To my left, Gray takes a huge bite of lasagna and groans in happiness. “Mmmm. MMMMM. MMMMMMMMMMM!” He closes his eyes and leans back in his chair happily.
“I’ll have what he’s having,” I deadpan.
Darcy laughs and slaps her hands on the table. “When Harry Met Sally … ?”
I nod. Out of the corner of my eye, Fitz shakes his head with a smile, and the conversation turns into a passionate debate about rom-coms: the good, the bad, and the so bad they’re good.
After a long diatribe about Overboard, an old movie that Darcy calls a “problematic fave,” Meg notices the time and claps her hands together. “We should head over to the train station. You ready, Gray?”
“Santa!” Gray cheers again, and there’s a small flurry as people clear plates and leave the table.
I glance at Fitz, who’s watching me thoughtfully. “What’s the plan for us?”
He surveys me, taking in my leggings, sweatshirt, and black boots. “You’ll need warmer clothes. Scarf, gloves, and a hat. Your boots are good. Meet me out back in fifteen.” He throws me a scheming, dimpled smile. It’s the same grin he had before he showed me the indoor snowstorm he made for Ivy, the elaborate homecoming proposal he set up for Priya, and the rowboat he rented for Ruby.
It’s a smile that means he’s planning something, and for the first time ever, the plan is for me. I grip the bench on either side of me, suddenly unsure how I’m going to get through this evening. Fitz clears our plates from the table and disappears out the back door, leaving Darcy and me alone.
“How worried should I be?” I ask Darcy.
She raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “With Fitz in charge? Very.”
A kaleidoscope of butterflies dances in my stomach. It’s fine, I tell myself as I head into the basement to raid the stash of winter clothes that Mrs. Wilding left in my room.
It’s fine. Nothing is different. Everything is exactly the same as it’s always been.
I turn those words into my mantra, repeating them again and again.
It’s fine. Nothing is different. Everything is exactly the same as it’s always been.
As if summoned, SIM appears with his clipboard and his pencil and his annoyingly perfect necktie. Liar, he whispers. When it comes to making me feel terrible, no one does it better than my own stupid brain.
The rumble of an engine roars above me. I stand on the bedside table and peek out the small curtained window. Four massive tires pull into view. Fitz is sitting on an ATV, flexing his hands as he revs the engine. My throat dries.
It’s fine. Nothing is different. Everything is exactly the same as it’s always been.
I add another sentence to my mantra.
What could go wrong?
SIM clears his throat and starts a list.
Whatever you do, don’t—
Don’t what, Harrison? DON’T WHAT?
Possibilities:
“Don’t order the hot chocolate, because it’ll give you food poisoning.”
“Don’t forget to look both ways before you cross the street, or you’ll get hit by a car.”
“Don’t expect me to show up, because I’m too busy reading Chaucer to remember you.”
Since my phone is dead and I can’t ask its opinion, I wait for traffic to stop and cross the street to the brightly lit Starbucks. A blast of warm, coffee-scented air hits me and a jingle bell tinkles as I walk through the door. After ordering the smallest hot chocolate on the menu, I sit by the window and watch the street. My mind wanders to Fitz, as it usually does when I’m in situations that are scary or new or boring or exciting or … anything, really. There’s no situation that couldn’t be improved by a smile or a joke from Fitz Wilding, and I wish I could text him and ask if there’s snow at the cabin. Or how many rom-coms he’s watched with his sisters. Whether he misses me. Whether he misses Molly. Tell him about how hard I’m failing. My first day in New York, with nothing to show for it except a freak-out on the airplane, a second one in the apartment, and a failed attempt to see Central Park. The travel blog practically writes itself.
A sharp knock on the store window draws my attention. Harrison stands outside with his hands shoved in the pockets of his long coat, scarf wound loosely around his neck, dark hair falling over his eyes. He fits in with the surrounding crowd, looking like he’s on his way to poetry night at the coffee shop. I’m so happy to see him that my bones go slightly rubbery and I grin through the window. Instead of returning my smile, he nods for me to meet him outside. I hold up a finger, asking him to wait, purchase another drink, and join him in the dark.
“Thanks for coming.” I give him the drink, swinging my bag of groceries in my free hand. Now that I know I’m not doomed to spend the night wandering the city streets with wet socks, I feel instantly better.
He takes a sip and wrinkles his nose. “Is this hot chocolate?”
“Is that bad?”
“No, but I was expecting coffee. Hot chocolate is … quaint.”
Quaint. Like I’m some farm girl from a one-stoplight town. How embarrassing.
“How’d you end up way out here, anyway?” he asks after a long silence.
“Oh, you know …”
“Dad said you went to the bodega.”
“I did. And then I tried to find my way to Central Park. Got on the wrong train, I think.”
“So, this is my fault then? Because I wouldn’t take you ice-skating?” He glances at me, half-amused, half-annoyed.
“The truth hurts.” I shrug.
Harrison effortlessly locates the train that’ll take us back to Manhattan, and we board. We don’t talk much as we stand side by side on the subway, each holding a different pole. My gaze wanders to an advertisement for a new Hallmark movie, a holiday rom-com that I have no doubt Fitz and his sisters will watch soon, if they haven’t already. For once in my life, I tried to be like the girls in those movies: alone in New York, searching for adventure. I pretended I could be a different person with a different life, but the fact is, I’m a sheltered, small-town, anxious mess of a girl who crashed and burned her first day in the city. I’m exactly as quaint as Harrison thinks I am.
He sees me gazing wistfully at the movie poster and raises an eyebrow.
“What do you have against Hallmark movies anyway?” I ask.
“That’s a joke, right?”
“Humor me.”
“The diversity sucks, for one.”
“Fair point.”
“Other than that?” He scratches his chin. “The plots are all the same.”
My skin bristles automatically. I feel the need to defend Fitz, despite the fact that he’s not here and this conversation isn’t actually about him. “If you’ve seen enough of these romantic movies to make sweeping generalizations about them, tell me about this recycled plot.”
“It’s, you know, nice boy meets girl, nice boy falls in love with girl, minor obstacles get in the way, nice boy wins girl. Excuse me if I expect more out of my art.”
I flash back to the stack of classics on his nightstand and peg him as the kind of guy who only likes things that make him seem cool or smart or sophisticated. “I bet your cinematic choices lean toward overly long Oscar bait. The kind of movies filled with drab colors and depression,” I tease. He rolls his eyes, but not before I catch the lift in the corner of his mouth. “What’s wrong with happy endings, anyway?” My stomach squirms in a not unpleasant way, and I can’t help but marvel at the fact that I’m in New York, bantering about romance movies with a boy who isn’t my boy.