The guy I never want to see again in my entire life. Because if I do, and he insults me again, I think I might actually have to hit him this time, instead of just turning and walking away, the way a grownup is supposed to do.
“But—”
“You’re killing my happy buzz.”
“There’s something you should know about him.”
“What’s my motto?”
Sage rolls her eyes. “If you can’t say anything nice, say it in French.”
I nod. “Like Bonjour. See how beautiful and nice that sounds?”
“Well, it means hello or good morning, so technically that is nice.”
“Whatever.” I wave a hand. “I say this from the bottom of my heart, I don’t care what the guy does with himself. As far as I know, he doesn’t exist.”
“Okay, I give up.” Sage surrenders. “Will you ever tell me what happened that night in Vegas?”
“You never asked.” There are no secrets between us. Although Griff is a closed topic, if Sage asks, I’d tell her everything, including how much of a conceited jerk he is. “By the way, is Eli still your cousin’s doctor?”
Sage laughs and shakes her head. “Cori switched to another doctor as well. That was too close for comfort.”
“Poor guy. He lost two patients.”
“Well, it’s strange having my boyfriend looking up my cousin’s vertical smile.”
“Fair point.”
Tottering in my stilettos, I wheel my bag out the LaGuardia doors, having to shield my eyes from the bright afternoon sun, a nice change of pace from back in L.A., where it’s been raining nonstop for the past couple days. I’ll take that as a good omen, especially for going out on the town. If things stay nice, I could go over to the High Line for a photoshoot, maybe, or snap a few pictures on the Brooklyn Bridge. I am technically here for business, after all… although I suppose it’s all relative.
“How’s moving in with your hot OBGYN going? All settled?” I ask with at least a little bit of envy.
No, I don’t wish that I was the one who found my other half and all that. And I don’t mind her moving in with Eli, per se. But if someone were to ask for my opinion, I’d tell them that my friend Sage is way, way too young to be moving in with a guy. Also, my opinion has nothing to do with the fact that I’ve been toying with the idea of moving to the city sometime soon, and that I had been sort of officially and oh-so-casually hoping that Sage and I would get a place together.
Because I’ll deny it until my dying day, call you crazy, and curse you for even daring to think I would be so selfish as all that.
“We’re decorating the apartment, and you can’t believe how awful his taste is.” Sage grimaces. “I mean he wants red walls. Red walls, Chels.”
I turn and give her the big, shocked eyes she is so obviously expecting from me. “Red walls? What’s wrong with him? He’s not one of those devil worshippers, is he?” My expression turns into a scowl and I pretend to look closely at her skin for any sign of exposure to a devil worshipper.
Hey, I don’t know what that would look like, either. But I’m not actually looking. Because the question isn’t actually real. Sage might be completely smitten with her doc, but she isn’t insane. She’s actually really, really bright—and I don’t just mean the glare coming off her smile. If he’d been into devil worship, she would have dropped him in a hot second.
Or she would have at least told me about it. Maybe even asked my advice for how to get him over it or something.
I mean I’m an influencer, by name. It’s my job to give advice for things like that.
“What are you going to do while you’re in town?” Sage asks.
“Tonight, I’m having dinner with you, Eli, Amelia and her boyfriend. But if you’re talking about work, I’m going to shoot some video,” I say, having gone through the plan again and again on the way up. “I want to do a story about the surprising history you can find in Greenwich Village. Make it a sort of feature, you know?”
She nods. “Too many people think the city is just about parties and museums and musicals and don’t really know how much history you can find in every square inch of the place.”
“I couldn’t agree more. And,” I add, “I’d like to get some down time. I’m desperate for a break.”
“You’ve been going non-stop.”
She’s right. I haven’t had a moment of peace since the last vacation in Vegas. Other than my encounter with Mr. Asshole, the trip had been a blast. Which is exactly why I have Sunday night penciled in to rest and relax. I want a book, a bottle of wine, and complete silence. Or as close as I can get to it in New York City.
But first, I’m going to paint the town red. Because that’s what you do when you’re in New York. That’s what you do when you’re an influencer. And that’s what you do when you have a ton of friends in the city, all hankering to see you, and a limited amount of time for social engagements.
Hey, don’t give me that look. I can want a quiet night at home and engage in a wild spree all in the same breath.
“Actually, I made a dinner reservation at Cook Au Vin for tomorrow night,” I name the trendy restaurant in West Village. “A bunch of my friends want to get together, and it’s the easiest way to see everyone at once. You available?”
“Terrific.” She exclaims as she flags down a cab. “We’re going to have a blast.”
“Hell yeah.” I give her a hug as the cab slows in front of us. “Nothing’s going to ruin my time with my friends.”
Chapter 2
#AdventureObsessed
The wait for a cab is blissfully short, and in less than ten minutes, an older man is lifting my suitcase into the trunk while I squirm into the backseat. Just the movement of the car as we pull back out onto the street is threatening to lull me to sleep, in spite of the post-champagne catnap I took on the airplane. I could use a quick nap. By the sounds of it, we have a long night coming. Instead of closing my eyes, I force myself to sit up, and try to get myself together. The recent bout of humidity in L.A. hasn’t done my hair any favors.
Half an hour with a flatiron the other day and my copper hair is showing signs of frizz, a couple of unkempt ringlets already poking through in spite of my salon-grade conditioner. My makeup is in a sorry state, too. After a few attempts at salvaging it, I throw in the towel and accept my fate. Then I take out my phone, and snap a picture.
In case you can’t tell, I’m going for that au natural southern girl in a city cab look. Before posting though, I touch up the photo just a tad to remove some of the excessive bags under my eyes. Photoshop truly is a miraculous invention. Then I open Instagram and post the picture with a catchy caption.
Swapping stars for skylines this weekend.
#HelloNYC #SouthernGirlintheCity #NYC #Love
I don’t tag any of my sponsors, that comes later. After posting, I check my account. Five hours away from my Instagram feed is enough to leave me drowning in notifications, which I do my best to sift through even as my eyes threaten to close. The hard part is figuring out what’s worth responding to, and what’s worth ignoring, something I’ll admit, three years later, that I’m still getting the hang of.