“Who says they’ll be woes? Could be ups and downs. It’s relatable! You liked Josh and his pub wings, didn’t you? It only gets better from there, right?”
She wasn’t totally wrong. Ihadliked tonight. More than I should’ve.
“Everyone likes a dating adventure,” she went on. “It’s basically whatSex and the Citywas built on. You’re a real writer. Own it.”
“I see where you’re going with this.”
“Maybe a magazine picks it up. Or it rounds out your portfolio, like you’ve been talking about.”
“I just don’t know if I want to put my whole life out there.”
“Think of them as stories,” she said, already scheming. “Or a newsletter. Newsletters are hot these days.”
“I don’t write stories anymore.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t. Or won’t again. I remember when you used to write all the time.”
“Josh said that too,” I murmured.
Her eyebrows shot up. “See? Even he remembers. That should mean something.”
“I’ll think about it.”
She pursed her lips, like she knew she’d won at least part of the argument. “This is going to be the best month we’ve ever had in the city. I can feel it. Isn’t there a saying or something?”
“Like what?”
“Holidays in the city. It’s where dreams come true.”
“I think that’s Disney, Gina.”
She just grinned the same mischievous grin she and her brother shared. “Whatever. Don’t back down now. It’s going to be great.”
seven
Wasit bad that I couldn’t stop thinking about the other night with Josh?
Probably.
It was stupid. How, after all of two or three hours together, did I somehow become just as ridiculous as the girl I had been in high school … and the first two years of college? That girl who’d practically curated an entire mental museum of moments about her best friend’s older brother.
After that Christmas, I’d sworn I was done with him.
Iwas. Sort of.
I didn’t carry around embarrassment or heartbreak—not really. Instead, I funneled all those years of feelings into something sharper, easier to hold on to. Irritation. Annoyance. A thin layer of cold indifference that kept me safe.
But now?
Josh was here. Again.
Right in front of me. In my apartment. Sitting on my couch. Asking me about my day like he hadn’t wrecked me once without even trying.
Somehow, that bitterness I had cultivated so carefully over time? It was already starting to melt. Which made no sense. Ishouldn’t just forgive him. I shouldn’t move on like that night had never happened.
But why did it feel like doing so would be the easiest thing in the world?
Maybe because I already had.
