that there’s one dream I can’t seem to let go of, one area in my life where my heart refuses to settle for anything less than the daydream:
The guy.
No matter how many times I put myself out there, no matter how many dates I go on—and believe me, there have been plenty—I can’t let go of the sense that when I see him, I’ll know.
Rachel calls it my Cinderella mode. I call it having high standards.
Okay fine, really high standards.
But why should I settle for less than a stomach-flipping meet-cute or the kind of romance you see in old movies and listen to in Frank Sinatra songs?
My Sagittarius musician with the floppy brown hair, crooked smile, and dad bod is out there. I’m positive.
Which brings us full circle back to SirNYC.
It’s crazy, even in my own head, but messaging with him is the closest I’ve ever felt to it. Which is why I can’t quite give up our unusual friendship, because until Prince Charming shows up? Sir is really good company.
Turning onto Amsterdam Avenue, I head toward Carlos’s flower stand, taking my time and letting myself enjoy the energy of New York City coming out of summer hibernation. Two taxis narrowly avoid a fender bender, communicating their dislike with that classic blaring NYC horn. Two old ladies gripe about Zabar’s raising the price of smoked fish. An ambulance siren wails in the distance. A lanky man in headphones sings a pitch-perfect rendition of “Wait for It” from Broadway’s Hamilton.
I smile at the city’s soundtrack. Home.
I was born in Brooklyn, but I’ve lived in Manhattan since I was eight. And I mean no disrespect to the fine residents of Prospect Heights, but this bustling rush of the city, with skyscrapers and people way too close together… this is my New York.
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