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After my mom was killed, my dad moved us to Morningside Heights, a West Harlem neighborhood right on the Upper West Side border. Manhattan represented a fresh start for all of us. A chance to navigate life without my mom in an apartment that didn’t have her stamp all over it. A new school district for me and my siblings, plus an easier commute for my dad to the Midtown shop.
None of it was easy. I still remember the horror of having to ask my dad to pick up pads on his run to the bodega while my older sister was at summer camp. And of course I missed my mom like crazy. I still do.
But something weird happened when my dad drove the U-Haul over the Brooklyn Bridge and we were instantly surrounded by skyscrapers. Something inside me seemed to click—a sense of rightness.
I once went on a date with a guy from Toledo (who by the way did not have that click of rightness) who said Manhattan either got into your blood or made your blood run cold. It’s a little graphic and gross, but he’s not wrong. I was in the first category.
On Amsterdam, the crosswalk signal is red, but like any true New Yorker, I pay attention to actual traffic, not signals, giving a friendly, semiapologetic wave to the NYPD officers who either missed, or more likely, turned a blind eye to my jaywalking.
The flower cart is right where it always is, and I smile at the short man currently rearranging bouquets in their little buckets of water.
“Good morning, Carlos!”
“You are late.” He scowls at me.
“I know, I know. I had a hot date with a beautiful baby.” My gaze is skimming over my options, and I’m disappointed, but not surprised, to see fewer choices than usual. Typically I get here as early as I can on Monday mornings to get first pick of the arrangements, but today it’s well after lunch. I reach for a bouquet of cheerful yellow roses, but Carlos swats my hand and bends to lift something out of what seems to be a secret stash tucked behind the cart.
I gasp at the lavish bouquet. “Oh, it’s stunning.”
“Pauline, she made this late last night, told me not to give it to nobody but Ms. Gracie.”
“You saved it for me?” I inhale the fragrant blooms. I’d have never thought to combine freesia, sunflowers, and hot pink roses—which is exactly why I’m not a florist.
“Wasn’t easy,” he grumbles good-naturedly.
“I definitely don’t deserve you,” I say, shifting the bouquet to the crook of my left arm, and with my right, fish around in my back pocket for the cash I’d shoved in there specifically for this purpose.
I hand over the bills to Carlos, making him promise to keep the change and thank Pauline.
Just as I’m putting my remaining twenty back into my pocket, the wind picks up, and it escapes.
“Oh damn.” I don’t usually curse, but much as I love this city, its busy streets aren’t exactly an ideal place to drop a twenty-dollar bill on a breezy day. I make an awkward lunge for it, but miss as the wind picks up again, taking it farther down the sidewalk, only to be stopped by the toe of an expensive-looking male dress shoe.
I reach for the fluttering bill, but the owner of the shoe beats me to it, bending and plucking up the twenty with long fingers.
I smile in relief, already reaching for the money as my gaze travels up the tall length of a navy suit, conservative maroon tie—
Our eyes lock, and I freeze. Aqua eyes—yes, that’s a thing—stare back at me, his surprised expression matching my own shock.
All that noise I mentioned? The New York City soundtrack? It all fades away until it’s just me, him, and Frank Sinatra singing “Summer Wind.”
Well, whatever, it’s almost October, but close enough.
“You,” I say, my voice quiet.
I’ve never met the man. I’ve never even seen him before. And yet I know him. My heart knows him. This is my Prince Charming, my love at first sight.
Turns out, he’s not an average-height, musically inclined Sagittarian, with long brown hair, brown eyes, and a dad bod after all. He’s tall, lean, and serious, with black hair, sharp features, and Tiffany-blue eyes.
The man has his phone in his hand, but slowly he slips it into his suit pocket, all of his attention on me. He doesn’t take his eyes away from my face, and when our fingers brush as he hands me the twenty, his eyes narrow ever so slightly, as though in puzzlement. “Who are—”
“Sorry, babe. Thanks for waiting.” A tall woman with thick honey-colored hair appears by Prince Charming’s side. She holds up a Stuart Weitzman bag. “They had over-the-knee boots in dove gray. I couldn’t resist.”
He blinks and looks her way, and the Frank Sinatra record playing in my head scratches and cuts off midtrack. Moment over.
