thing ten years ago when I’d promised to follow her to New York after my gap year. She’d gone off to college at Columbia, and except for the one summer I’d visited—aka the worst summer of my life—I abandoned the idea of joining her. Eventually, she stopped asking me.
When I’d called out of the blue after the new year and sheepishly told her about the competition and asked to stay with her for three months—since Dad decreed it would be long enough to cross “Move to New York” off my list—I’d half expected her to hang up before I’d finished my sentence. I hadn’t exactly done a great job keeping in touch all those years. But I should have known better. Brynn has always been the sweetest, most forgiving person on the planet, and she genuinely seems excited to see me. Which, I’m not gonna lie, adds to my guilt.
The cab lurches to a stop outside a stately brick building that looks more like a swanky hotel than an apartment complex.Thisis where Brynn lives?
Light snowflakes begin to fall, swirling around the black-and-white-striped awning shielding the entrance and dusting the twin rows of potted conifer trees flanking the broad stone steps. A soft glow emanates from behind the glass door like a beacon of warmth welcoming me out of the cold.
My spirits are so lifted by the beautiful sight, I don’t even mind when the driver makes me haul my own humongous suitcase out of the trunk. Or when one of the wheels gets caught in a crack in the sidewalk. As freezing flakes find their way down my collar, stinging the back of my neck, I yank the handle of my suitcase, but it won’t budge. I glance at the driver, hoping he’ll take pity on my plight.
Instead, he skids off down the street, flinging ice-cold slush from his tires like a water cannon, drenching the front of my coat and jeans. To add insult to injury, my suitcase wheel chooses that exact moment to free itself from the crevice, and the momentum sends me flailing backward into a snow-covered—and unpleasantly prickly—bush.
For a moment, I consider the pros and cons of staying put and letting the thorny branches envelop me until I freeze solid and become a permanent fixture. Con: I’d probably be a prime spot for snooty Upper East Side dogs to relieve themselves. Pro: Becoming an ice sculpture may be my best shot at sticking out the entire three months in Manhattan. That settles it. Succumb to a frosty grave and finally finish what I started.
My resolve wavers when melted snow seeps through my clothing, shaking my body with a bone-shattering shiver. I clearly don’t have what it takes to be a martyr for my own moral growth, so I ungracefully liberate myself.
Sopping wet and bedraggled, I lug my suitcase into the pristine lobby, dripping water onto the white marble floor. Taking in the elegant wallpaper and expensive artwork, I feel incredibly out of place as I try to remember Brynn’s most recent text.
So sorry! I’m stuck at work. See Sharon. And don’t forget depreciation.
Her cryptic instructions don’t make much sense, and I’m pretty sure that last part—which sounds like one of her nerdy accounting terms—is a mistake and meant for someone else.
Panic starts to set in. I should call her and ask for clarification, but I hate to bother her at work, especially since she’s doing me such a gigantic favor. Maybe I can camp out in the lobby until she gets home?
Tiny tears of exhaustion and frustration build behind my eyes. I’m cold, travel-weary, and starving. The trifecta of emotional meltdowns.
“Can I help you?”
Through blurry vision, I spot a middle-aged woman in a black bellhop suit and shiny uniform hat covering her short-cropped brown hair. She looks like some sort of fancy concierge, further cementing my suspicion that Brynn actually lives in a posh boutique hotel.
“I’m looking for Brynn Delaney’s apartment?”
“Ah, you must be Miss Carmichael.” The woman smiles, deepening the wrinkles around her kind eyes and wide, friendly mouth. “I’m Sharon. Miss Delaney asked me to give this to you.” She reaches into her breast pocket and withdraws a small white envelope. “This key is to 5C on the fifth floor. You can take the elevator, then turn right, and it’s three doors down. Can I help with your luggage?”
“Thank you, but I can manage it.” I peer inside the envelope and see a sparkling gold key.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Sharon asks warmly.
“No, thank you.” All I can think about is taking a long, hot shower and raiding Brynn’s refrigerator.
“Enjoy your stay.” Sharon taps the brim of her hat before returning to her post by the front door. In my discombobulation, I must have walked right past her without realizing it.
My damp soles squeak across the floor as I drag my bag to the gilded elevator, and I can only imagine what Sharon must think of Brynn’s out-of-town houseguest. I try to put my embarrassment out of my mind the entire ride to the fifth floor, but my cheeks still feel pink when I stick the key in the lock.
However, any thought I’ve ever had evaporates the second the door swings open, swept away by pure, jaw-dropping disbelief.
Brynn’s apartment gleams like a glittering oasis in a metropolitan wilderness. You know how people say they want to pinch themselves in case they’re actually dreaming? Yeah, that’s the last thing I want to do. If this is a dream, sign me up for a lifetime’s supply of Ambien.
I flick on the light and step farther into the foyer, marveling at the vast, open spaces. I thought all New Yorkers lived in shoeboxes. Sure, some might be Christian Louboutin or Manolo Blahnik, but shoeboxes, nonetheless.
Brynn’s entryway opens to a sizable kitchen on the right and steps down to an even more expansive living room with a fireplace, huge flatscreen TV, and miles of built-in bookcases, which I plan to peruse to my heart’s content later.
But my favorite feature? The three floor-to-ceiling picture windows framing a breathtaking view of the city all bathed in a bluish haze like a wintry wonderland. I can even glimpse the snowcapped trees of Central Park through the slits in the surrounding buildings.
I’m so mesmerized that, for a moment, I can’t move. I can’t even breathe. Instead, I concentrate on imprinting the scene into my permanent memory.