Книга - What Happens to Men When They Move to Manhattan?

What Happens to Men When They Move to Manhattan?
Jill Knapp


Searching for a new Carrie Bradshaw who's on the hunt for her very own Mr. Darcy? You will want to curl up with What Happens To Men When They Move To Manhattan and fall in love all over again. With men, Manhattan and yourself. – Shiri Appleby, ActressLife in the city gives 23 year old Amalia Hastings a ride she is not expecting. As she tries to find her way on the little island that never sleeps, she discovers she has a harder time navigating through life then she does the streets of Greenwich Village!She thought she had everything she wanted – a new apartment in Manhattan, a first-rate education at NYU, a group of trusted friends and Nicholas, a boyfriend who she once believed was her soul-mate. But somehow, it isn’t enough.Stumbling through her relationships, Amalia encounters Michael. An attractive classmate who quickly moves from being one of her close friends, to an inconsistent friend-with-benefits. After all, the only thing consistent about New York is its beauty.Amalia is essentially torn between two men, and Michael is torn between two women. Her best friend Cassandra is being strung along by her "boyfriend", Bryce, and even her friend Olivia is having a secret relationship!After getting terribly lost searching for love in all the wrong places, Amalia finds herself asking – what happens to men when they move to Manhattan?!













What Happens to Men When They Move to Manhattan?


Jill Knapp










A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)




Contents


Jill Knapp (#uafc56278-d06a-53f6-aedc-afd7e8b1a76f)

Dedication (#u0f145d89-97ae-5b98-a67b-0193fc8fe252)

Praise for Jill Knapp (#u4f666747-56b1-51d2-a0ca-d92418fe1e46)

What Happens to Men When They Move to Manhattan? (#uf3ae0453-296c-5777-aac0-c7c91d55cee5)

Chapter 1 (#u0b3bd72b-e33e-5501-b569-9ca9ff602258)

Chapter 2 (#uf9488e6d-aa1c-585b-9d0c-467d099079b0)

Chapter 3 (#u92a4818b-659b-50e4-bf6d-60fa9440e519)

Chapter 4 (#u2291b9cf-d0fc-5879-8e7d-be3707021ad0)

Chapter 5 (#u10ecc423-303d-5af3-b0e3-538cf0cb9eba)

Chapter 6 (#u88a17501-186e-5206-9a76-b800b19462da)

Chapter 7 (#u0403ae2d-6dad-5f3a-80f3-b53e0042486e)

Chapter 8 (#u6dd96046-2112-5d0f-994e-62cfaafe2df4)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)

About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Jill Knapp (#uc657e52f-d224-5c83-96cf-ca0fead5b343)


I’m currently a blogger for The Huffington Post, and a former college professor. What Happens to Men When They Move to Manhattan? is my debut novel, and the first in a series of books I am writing about being young, single, and living in New York City. I am a native New Yorker, but currently reside in Raleigh, North Carolina.

You can follow me on Twitter @JL_Knapp.


To all the city girls …




Praise for Jill Knapp (#uc657e52f-d224-5c83-96cf-ca0fead5b343)


“Searching for a new Carrie Bradshaw who’s on the hunt for her very own Mr. Darcy? You will want to curl up with What Happens To Men When They Move To Manhattan and fall in love all over again. With men, Manhattan and yourself.” – Shiri Appleby, Actress, HBO’s Girls

“A subtly addicting, fun, and fast-paced story about the realty of twenty-something dating in NYC.” – Courtney Hamilton, Author of Almost Royalty.

“A fast-paced, roller-coaster ride through the giddy peaks and Death Valleys of dating in your twenties in the big city, looking for love, and finding yourself.” – Phoebe Fox, Author of The Break-Up Doctor

“Chase is a fun ride through the streets of 20-something singledom in Manhattan, where love can often feel as elusive as an errant taxi cab. Jill brings a fresh new voice to the “single & fabulous” or “single & desperate?” debate, and you’ll be rooting for her heroine, Amalia, from page one. For any woman who has ever chased love only to find themselves … this book is for you.” – Mandy Hale, Creator & Author, The Single Woman

“ … Knapp’s book combines love and life in a beautiful twist within the borders of one of the loudest, craziest cities in the world, New York City. But what’s most interesting is how the characters find solace in the noise, find happiness in the chaos, and find love in the unique.” – Kate Avino, The Huffington Post and CEO of Her Culture magazine.

“What Happens To Men When They Move To Manhattan? is a fun and enjoyable read about a young woman in search of her happily ever after. Take it to the beach or snuggle up in bed and dig in.” – Emily Liebert, award-winning author of You Knew Me When and When We Fall






What Happens to Men When They Move to Manhattan? (#uc657e52f-d224-5c83-96cf-ca0fead5b343)


“The true New Yorker secretly believes that people living anywhere else have to be, in some sense, kidding.” – John Updike




Chapter 1 (#uc657e52f-d224-5c83-96cf-ca0fead5b343)

Good morning, New York (#uc657e52f-d224-5c83-96cf-ca0fead5b343)


There I was, in the heart of it all. I had finally made it to my dream city.

Living on my own, in my first apartment, had accelerated my formerly conventional social life. Sure, going away to college and living in a dorm had its advantages; first time living away from my overly strict parents, no curfew with the car, and of course the ability to invite a guy over without a twenty-minute-long inquisition from my family.

My father had even composed a “test” to give to all of my dates upon first meeting them. The assessment consisted of around fifty questions, ranging from small queries like name and date of birth, to more invasive interrogation like yearly income, to topical polling such as political and religious ideologies. There was even a separate form to fill out your driver’s license and social security numbers. I’ll never forget how he handed a freshly printed version to my boyfriend Nicholas the first time he came over my house. Nick had turned to me and said, “Is this for real?” I just shook my head and walked out of the room.

Needless to say, I needed my independence.

Even with all of the freedom college provided, I still lived within the strict and unforgiving guidelines I had always compressed myself into. For as long as I could remember, I believed that if you didn’t cheat, lie, or steal, and if you ate all of your veggies and took your vitamins, the world somehow owed you something.

After only three months of living in New York City, to pursue a Master’s Degree at NYU, I learned that was, in fact, not the case.

I considered myself lucky, being able to live in an apartment this nice. The deep-mahogany floors, paired with the brand-new appliances in the kitchen were the envy of every young New Yorker south of 23rd Street. This is not how a newcomer is supposed to live. A newly appointed Manhattan-ite should live in a dingy studio apartment up on East 105th Street, or share a confined two-bedroom place with four or five roommates down in Chinatown. No, a new-to-the-town, twenty-two year-old girl, would not normally have the privilege of a washer and dryer in the building, and perish the thought – enough closet space to fit nearly all of her clothing.

Nick’s apartment, on the other hand, was anything but pristine. It was located further downtown on the Lower East Side. Sandwiched in between a bodega and beat-up old park, Nick’s apartment building was old, bleak, and proverbially falling apart. I felt a pang of guilt over how difficult it must be to live somewhere like that, and how he hadn’t had the option of taking out extra student loans to put toward rent like I did. He never seemed to mind, though; said it built “character”.

My new life, however, in this very spacious and immaculate West Village apartment had made me into a caricature of myself. Being that I was twenty-two, and living in the greatest city on earth, I took every chance I could get to go out and improve my social life, which unfortunately included improving my alcohol tolerance.

Today, on this blurry autumn morning, I awoke with not only the usual Monday morning hangover, but also an intense burning feeling in my throat. It got worse every time I swallowed, and finished itself off with a dry and uncontrollable cough.

“Damn,” I said aloud, to no one in particular. I let out a yawn and then allowed myself a wide stretch in my tiny, twin-sized bed. I squinted at the clock on my bedside table, and uttered a low groan.

I considered going back to sleep, but after hitting the snooze twice already, I knew I had to get out of bed. Even though my time window for showering today had passed, I still had to make myself look presentable and walk to class.

I slowly walked out of my bedroom, passed my roommates’ room (the two of them shared the larger, master bedroom), and stumbled feverishly into my kitchen. Exhausted from my journey, I put my head in my hands and leaned over the counter top. The flawless sparkle in the grain of the brand-new, deep-green granite made a mockery of me. The stone was so shiny that if I stared hard enough, I could make out a blurred, reflected version of my face. I knew I couldn’t afford this apartment. I had justified this relocation from my parent’s suburban home by telling myself that when I was finished with school, I would be making so much money that my student loans would be a thing of the past in no time. I pushed myself off of the granite and figured it was about time to make good on that promise.

My self-loathing was interrupted by the unmistakable clanking of my roommate’s heels.

“Good morning,” Christina beamed, as she reached right over me and grabbed the last apple.

Christina was one of those girls who were naturally gorgeous, even when she’d just woken up. In my hung-over, and quickly accelerating sick state I was extra aware, and disgusted, by how bright-eyed and effortless she looked. Not to mention she had already showered and was heading out the door while I was running twenty minutes late. We usually woke up around the same time to get ready to go to class and I couldn’t find the energy to fight her for the first shower today.

“Is there coffee?” was all I could muster up, as I fumbled around the fridge for bottled water. I yawned again and rubbed my eyes, leaning on the counter for support.

Before she could answer me, I noticed the time and frantically ran into my bedroom to get dressed for class, nearly taking Christina out in the process. I had realized early in the semester that this was not the class to be late to. The professor was a notorious hard ass and had actually called out my friend Olivia for checking the time on her cell phone last week, embarrassing her in front of the entire cohort. Scarred by the memory, I quickly ran a brush through my hair while simultaneously applying my foundation. A few minutes later, I was good to go (well, good enough).

I grabbed my purse and yelled “Bye!” to no one in particular, slamming the door behind me. As soon as I got into the elevator, my phone vibrated. I grabbed it from my purse, desperately hoping it was one of my friends telling me class was cancelled, but instead it was a text message from my boyfriend Nicholas.

It read, “Can’t wait 2 C U tomorrow honey, I’m counting down hrs!”

I dropped the phone back into my bag and exited the elevator on the ground floor. I started feeling a quick pang of guilt for ignoring the text, but Nicholas would understand how busy I was and I would re-cap my day with him, in full detail tonight, on the phone. It was comforting to know I could go about my day without having to check in with anyone twenty times, and that he had his own life too. Not to mention we had an undeniable chemistry between us that seemed to have stood the test of time. Or at least the past couple of years. I smiled to myself as I pictured his wide, soulful eyes, his ever-present second-day stubble (which I always referred to as, Oops! I didn’t realize I’m so sexy, stubble) and his strong, well-toned arms that just always managed to keep their firmness, no matter how many times he missed the gym. Combine all of that with my favorite thing he did, the way he traced my lips with his finger right before he was about to kiss me, and I was convinced I was in a perfect relationship. I let out a breathy sigh and let the warmth wash over me as I thought about how lucky I was to have such a great guy in my life. Sexy, caring, and smart. What more could you ask for?

Thunder cracking above my head interrupted this solitary pleasant thought. When I got outside I was greeted by a blanket of humid rain and I had, of course, left my umbrella upstairs. I glanced back at the elevator doors that were quickly closing. Since I lived on 18th floor of my apartment building, I rationalized that I had already gone too far to turn around and made my way to 6th Avenue in the pouring rain.

My sneakers did nothing to protect me against the river-sized potholes littering the streets of New York. Each passing minute was more disgusting than the last as I told myself I was going to be sitting with wet socks for the next two hours.

By the time I got to the school, I was drenched and feeling even more morose than when I had woken up. I darted into the ladies’ room to use the hand dryer to dry off at least to a comfortable level. When I opened the door, I sighed. There was a line of two girls in front of me, ignoring my soaked state, and gabbing on about having drinks at Crocodile Lounge later tonight. I started to shiver and one of them gave me an uncomfortable side-look. They finally decided to leave and I bent down to fit under the small, inefficient dryer. Feeling a little homeless, I flipped my head over, figuring my hair was the most important thing to get try. Then I reached down, pulled off my sneakers, and let the hot air run over my argyle socks. It was pointless, those babies were done for. I tossed them in the trash, deciding I’d be more comfortable without them.

Two more girls walked into the bathroom, heading straight to the mirrors. I recognized them, but not enough to say hi and start small-talk. Definitely not while I was looking like a drowned rat. After a few more minutes under the hand dryer, I ran my fingers through my puffed-up curls to help smooth them down. Reaching into my purse, I opted for a quick refreshing slick of clear lip-gloss, and a smudge of black eye-liner for good measure. I thought I looked normal enough to start my day.

While I was in the process of giving myself a mini make-over, I overheard the two girls talking about how difficult they were finding this semester. They were conversing in a loud whisper, but with rapid speech. The brunette with the secretary glasses looked as if she was going to burst into tears at any moment, the red-head with the expensive shoes sympathetically rubbing her back. They both let out a sigh, and then made each other swear they wouldn’t tell anyone else, out of fear of seeming weak. I shrugged and collecting my belongings off the sink basin. The girls seemed normal enough, but maybe that was the problem. Maybe you had to be cold and overly-determined to survive here. I shivered both at the thought, and from my clinging wet clothes.

They exited the bathroom, and finally I was alone. I grimaced while silently sympathizing with their pain, making a mental note that I wasn’t the only one suffering this year. Turning to the mirror, I allowed myself to stare a few seconds longer, then shook my head and made my way out into the hall.

As I walked down the long, tiled hallway toward my classroom, I felt a memory hit me out of nowhere. I remembered Nick and I, hands intertwined, walking across campus at Rutgers. The sun was shining as we lightly strolled across the pavement. He was anxious for me to meet his friends for the first time; he kept apologizing for how they would inevitably embarrass him. I could still hear the birds chirping on that unusually warm April day. I had stopped walking for a moment, waiting for a gaggle of sorority girls to pass us, and then brushed a strand of brown hair from his face.

“Stop being so nervous,” I said, rubbing his hand in mine. “Everything’s going to go great. We’ll eat, we’ll bond, we’ll crack jokes at your expense. How bad could it be?”

Nick offered me a laugh and sheepishly looked at the floor. I thought it was sweet, how much he cared about his friends and me getting along. That was the moment I knew I was in love with him.

The sound of a guy cursing at his cellphone broke me out of my daydream, and I quickly remembered where I was. I took a deep breath and opened the large brown door to my lecture hall.

I gingerly walked into the classroom hoping no one would notice my disheveled appearance, and took a quick glance around the room. The class was already going on, but thankfully my friend Michael had saved a seat for me. I breathed a sigh of relief and tried to smooth a deep wrinkle out of my shirt. He turned around slightly and gave me a subtle nod. I nodded back, and then quickly ran my fingers through my hair, attempting to further tame the nest of rain-soaked curls. It was no use; I’d have to sport this Bette Midler from the 80s look for the rest of this class.

I had met Michael only two or three months ago, when school started; it was getting harder to keep track. He and I were in every single class together, which wasn’t unusual given that our program in Biology and Behavioral Science only had forty students in it. This meant quick bonding but also steep competition. It kind of reminded me of how you’d make close friendships in summer camp, but then completely forget to call the person come October.

Michael and I had become fast friends after he referenced an old B movie, which just so happened to be one of my favorite films, during the third day of classes. I felt an instant connection that moment, which was a little out of character for me. I usually had a hard time opening up to people. After a good laugh, he composed himself and formally stuck out his hand.

“Michael Rathbourne,” he said with a warm smile and perfectly straight teeth. “And you are?”

His confidence had left me a little intimidated. Apart from going on a job interview, I had never formally introduced myself with a handshake before. I studied Michael as he held his warm smile. I couldn’t help but notice his full lips and dark-brown eyes, with tiny specs of gold if you looked closely enough. He was dressed well, wearing what looked like an expensive button-down and designer jeans.

“Amalia Hastings,” I said, trying my best to sound as confident as he had. I could feel my voice crack as I uttered the last syllable of my name. I squared my shoulders a bit and smiled.

“Well, Amalia Hastings,” he repeated my name, still holding my hand in his. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” His hand was soft, but still masculine. When he pulled away, I remember feeling slightly confused by the experience.

Michael was the same age as me, but that first encounter, among others, made him seem much more refined than any guy in their early twenties. If we had met in a bar, I would have pegged him for at least twenty-seven. He carried himself in a way that suggested confidence and pride, but I still found him warm and approachable. He was clearly well known at NYU. Most of the girls in the cohort noticed him for more than his good grades; their eyes following his every move whenever he made his way into class.

As I made my way to my seat, I could have sworn I saw one girl actually slowly scan him with her eyes as he reached over to a retrieve a pen he had dropped on the floor. I caught eyes with her and she quickly turned away, but not before giving me a nasty side-look first.

I laughed to myself and claimed the empty seat next to Michael.

“What’s so funny?” he raised an eyebrow.

“Nothing worth mentioning,” I smirked.

I pulled out a large notebook from my over-sized purse, and realized I didn’t have any pens on me. They must have fallen out while I was dashing through the rain like a crazy person. I rummaged through my bag for another minute until Michael presented me with a pen.

“Thanks,” I murmured.

He just nodded and returned his eye to the front of the room. I scanned the lecture hall and quickly noticed our other friends weren’t in class today. As if to read my mind, Michael leaned over and said, “Olivia and Alex aren’t here. I’m assuming the rain kept them away.” He leaned over close enough for me to smell his cologne. He smelled like sandalwood, and something else. As his arm accidentally brushed against mine from leaning a little too close, I quickly pulled it back and smiled. I felt my heart rate pick up a little bit when he touched me, but I shook it off. I had obviously noticed he was a good-looking guy, but I had never thought about him as anything more than just a friend.

Neither Olivia nor Alex lived in Manhattan, so it made sense that they would use the bad weather as an excuse to ditch. I looked around, noticing a lot more empty seats than usual. As I scanned the room, I watched one girl stare at Michael while simultaneously chewing her bottom lip. I raised an eyebrow at her, but she was too busy drooling to notice. Apart from the drooler, most of the class had definitely opted out of today’s lecture.

I turned to Michael and whispered, “I’m guessing that’s a common theme today.”

He smiled and said in a near whisper, “I’m glad you made it.” I felt a small shudder go through me as his voice dropped into a smooth, lower octave.

I smiled back at Michael and caught his eyes. I felt my stomach drop, the way it does when you’re on the top of a really high roller coaster. I could feel heat rise from my chest, into my cheeks, undoubtedly making them flush, and wondered if this cold was turning into fever. As I took a deep breath to get my ever-rapidly climbing heart rate until control, I immediately felt a tickle in my throat. Before I knew it, I began uncontrollably coughing again. Perfect, I thought. I put my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound as much as possible. I was petrified Dr. Van der Stein would kick me out for interrupting his lecture on the myth of phrenology. Just as I was about to get up and run into the hallway, Michael tapped my shoulder and without saying a word reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of cough drops, and placed them on the desk in front of me. We made eye contact but I couldn’t speak to thank him, fearing any use of my voice would trigger another coughing fit. He turned back to face the front of the class but I continued to stare at him. I then stared at the cough drops.

Why was this affecting me so much? I felt a strong sense of panic come over me, followed by a moment of clarity.

I was in love with Michael.




Chapter 2 (#uc657e52f-d224-5c83-96cf-ca0fead5b343)

Tell me you love me (#uc657e52f-d224-5c83-96cf-ca0fead5b343)


The next day my apartment buzzer went off at exactly 8p.m. Without asking who wanted in, I buzzed back, opening the downstairs entrance, unlocked my door, and plopped back onto my couch. My best friend Cassandra had made me re-tell every moment of yesterday’s class with Michael ad nauseum over the phone that afternoon. By the end of it, I chalked up my new-found love for him as nothing more than fever-induced delirium. Even if I had found Michael momentarily attractive, I was looking forward to a nice relaxing evening on the couch with Nicholas. I finished the conversation with Cassandra by telling her that Nicholas was coming over that evening because he wanted to “nurse me back to health”.

Cassandra let out a long sigh into the receiver, and almost threateningly said, “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

Two minutes after the buzzer had rung, my door opened and Nicholas Anderson had materialized. He was just standing there, smiling warmly at me. He was wearing his traditional torn jeans, plain white sneakers, and a dark-blue T-shirt with a hoodie over it. He topped the look off with a worn-out gray baseball-style hat that I remember him buying four years ago at Abercrombie. Nicholas was always a jeans and T-shirt kind of guy, he never dressed to impress anyone, always appearing completely comfortable, and he effectively pulled it off. It was one of the things that had drawn me to him in the first place.

We had met four years ago, freshman year of college at Rutgers when my roommate Dasha had introduced us. We clicked instantly and became fast friends, bonding over our mutual hatred of our economics professor and our love for Dashboard Confessional’s music. Even though the economics class would be the only class we would take together, me being a combined Biological Sciences/Psychology major, and him being a Communications major, we still made it a point to spend nearly every day together. At this time, four years ago, I was still involved with my high-school sweetheart and didn’t think of Nicholas as more than just a good buddy. By the time we finished undergrad, I came to think of him as one of my best friends. It wasn’t until one rainy Friday night two years ago when Nicholas insisted on coming over to talk and said that it was extremely important. He refused to tell me any details over the phone, which only made me imagine the worst. I was so nervous from his evasiveness, figuring something horrible had happened, that I immediately grabbed and hugged him when he arrived that evening. I nervously looked him up and down for some sort of clue as to what was going on. He quickly realized my frantic state and let out a chuckle.

“It’s nothing bad, Amalia,” he said, leading me to the couch. “I’m sorry I scared you. I just had to talk to you in person, and it had to be now.”

Dying of anticipation, I put my hands on his shoulders and commanded, “Tell me now.”

He took my hands off his shoulders and held on to them tightly, all the while keeping strong eye contact. Taken aback by this gesture, I was beginning to feel nervous. He let go of my left hand and stroked my out-grown bangs away from my face.

Without breaking eye contact, he said “I know we’ve been friends for a long time.” Nicholas paused and finally broke eye contact. He sheepishly looked down at the floor, almost too embarrassed or afraid to continue with his obviously well-prepared speech.

I opened my mouth to break the silence when he said, “But I’m crazy about you, and I have been since the first time I saw you.”

My initial reaction was to bypass this type of emotionally charged contact with a joke, but I was too stunned to deflect with my usual sarcasm. Nicholas then proceeded to proverbially pour his heart out to me, recapping every moment of the first day we met, from the smell of the perfume I had on, right down to the green laces in my sneakers, and everything in between. He ended his pontification perfectly, declaring the words that every girl longs to hear from a man.

He cupped my face in his hands and softly said, “Amalia, you’re the one”.

I was petrified. No one had ever told me I was “the one”, and certainly never with such conviction and confidence that Nicholas had presented. He spoke as if the alternative, me not being “the one”, was impossible. After taking a few days to think about this proposal, of him and I taking a huge leap into a full-blown relationship that could end badly, ultimately causing us to never speak again, I decided it was worth the risk if it meant I got to be with someone who loved me so intensely. It was now two years later, and I had never felt happier.

Remembering that night only made me feel more relieved and comforted by his familiar presence when he walked over to me tonight.

“I come bearing gifts!” he said as he excitedly reached into a plastic Duane Reade bag.

I wrapped the blanket around me and sank a little lower into the couch, fully preparing myself to be taken care of. Even with his cap on, I could see that Nicholas’s dark hair had grown out well past the point of needing a haircut, but somehow it only made him look sexier.

“Nyquil, tissues, organic green tea, and Vitamin C,” he proudly presented as he systematically placed the contents of the bag in a line on my coffee table.

After emptying the contents of the bag, he took off his hat and threw it on the table, revealing his perfectly straight, gorgeous jet-black hair. He then leaned over me and put his hand on my forehead; his hands were always warm and comforting. I immediately closed my eyes in reaction to the warm rush of what I could only recognize as love. True love that formed when you knew someone perfectly for years before you even began dating them, not the kind of quick lust that was elicited when a near-stranger offers you a lozenge. Having been raised by an atheist mother, the notion of faith to me was as well received as believing in the tooth fairy. However, when it came to Nicholas, the cynical, black-and-white realist that had been ingrained in me from an early age seemed to disappear. I firmly believed that we were meant to be soul-mates. I opened my eyes and stared into his. His eyes were by far his best feature. They were perfectly round and impossibly wide and youthful, a light chestnut color with flakes of deep brown, which masculinized an otherwise feminine trait.

“Hi, baby,” I purred dreamily, slipping further into bliss. His strong arms were exactly what I needed to fall into after a day of feeling awful.

“Hello, darling,” he answered sweetly, stroking my hair and pulling me closer to him.

I could smell his Acqua di Gio cologne, and I was convinced it was the greatest scent in nature. I could feel him breathing as he gently put my heavy head on his chest. All of the chaos and stress of the previous day had vanished. This was exactly what I needed. I felt the warm envelopment of sleep coming.

“Tell me you love me,” he whispered as he pushed my hair off of my face.

I smiled, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. Before I could even take a swig of Nyquil, I was out.




Chapter 3 (#uc657e52f-d224-5c83-96cf-ca0fead5b343)

Dirty Blondes (#uc657e52f-d224-5c83-96cf-ca0fead5b343)


“You’re a damn idiot,” Cassie rolled her eyes as she tried to flag down the bartender at Oliver’s Tavern.

Except her nasty comment wasn’t directly at the cute, hipster bartender, it was directed at me.

“You’ve been in love with Michael since the first day you met him, I remember you going on and on about how he made you shake his hand,” she said, annoyed at both me and now the hipster.

Cassandra was not used to not getting her way, or in this case, her order taken. She was growing increasingly annoyed at the bartender for not paying attention to her despite her best efforts.

I looked around the bar. I couldn’t help but notice the place was overly crowded for a Thursday evening, containing mostly an older scene. I checked my watch; it wasn’t even nine, way too early for this kind of crowd. Even through all of the yuppie noise, I could hear Third Eye Blind’s “Semi-Charmed Life” playing over the speakers and had a brief flashback to summer camp. In the left corner of the room I noticed a group of four good-looking men in suits, probably bankers, laughing too loudly. Finally, the exasperated bartender appeared in front of us.

Before he could even ask what we wanted, Cassandra said, “It’s about time! Gin and tonic, and not any of that cheap well shit. Make sure you put Tanqueray in there.” she commanded without even looking up, “I can tell the difference.”

A little embarrassed by her tenacity I said sheepishly, “Jack and Coke. Please.” Adding the please as an attempt to soften the experience and minimize the chances of spit being in her drink in addition to her high-class gin.

He made the drinks in record time and slammed them down in front of us, spilling a good amount of mine onto the bar, but thankfully missing any of my clothes.

“I mean,” she started in again as she plucked the lime out of her drink and dropped it onto the bar, “I can’t believe you haven’t done anything about this sooner.”

She sipped her drink and then finally met my gaze. I suddenly felt very alert.

“Woah, wait a minute, I’m not doing anything. What are you talking about?” I said, a little confused by her vigilant attitude.

She looked at me, straw in mouth, and cocked her head to the side as if to say “You know what I mean.”

“Cass, Michael and I are just friends.” I said calmly, hoping to disarm the attack that I knew was coming. Clearly not buying it, Cassandra let out a laugh, but it sounded more like a snort. “Sure, he’s a good-looking guy, but I’m not doing anything! For starters, I have a boyfriend who I love.” I pressed my hands to my chest, watching as she shook her head at me.

Even though Cassandra was my best friend, she had only met Nicholas a handful of times and for some reason unbeknownst to me, she wasn’t his biggest fan. I believed her disdain for him had something to do with the first time they met. He had made a joke about her name; I couldn’t recall the details since I was already three or four drinks in when the misunderstanding happened, but the whole ordeal had left a bad taste in Cassie’s mouth.

“Secondly,” I said and then paused to take a sip of my drink. I suddenly felt a strong relief from the alcohol that was in front of me, “Michael has a girlfriend, in case you had forgotten.”

“Hello! Who lives in Phoenix!” she practically shouted, at the same time as the bartender walked by. He shot us a look, and then smiled politely.

“That bartender’s pretty cute; you shouldn’t be such a bitch to him,” I muttered.

“Don’t try to change the subject, Amy!” she said, now grinning. She held up one finger and shook her head. Her blonde hair bounced from side to side.

She was the only person on earth who could get away with calling me Amy. After all, Amy is in no way short for Amalia, but in eighth-grade gym class she decided my actual name was too much of a mouthful and has been calling me Amy ever since. She could obviously tell I was not amused by this conversation, so she finally pulled back.

“Fine,” she said, softening. “I am sorry I even so much as implied that you could do better than Nicholas Anderson.” She crossed her legs and started looking around the bar, as if this conversation was suddenly boring her.

I shook my head and clapped in front of her face to regain her attention. “It’s not a question of doing better, Cass. I love Nick, he’s my boyfriend. Michael is in a relationship and regardless of geography he and Marge seem to be doing fine, so moving on!” I said in a self-declaring rant, and then downed the rest of my drink.

Cassandra, not knowing when to leave well enough alone concluded with, “Marge, ugh! I even hate her name.”

“We’re moving on!”

Now I was the one practically yelling.

We both looked at each other and burst out laughing. We’ve been friends for ten years and had never gotten into a real fight. Sure there were moments when we would get short with each other, but it always ended with a laugh, knowing how ridiculous we sounded. She flipped her short, golden hair back, and gave me a light punch on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” someone said from behind us.

I turned around to a very well-dressed man in what I assumed was an expensive, and well-tailored, suit. It was one of the laughing bankers from the corner. I noticed he had grayish eyes and recalled earlier that day in class, when I had learned how rare that physical trait was. All in all, a good-looking man.

“Are you sisters?” he asked as he leaned in a little closer to us.

When he came closer I could tell he was older than Cassie and I, definitely late twenties or possibly even thirty. I turned to Cassandra, expecting her to answer with some quick retort, but she just sat there, staring at the guy. I felt the need to jump in.

“No, sorry. We’re not sisters,” I offered, not really sure why I felt the need to apologize, but he seemed completely disinterested in what I had to say and continued looking at Cassandra.

She finally recovered from her swoon and said, “That’s right, we’re not sisters. People always ask us if we’re related, though, because we have the same hair color.”

I loosely grabbed a handful of Cassandra’s, barely shoulder-length, hair and held it up to my own in an attempt to justify this comment. My hair was about five inches longer than her hair, hanging down the middle of my back. Despite this difference, the coloring was virtually the same.

“Dirty blondes?” he smirked.

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at him. Anyone over the age of 18 should never make a joke that pedestrian. He barely noticed my dismay.

“Bryce Peterson,” he said. I work for Ernst and Young, in accounting”.

Bryce took a sip of his beer and then continued, “I just started working there this week, so a few of my buddies and I are out celebrating. What are your names? What do you do?”

I thought it was odd that he offered up his credentials without us even asking. Also, his questions were directed at both of us, but it seemed clear he was only interested in Cassandra’s answer. I felt relieved; I had enough problems with men right now. For example, I couldn’t get the thought of Michael’s soft graze against my arm out of my mind. Something so insignificant was suddenly the main focus of most of my thoughts. I couldn’t tell Cassandra, she’d never let me hear the end of it. Besides, I felt guilty for ever feeling this way.

“Hello there, Bryce. My name is Cassandra de Luca and I work for Prestige magazine,” she said proudly, although it was clear he had never heard of the publication.

Cassandra had just been promoted from intern to publications assistant. I still wasn’t entirely sure what her job entailed. “Um hi, I’m Amalia Hastings,” I uttered, giving a little wave to Cassandra and Bryce, who appeared to be in a staring contest at this point.

“I’m studying Biology and Behavioral Sciences at NYU; decided to go for my Master’s,” I continued, but it was no use, the attention was clearly not on me.

I checked my watch again, nine-thirty. If I left now, I might actually be able to get a good night’s sleep. I decided to let Cassandra and Bryce talk and call it a night.

“Okay Cassie, have a good night,” I called to her and grabbed my purse. “Nice meeting you, Bryce.”

“Yeah, sure. Goodnight,” she mumbled, seemingly mesmerized by her new crush.

I laughed to myself and then made my way to the door. The cool, crisp fall air felt great when I got outside. It was refreshing after coming out of the stuffy, crowded bar. I smiled and thought about how lucky I was to be living in this city. I started to make my way down Barrow Street when I heard something. It sounded like a twig snapping. The type of sound you hear in a horror movie just before the damsel in distress gets stabbed.

“Amalia?” a voice called. My heart started pounding faster, and this time I couldn’t blame it on illness.

“Yes?” I called out. The figure came closer to me and was now in focus. He stood there, smiling and I felt a little dizzy. I took a deep breath and finally spoke, “Hi, Michael.”




Chapter 4 (#uc657e52f-d224-5c83-96cf-ca0fead5b343)

I’m all yours (#uc657e52f-d224-5c83-96cf-ca0fead5b343)


“Thank God you cooked!” I clapped as I walked into Nicholas’s studio apartment.

His place was dimly lit, all of the lights were off except for the overhead light in the kitchen.

“Oh, were you hungry? I think I may have some leftovers in the fridge,” Nicholas replied jokingly, wryly smiling.

I dropped my purse onto the bed and kicked off my new ballet flats I had just picked up at Necessary Clothing. My bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor, but it felt good after the nine-block walk. I walked over to Nicholas and kissed him hello.

“Ha! You are hilarious,” I smiled. “Thanks for agreeing to eat dinner at five like a senior citizen. I wanted to make sure I got to see you today and my class is going to end late tonight.”

“Honey, of course! Besides if I didn’t cook for you, you’d most likely die of malnutrition. After all, one cannot survive on pasta and whiskey alone. Why do most of your classes start so late anyway?” he asked for what felt like the hundredth time.

I was waiting for him to become irritated with my always having to run off to class or to the library, but he never did. Nick was the perfect boyfriend; patient, understanding, and insanely cute. I watched him cooking for me and I think I fell a little more in love with him.

“Um, I assume it’s because most people work until about five or so; so they schedule most graduate level classes at six-thirty or seven,” I replied, stroking his hair.

I motioned to him for a hug and placed my head on his chest; my head fit perfectly under his chin, making me feel safe.

“And I don’t only survive on pasta and whiskey,” I insisted. “There’s also scotch and dark chocolate to consider.”

He gave me a wink and a quick kiss on the forehead. I crossed over to the fridge and grabbed myself a bottle of water, suddenly feeling warm.

“So, how did last night go?” he asked, catching me off guard.

“It went fine.” I answered quickly. “Cassandra met a guy named Bryce something and I started to feel like a third wheel, so I just headed home early.”

I felt guilty for lying and couldn’t look at him as I answered. I turned to walk out of the kitchen when he grabbed my arm and passionately pulled me towards him, my face less than an inch from his.

“You’re burning,” I whispered, before he could kiss me.

“What?” he asked, genuinely confused.

I sheepishly replied, “The chicken, it’s burning.”

I bit my bottom lip and looked up at Nick. After all of this time I was still intensely attracted to him. Whenever I caught a glimpse of those big, gorgeous eyes, I could feel myself melt a little.

Nicholas twisted the knob on the stove, turning off the flame. I let out a small laugh and realized I probably wasn’t going to be eating dinner tonight. Then without saying another word he lifted me up and carried me onto the bed. Carefully placing me down, he began removing my clothes while kissing me tenderly. His mouth enveloping mine, sending goosebumps down my back. He quickly peeled off his shirt and jeans, and threw them on the floor. He then stopped and began to look me up and down, admiring every inch of my body. I thought about how lucky I was to have a boyfriend who was so into me, and how I never had to be self-conscious around him. He placed his hand under my chin and looked deeply into my eyes. I felt a surreal moment of tranquility and said, “Take me, I’m all yours.” He began kissing my neck, and then my stomach, and then came back up to my lips.

“Dinner’s getting cold,” I said jokingly.

“The microwave works,” he said seductively smiling back at me. “We can reheat it.”

I never did make it to class that night. Instead, Nicholas and I finally got around to eating dinner after an amazing hour in bed, opened a bottle of Merlot, and then re-watched our favorite movie, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, for what had to be the twentieth time. I glanced at the clock; it was a little past midnight. Nick and I had gone to bed about forty minutes ago and he had quickly slipped into a blissful coma-like state. I on the other hand, was wide awake. I felt an overabundance of guilt as I looked over at Nick, because for the past half hour all I could think about was Michael. More specifically, the run-in he and I had last night as I was leaving Oliver’s Tavern. I turned on my back and replayed last night’s scene in my mind.

“Heading home?” Michael had asked. As soon as he spoke I felt a shiver of excitement rush through my body.

“Yeah. I’m beat,” I answered, trying to sound as casual as possible.

I felt the need to keep the conversation going, but a cold gust of air hit my face and made it impossible to think of something charming to say. I glanced down the street behind Michael and I noticed a young couple walking by. Their arms were linked as they made their way into a subway entrance. I wondered if they were in a relationship, or merely a second date.

“So, um. What are you doing in this neighborhood, alone?”

I knew Michael lived in midtown, East 60th street; not exactly close by.

“I just left a friend’s apartment, they live nearby. I needed to walk for a bit and clear my head.”

I felt a sense of worry and intrigue, as if he wasn’t telling me something important, his usual composed and refined disposition seemed a little shaky.

“Are you alright? I mean, do you want some company?” I asked as I reached out to touch his arm.

“I was just going to head back to my apartment, why don’t you come over for a drink and you can tell me what’s bothering you?”

Shit! What was I doing inviting him back to my apartment, at night? I couldn’t stop myself, though; it was as if my mind had no control over my speech. I was suddenly eager to help Michael in any way I could, and apparently that meant inviting him back to my apartment.

“I—” he started. Then he paused for a minute, and I silently braced myself for rejection. “Amalia, I would love to come in for a drink. I could really use someone to talk to.”

“Great!” I said, a little too eagerly. “I mean, that’s cool. Let’s get going.” I tried to sound more composed, motioning toward the crosswalk.

He smiled and moved a bit closer to me. I immediately went weak at the knees. In all of my anxiety, I hadn’t noticed how great he looked until right now. Michael always dressed well but for some reason I took extra notice of his fitted black button-down shirt, dark denim jeans free of distress of any kind, and loafers to pull the look together. I realized I was still staring at him when he pulled me in for a hug.

“Thank you, Amalia. You’re a great friend,” he whispered.

I felt strong sense of disappointment and a little foolish as he let go of me. A friend? A buddy? Is that all Michael thought of me as? More importantly, why did I care so much?




Chapter 5 (#uc657e52f-d224-5c83-96cf-ca0fead5b343)

Olivia (#uc657e52f-d224-5c83-96cf-ca0fead5b343)


“Oh my gosh how many times do I have to say this to you? Nothing happened!” I said for what had to be the third time in five minutes. Olivia and I had decided to grab a drink at Fat Black Pussy Cat after class that evening, and Cassandra insisted on coming along. Michael and Alex also jumped on the idea to drink away Dr. Van der Stein’s lecture on organic chemistry, and were meeting us soon. “Non capisco! I just don’t understand you!” Cassandra threw her arms up and shook her head at me, her chandelier earrings bouncing from side to side.

“Woah, was that English?” Olivia said with a huge smile on her face, obviously entertained by Cassandra’s latest outburst.

“Please don’t encourage her, Olivia,” I buried my face in my hands.

“You have this good-looking guy, alone in your apartment,” Cassandra continued to berate me, ignoring Olivia’s question. But before she could finish, I interrupted.

I held up my right hand. “Christina was home, we were not alone,” I said declaratively, as if that was some sort of justification for my lie.

“Oh really? Was she in the living room with the two of you? Or was she once again cooped up in her bedroom reading some obscure novel and being completely antisocial?” Cassandra cocked her head to the side and raised an eyebrow.

“Jeeze!” I shook my head.” First you attack me, now Christina?”

Olivia just sat there in silent bewilderment, her light-brown eyes as wide as possible. She had met Cassie several times before but was still confused by her boisterous demeanor. Olivia was the polar opposite of Cassandra and I. Being that we were both from Staten Island, Cassie and I prided ourselves on being loud, outspoken, and at times bitchy. Olivia on the other hand was from Providence, Rhode Island. Having only moved to New York four months ago, she was still quiet, polite, very shy, and free of any New York City-style dialect. She had attended college at the University of Florida. No city experience what-so-ever. Olivia had “newcomer writer” all over her. The only unpolished thing she did was smoke Newports. I found it to be very uncharacteristic of her, but it did give her a little bit of an edge. However, despite their differences, the two got along famously, as if they balanced each other out.

“Dire! Just answer the question!” Cassie demanded, her hazel eyes flashing.

Being that her grandparents were right off the boat from Italy, they demanded she learn to speak Italian and this she bestowed upon us when she was excited.

“Were you, or were you not, alone with him?”

I felt defeated.

“I was, alright, but nothing happened!” I said for now the fifth time. “Also, can we stick to English tonight?”

Cassandra smiled triumphantly.

Through all of my annoyance, I felt a smile tug at the sides of my lips.

“I’m going to slap you,” I said jokingly.

Olivia shook her head at the two of us, a wide grin decorating her face.

“I’m going to record the two of you and upload it when you aren’t looking,” she said laughing at us.

She reached into her gorgeous Michael Kors purse and pulled out her cell.

“Oh hey guys, it’s actually almost nine thirty. Michael and Alex are going to be here any minute, so maybe it would be a good idea to cap this conversation until tomorrow?” she asked.

“You know what?” I leaned forward. “No need to, ladies, because I am done pretending. Cassandra, you were right all along. We did it, Michael and me. We had hot, dirty sex right on my Ikea couch all while Christina was in the next room. It was amazing. I mean, it was the kind of sex you could only have when you’ve been stuck screwing the same person for years, boy did I let go of my inhibitions. Phew! Feels so good to get that off my chest!” I slammed my right hand down on the table, hoping this would finally shut Cassie up.

Olivia burst out laughing and then raised her glass of wine to toast me. Thinking I had finally silenced her, I shot Cassandra a look.

Cassandra gave me a blank, unamused stare, and flipped her hair back. “Fine, but Amalia, this conversation is not over. I’m heading to the ladies.”

She dramatically pushed her chair in and marched to the ladies’ room.

“C’mon! Champagne for everyone! Don’t you want to know if he wears boxers or briefs?” I shouted to her as she walked away.

Her three-inch heels clacked loudly on the bar’s old wooden floors. Every man at the bar turned to watch Cassie walk. Having come straight from her office, she was wearing dark-gray dress pants, patent-leather pumps, a bright-red button-down top, and oversized chandelier earrings. I had to hand it to the girl, she looked great. Suddenly feeling self-conscious about my own outfit, a dark-brown dress paired with gray blazer and a jeweled headband, I turned to Olivia. She was wearing a lime-green cardigan with a white camisole underneath, a knee-length black pleated skirt, and understated basic black flats. Her mousy brown hair was pulled back into a plain pony tail, minimal jewelry, and from what I could tell no make-up other than clear lip gloss. I couldn’t help but wonder if she felt underdressed. Before I could complete the thought, I suddenly felt two hands on my shoulder, causing me to nearly jump out of my seat. I quickly turned around to see who it was.

“I always say it, Hastings, you’re too highly strung,” Alex said, holding on to me tightly.

“Maybe it’s because of the lack of personal space I have in this bar,” I countered, as he continued to hold onto my shoulders.

I brushed him off, and wondered why Michael was friends with him. He and Michael had appeared out of nowhere wearing what appeared to be matching outfits. They both had on dark denim jeans, loafers, and button-down shirts with fitted v-neck sweaters over them, allowing the pattern of the shirt collar and cuffs to show. I pretended to be disgusted and dust off my shoulders.

“Hey you two,” said Michael, pulling an empty bar stool from a neighboring table.

“So how ridiculous was Dr. Van Der’s class today?”

“Oh no!” Cassandra said as she strutted back to her seat. “If you’re going to talk about class, I’m out of here!”

Cassandra was the only one at the table who did not currently take classes at NYU.

“Who are you?” she said to Alex.

“Hey, I’m Alex”, he said, holding his hand out, seemingly unfazed by her sharp question. “You must be Cassandra.”

“Another hand-shaker, eh?” she said sarcastically.

I kicked her under the table and shot her a look of warning. Her iPhone started to vibrate, shaking the entire table.

“It’s Bryce,” she explained.

A smile crept across her face, and something made me think it was a booty call.

“The yuppie from Oliver’s?” I grimaced; a little disappointed she was seeing him again.

“That’s the one,” she answered without looking up from her phone. “I forgot I was supposed to be meeting him. I have to run. Boys, always a pleasure. Arrivederci.”

“Goodnight,” we all said in unison.

“Who’s Bryce again?” asked Olivia.

“Ugh, you don’t want to know,” I shook my head.

The bar was starting to clear out, thankfully. In New York City, no one was ever home. Most of the population inhabited bars or boutique coffee shops instead of ever returning to their respective homes. I couldn’t decide if it was the size of their apartments that kept them away, or the constant need to feel “busy.”

I caught Michael’s eye and for a second I forgot anyone else was with us. He smiled at me and the increasingly familiar rush of heat started to creep up on me.

“So, Amalia,” Alex said, breaking me out of my daze. “I heard you’re going to Panama when school’s over in the spring.”

“Brazil,” I answered quickly.

“Same shit,” he shot back.

“Actually, they’re two completely separate countries,” I answered, annoyed at his ignorance and attitude.

Alex and I had always had a love-hate relationship, and he was closer with Michael and Olivia than me, but I tolerated him for the sense of the group.

“Whatever, they speak Spanish there don’t they?” he smiled sarcastically.

“No. Actually, they speak Portuguese. Seriously dude, get a map,” I mumbled and took a sip of my beer.

“Brazil! That’s so exciting!” Olivia said, trying to recover the uncomfortable moment.

Michael looked up at me and said, “I didn’t know you were leaving the country! For how long?”

“About three months”, I answered. “I’ll be there from the end of May until August. I have a cousin who lives there so I am going to spend some time living with the locals.”

“Are you going for your job?” he asked.

“No, nothing like that,” I shrugged. “I’ve just always wanted to go there; it just looks so beautiful. I spent all of last summer working as a receptionist so I could save enough money to buy a plane ticket.”

“Very ambitious, Amalia. What does your boyfriend have to say about that?” Alex asked, challenging me.

“Nothing. He feels fine,” I shot back.

No need to go into details, to explain Nicholas and I had gotten into a small argument that morning over the length of time I was going to be away. Our minor argument was none of Alex’s business, and also I didn’t want Michael to think Nick and I had any problems at all.

“Well, I could use a smoke,” Olivia said to Alex, attempting to break the tension. “Care to join me?” She could tell I was getting annoyed by him and gave me a small smile. He nodded and stood up, motioning for her to walk in front of him. As obnoxious as he was, he had good manners. I was relieved to have the questions stop, and also to be alone with Michael. I noticed once again how well put together he looked and wondered how he looked when at home, alone, with no one to impress.

“Hey, listen sorry I skipped out last night with just a note,” he leaned closer over the table.

His cologne smelled very masculine, like deep sandalwood and a touch of something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He leaned back in his chair and laughed. “It’s just that, you looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Yeah, um, don’t worry about it,” I muttered nervously. I tucked a stray curl behind my ear and sat up a little straighter. “I’m just embarrassed I fell asleep!”

I was definitely more disappointed than embarrassed, having wasted my time with him unconscious. After I ran into him on the street two nights ago, Michael had come back to my apartment to talk. After opening a bottle of Pinot and pouring us both two oversized glasses, I asked him what was bothering him.

“I’d actually rather not discuss it,” he said. “Is it alright if we just sit here?”

I wasn’t quite sure what to say. Our reason for being at my place alone was gone, and I felt even more awkward than before.

“Yeah, sure,” I replied, noticeably confused by the request. “Anything to help.”

The night was, as I told the girls, uneventful. After we finished the wine, we sat and talked about school, applying for internships, and what our lives were like before we moved to New York. Apparently I had been so exhausted that I fell asleep on the couch while we were watching The Daily Show.

I woke up the next morning, still on the couch, with a throw blanket around me and a note on the coffee table that read, “Thanks for the company, see you in class.”

My assumption was right, that Michael had left right after I fell asleep. I looked around and noticed the bar was emptying out. Now this was more like it, no fighting over the bartenders tonight.

“So, um, how’s Marge doing?” I asked, and then immediately regretted the words.

He seemed a little taken back by the question. The only information I had on Michael’s girlfriend was her name, and the fact that she was two years younger. Since she was still in college, a senior at Arizona State, they only saw each other once every month or two.

“She’s doing fine. I spoke to her earlier today on the phone, but it’s not the same,” he said. “Long-distance relationships are hard. Even harder when you’re older. I mean, I’m not an undergrad any more.”

I looked at him surprised. I wasn’t expecting such a detailed answer.

“Anyway, isn’t your birthday coming up? Twenty-three right? Getting old,” he said playfully, obviously changing the subject.

I played along.

“Yeah, next week,” I mumbled. “Don’t remind me.”

“Ha, not a birthday person?” he asked, looking amused, and gave me a poke on the shoulder.

“No, actually I’m not. Does it matter?” I answered, now laughing myself. “You’re all going to make me do something lame anyway!”

“No way! We’re going to have fun,” he motioned to the bartender.

I cocked my head to the side and said, “Michael, every time you say we’re going to have fun, we end up drunk, completely broke, and lost in neighborhoods no one should ever be lost in.”

“Yes, Amalia,” he smiled at me, flashing every one of his perfectly straight teeth. “That is how I define fun.”




Chapter 6 (#uc657e52f-d224-5c83-96cf-ca0fead5b343)

It’s my birthday, and I’ll do what I want to (#uc657e52f-d224-5c83-96cf-ca0fead5b343)


I looked around Cassandra’s spacious two-bedroom apartment crowded with about twenty of my closest friends. The place was filled with pink and white balloons, plastic martini glasses, and paper decorations including a custom banner that read “Happy Birthday Amalia!”

I thought back to when she and Nicholas had asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday when we were hanging out last week.

“Just a dinner with the two of you, Olivia, and Christina,” I replied. “Nothing too fancy, maybe Max Brenner? Or even somewhere in Little Italy would be perfect. You know, something simple.”

My input, however, had been clearly ignored. Lured to Cassie’s place under the false pretenses of going to said “low key” dinner, I nearly had a heart attack when the energetic guests of my clandestinely planned surprise party jumped out at me.

“Surprise!” everyone yelled in unison.

“What the hell! The two of you are in so much trouble!” I said as I caught my breath. I leaned over the couch, pretending they had given me a heart attack.

“Were you surprised, honey?” Nicholas asked with a sinister smirk on his face.

“Yeah, I mean I thought we were having a small, intimate dinner?”

He leaned in for a kiss and I turned away, playfully pretending to be too annoyed for affection. A few seconds later, I was bombarded with drink offers and birthday wishes.

“Happy Birthday, Hastings,” said Alex as he handed me a glass of champagne.

“Twenty-three!” Olivia enthusiastically threw her arms around me. “It’s about time!”

Since my birthday was at the beginning of October, I was the last of my friends to have a birthday this year. I had been teased by friends for being the youngest essentially my whole life.

“The food is delicious, by the way. I got that vegetarian place Blossom to cater. Great turn-out too; everyone is here,” Olivia said, smiling brightly.

Her eyes were wide and covered in gray glitter eye-shadow.

“I could use some of that food,” I muttered, scanning the room for sustenance.

“Right this way!” she said, leading me by the hand.

I numbly followed Olivia as she led me through Cassandra’s apartment. I swallowed hard and smiled, trying my best to hide the anxiety that this surprise birthday party was causing me. On the way to the kitchen, I quickly scanned the room to see if indeed everyone was here. I saw my one roommate, Christina, in the corner talking to some girl I had never met. Cassandra was on the living room couch kissing her new boyfriend, Bryce. Alex, check. Olivia, check. Nicholas, check. I even recognized a few people from class Olivia must have told Cassandra to invite. Everyone was in fact accounted for; everyone other than Michael.

I swallowed my champagne and grabbed another. I might as well make the best of this situation.

As the night went on, my friends became progressively drunk, which unfortunately included Nicholas. Out of nowhere, he decided now would be a perfect time to discuss my summer trip to Brazil.

“I just don’t understand why you feel the need to leave the country for two months,” he said in a tone I had only heard him use once before.

During the first year of our relationship, his mother passed away during a family weekend in college. It was quick and without warning. She was hit by a drunk driver while crossing the street in downtown New Brunswick, where Rutgers was. Neither of us saw this, but I’ll never forget the acidic taste that filled my mouth that Tuesday afternoon when Nick got a call from Robert Wood Johnson hospital. By the time we got there, it was too late to say our goodbyes. His mom died in the ambulance during transport. For the next few months, Nick was cold to me. The more I tried to support and be there for him, the more he’d pull away. I found myself chasing after what we’d had, desperately clinging to those first nine months together when he thought I was perfect. It took about six more months of me putting up with his callous demeanor until he finally started to come around and act like the guy I knew and loved. He apologized for the way he’d treated me, and I forgave him instantly. I didn’t know what it was like to lose a parent, and couldn’t have understood what he was going through.

But now, as I stood here in Cassandra’s apartment I felt sick, like I had eaten something bad. My eyes filled up with tears and I quickly turned my face away from the crowd. If Nick was capable of acting the way he did when his mother died, it’s possible that darkness was something that was inside of him, and could crawl out at any moment.

He dragged me into Cassandra’s bedroom, saying we needed to talk more. I felt my heart sink into my stomach, and found myself wishing I hadn’t drank that second glass of champagne. I closed the door to Cassandra’s bedroom and immediately began speaking.

“Baby, it’s not that long,” I pleaded with him.

I shook my head and gave him a weary smile. Anxious to end this argument, I softly took his hands in mine and looked right into his eyes.

“Besides, you’ll be starting an internship around the time I leave,” I said, trying to ease the blow. “You’ll be so busy by the time summer comes along, we’d barely have time to see each other in the first place. That’s why I picked those two months to be there.”

It was true, Nicholas had applied for an internship at Clear Channel in an attempt to find a new job. He would be interning three days a week, without pay, on top of his current workload at his present job. I thought it would be a perfect time for him to get his life together. Just as I thought I was getting through to him, he shook his head, jerked his hands out of my grasp, and started to pace across the room.

“I just expected you to be there for me while I was starting a new position. I’m going to be extremely stressed with all of the new responsibility and it would be nice to be able to come home to my girlfriend, who should be taking care of me,” he was practically shouting now. “Not running off to fulfill some ridiculous fantasy to travel the world.”

I stood there, stunned. Nicholas had a few drinks in him but I couldn’t imagine the alcohol could provoke such a hateful and selfish statement. His eyes, which were normally wide and welcoming, were narrowed. I searched for the words to address this situation calmly.

“Where is this coming from? You’ve known about this trip for a while now. Nicholas, I think you should take a step back and listen to what you are saying to me. I am not running off to fulfill any sort of fantasy. What you’re saying to me is a little selfish.”

I walked over to him and gave him a hug. He stood there still, arms defiantly pressed against his own body.

“Now why don’t we just go back outside and join the rest of the party; people are probably wondering where I am. We can talk about this tomorrow, I promise.”

“All right, Amalia, whatever you want,” he uttered dryly. Nicholas never called me by my name. The formality of it made him seem cold and detached, like a scolding grammar-school teacher. It made me a little nervous.

“So will you come back to the party with me, then?” I asked, hopeful we could still salvage the evening.

Without answering me, Nicholas walked out of the bedroom and made a beeline for the living room.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

He grabbed his jacket off the couch and turned to me and said, “I’m going home. Have a wonderful evening.”

Before I could open my mouth to answer, he had slammed the door and left. Thankfully the music and chatter was too loud for anyone to have witnessed his temper tantrum. Feeling like I could hardly stand, I sat down on the couch, stunned by the events that had just transpired. This was officially the worst birthday in a very long time. I tried to cry, but nothing came.

After a few minutes of sitting and staring at Cassandra’s deep-brown, hardwood floor, I walked back into Cassandra’s bedroom and retrieved my cell phone from my purse. In much need of cheering up, I was hoping for a message from Michael, but there was nothing. Fueled by my accelerating anger and two glasses of cheap champagne, I scrolled down my address book, found his name, and hit dial. I felt the need to know, no, demand, where he was and what was so important he couldn’t at the very least stop by for an hour or two. After all, the rule usually is that on your birthday, you can do whatever you want. You can drink until you vomit, you can have sex with a stranger, hell you can put on a wig and call yourself by a different name if you so fancy, so what was wrong with a harmless phone call?

The phone rang three times before I heard, “You’ve reached the voicemail of Michael Rathbourne. Leave a message at the—”

I didn’t even let the pre-recorded version of him finish before throwing my phone down onto Cassandra’s bed and starting to tear up. I sat on the bed for a few minutes longer and wondering if anyone would notice I was gone, and would come looking for me. No one did. Five minutes later, still sitting on Cassandra’s bed, I felt my phone vibrating. A text message from Michael. Finally, I thought, he’s probably on his way.

I opened the message. “Sorry I couldn’t make it, have a drink for me!”

I read the message again, sure that I was mistaken. That’s it? He didn’t even wish me Happy Birthday. The tears were starting to fall harder and I decided it was time to go home. I crept out of Cassandra’s bedroom, grabbed an unopened bottle of wine from the kitchen, and when no one was looking in my direction, slipped through the front door.




Chapter 7 (#uc657e52f-d224-5c83-96cf-ca0fead5b343)

It’s too late honey, and it’s too bad (#uc657e52f-d224-5c83-96cf-ca0fead5b343)


For the three days, Nicholas barely spoke to me. After our fight at my surprise-party-gone-awry, I hadn’t been getting much sleep. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was really wrong. The fact was, Nicholas and I never fought, and I didn’t know how to handle it. I hadn’t seen him since he stormed out of Cassandra’s apartment, and our last few phone conversations had been brief and monotonous. His usual “good night” phone call, in which we recapped our entire days to each other, had been replaced with a quick text message, or nothing at all. Although he wasn’t blatantly ignoring me, the usual amount of effort he put into grooming our relationship had fallen short. Very short. It wasn’t until this afternoon when I was in anatomy class that I finally received a text message from Nick, asking me if I could come over to his apartment afterwards.

When I had gotten to class earlier that day, I had made a concerted effort to ignore Michael, positioning myself on the other side of the auditorium-sized classroom. Sure, I was being juvenile, but I was still hurt from his absence at my party. I used to feel so safe and comfortable with my life.

Thoughts of Nicholas flooded my head, making concentration on the lecture extremely difficult. I glanced at my watch and realized class was almost over. I couldn’t wait to see him.

When the professor said, “Until next week, class,” I knew I was in the clear to dart out of the classroom.

I quickly headed outside and hailed a cab to Nicholas’s apartment. Much to my happiness, a cab pulled up immediately.

“Where to, missy?” the driver said, through a thick accent.

“10th Street and Avenue A!” I spat out.

Since I was in the Washington Square area, I probably could have walked to the Lower East Side, but I was too anxious to see Nicholas and to put this whole fight behind us. A short cab ride later, I was outside Nick’s apartment. I feverishly hit the buzzer three times until the door unlocked. I threw open the heavy front door, ran up the four flights of stairs, and burst through his door. Ready to be greeted by a hug and an apology, I was disappointed to see Nicholas sitting on his bed, making no effort to even stand up and give me a proper greeting. Warm beads of sweat rolled down my back as my paranoia accelerated.

Feeling defeated, I slowly closed the door behind me and cautiously made my way over to him, careful not to make any sudden movement.

“Hey,” I said, tiptoeing toward him. “Baby, are you okay?”

Upon closer inspection, Nicholas looked upset, as if he had been crying. He was dressed down even more than usual, wearing nothing but a plain white undershirt and baggy gray sweatpants, which he usually reserved for times when he was too sick to dress himself. A wave of horror flooded over me. Something was really wrong.

“Listen,” he started.

I braced myself for the bad news.

My mind flooded with a thousand possibilities. Had he gotten fired? Had someone in his family taken ill? Was he being evicted? I sat next to him on the floor and placed my hands on his knees.

“What is it, Nick?” I asked. I folded my hands behind my back, after realizing I had been anxiously peeking at my cuticles for a few minutes.

He still wouldn’t look at me. His brown hair hung over his gorgeous eyes, making it impossible for me to feel connected. I cautiously lifted up my right hand and pushed a few strands of hair out of his face.

Without even looking up to meet my gaze he said, “I can’t be with you.”

The air went out of the room, as though a huge force had hit me in the chest. My head started to spin and I felt more fear than I had ever felt before.

Can’t be with me?

I shook my head and squinted. “What do you mean?” I asked, unable to speak louder than a whisper.

Still not looking at me, he unleashed his well-prepared speech.

“I don’t know what happened, Amalia, but I just don’t feel it anymore.”

His words sounded so cold and formal, he couldn’t have been talking about us like that, not with such emptiness and detachment. He finally lifted his head up, but still refused to look me in the eyes. Anger momentarily replaced my sadness, and with it came a warm pressure behind my eyes that made its way down to my chest. My head was suddenly killing me and I was having a hard time concentrating. I couldn’t recall a time I had ever felt this angry with him. I wanted to tell him what a coward he was being, but I couldn’t form the words.

“You were all I ever wanted, for so long. I even remember what you were wearing the first day I met you,” he said in a breathy voice. “But I don’t feel like that person anymore. I don’t feel like that guy you met back in college. And I think, no I know, I need time alone to figure out what I want out of life.”

Heavy flows of tears streamed down my face. How could this be happening?

“Whatever this is, we can work through it,” I muttered, through sobs.

Finally looking right at me, Nicholas took a deep breath and said, “No. Honey, it’s too late.”

There was no way I could just give up and accept this.

“Just give it some time, please! I know you’re angry with me for going on my trip but we can talk about it. It’s not like I am moving to Brazil, this can’t just be about me not being there when you start your internship,” I pleaded.

“Why are you even going?” he said, this time looking right at me.

“Because I have always wanted to go,” I said. “I’ve always been honest about how much I want to travel. Obviously I can’t get up and leave the country whenever I want, but that’s why I booked this so far in advance. And honestly, it’s something I am doing, for me.”

“Well I think that sounds really selfish.” he said.

“Please just tell me why you think that’s selfish, and we can figure this out together,” I pleaded. As I listened to myself speak, I knew I was in the right. I didn’t believe what I was doing was selfish at all, but I was willing to put my pride on the back-burner to salvage my relationship.

But it was no use. Nicholas stood up and walked over to the kitchen. He came back to the bed and handed me a box.

“Here, I packed all of your things,” he said coldly.

It suddenly dawned on me that this wasn’t an impulsive decision. Nicholas must have been planning to break up with me for a few days, if he had taken the time to pack up my things.

“What the hell is this? You’ve wanted to be with me for so long, for years!” I cried. “You convinced me to be with you, coerced me into falling in love with you, and now after one fight that doesn’t even have to really do with our relationship, you’re leaving me?”

I was crying, hard. Harder than I had ever cried before. I expected him to listen to me, to consider my words and realize he was being foolish and impulsive. I expected him to grab me and say I was right, that he made a mistake and to forget he had even brought any of this nonsense up, but all he said was, “Yes.”

I let out a whimper. As angry as I was, I couldn’t express it. My anger felt caged and controlled, by my overwhelming confusion and sadness.

“We belong together, we can fix this. We can fix anything,” I uttered with the last drop of fight in me.

But I knew it was useless, that it was over.

“No, Amalia. We can’t.”

Still sitting on the floor, I watched as he walked over to the front door and held it open for me to leave. I peeled myself off the floor and grabbed the box of my belongings. Without any hope of changing his mind, I looked him in the eyes and said, “I love you, and I will never get over this.”

With no emotion or remorse, he looked at the front door and then glanced back at me.

“That’s too bad.”




Chapter 8 (#uc657e52f-d224-5c83-96cf-ca0fead5b343)

Liz (#uc657e52f-d224-5c83-96cf-ca0fead5b343)


“Amalia?” someone whispered sweetly. “Wake up, please.”

I opened my eyes and found Olivia standing over my bed, holding a mug of what appeared to be coffee in one hand, and a stack of papers in the other.

“Please go away,” I mumbled through sobs, pulling the plush covers back over my face.

The cheap, worn-out mattress was the only comfort I had felt in days, and I certainly wasn’t going to give it up.

“You have to get up,” she said, “You haven’t left this apartment in five days and I’m really worried about you.”

Besides Olivia’s daily check-ins and running into Christina in the kitchen, I hadn’t had contact with anyone in almost a week. Christina had continued to buzz Olivia up, most likely relieved she didn’t have to deal with my melancholy herself. Every grueling moment spent awake was occupied by an influx of thoughts about Nicholas. I had been crying from the minute I woke up, until the minute I went to sleep every day since he left. I had finally found it easier to just stay asleep than deal with the all-consuming pain.

“Listen,” Olivia said, tenderly. “I brought you all of the work you missed during the past few lectures. I also put some hot tea on your nightstand; it’s my mother’s recipe and it always makes me feel better.

“Thank you,” I said, still crying.

Olivia let out a soft sigh. “I have to meet Alex, we are going to study for the exam on Monday. You should really come with us, you’ve missed a lot of work.”

“No,” was the only word I could muster up.

“Alright,” Olivia said as she rubbed my head through the blanket. “If you need anything at all, call me.”

The next thing I knew, it was Monday. I had spent an entire week crying in bed, I felt pathetic and more than a little nauseous. I pushed the comforter off my face, revealing a well-earned pillow crease, and rubbed my stinging eyes.

Through a blur, I looked over at the clock, 9a.m. I couldn’t stay in bed today; today I had a midterm. A midterm covering every minute detail of material we had covered in class starting from the first day. A midterm that I had not spent one minute studying for. Not taking a shower for three days really makes you appreciate one, even with my apartment’s insufficient water pressure. I walked out of the bathroom and almost collided with not Christina but Liz, my other roommate. Liz and Christina “shared” the master bedroom together, but Christina essentially had the entire room to herself, because since we all moved in at the end of August, Liz had spent exactly three nights sleeping here. She spent most of her time in Queens with her much older boyfriend Tim, who was an aspiring musician. Or maybe he was a painter.





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/jill-knapp/what-happens-to-men-when-they-move-to-manhattan/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.