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Before I can say anything else, she walks across the street and into Central Park.
I peek my head in the taxi. “Sorry.” I shut the door.
He flips me off and speeds off around the corner, almost hitting another pedestrian. I dodge traffic, playing a mild game of Frogger until I’m safely on the other side of the street.
“Annie!” I call.
She stops and turns. Her lips tip down. Shit, I didn’t realize I was intruding on her. Maybe there’s a reason why she wants to walk through Central Park.
“Did I forget something?” she asks.
“Mind if I join you?”
A smile rushes to her face and reaches her eyes. My heart does this weird sputtering thing.
“Not at all.”
A rainy spring has nourished the plants and flowers. The park is green and colorful now, as if it all appeared out of thin air. People ride their bikes and walk the paths—a mix of parents pushing strollers and athletic types getting their exercise.
“I love spring because all the people come out of hibernation.” She twirls in a circle and continues walking forward as though she’s soaking in much more than the sun. “The city comes alive.”
I could argue that the night is when this city comes alive, but I’m mesmerized by her. I’ve never seen her so carefree and relaxed. After a few twirls with her head tipped up to the sun, she stops and looks at me.
“I can name all the statues in Central Park.” She laughs. “I know. Stupid fact, but my dad’s a history buff, and when we moved here, he’d take us out every weekend from May to October. We’d walk the path and he’d tell us all about the person the statue honored.”
Any words I might say are trapped in my throat. What is it about this woman that continues to draw me in?
“You’re probably like, ‘Whatever, Annie. That’s so stupid,’ but days like today, I feel like I’m ten again and my dad’s telling the story of Alexander Hamilton or King Jagiello and the Battle of Grunwald.”
We continue down the path until we pass the Alice in Wonderland statue.
“Oh.” She touches the bronze sculpture. “My dad made a whole day about Alice in Wonderland once. He rented the movie.” She tips her head. “The 1951 version. I became obsessed, and we watched each remake to decide which is best.”
“And the winner?” I ask.
“Don’t tell anyone, but I love the 2010.” She cringes as if she should be ashamed.
“I’ve never seen any of them.”
Her eyes narrow. “Oh, you need to get out more.”
“Wouldn’t I need to stay in more?”
She thinks for a moment, her eyes shooting toward the blue sky. “Maybe.” She bumps me with her shoulder. “Want to know another fact?”
“Sure.”
A sensation like we’re in a movie and should be skipping through Central Park runs through my mind. It’s like the sun and warm weather has intoxicated her. Shit, she’s intoxicating me.
“There’re no statues of women. I mean, not real women. There’s Alice and angels and animals that might be of the female sex, but not one of a real-life woman.”
My head draws back. There’s no way that’s true.
She points at me. “You think I’m wrong, but it’s true.”
I hold up my hands.
“In 2020, there’s supposed to be one of Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony displayed. Those will be the first.”
