Page 1 of The Grumpy Side of Paradise

Chapter 1

Evie

I haven’t been to church in years, but I can’t break the habit of praying for miracles on the regular. Namely, every payday. So, on this, the first Friday of September, the year of our Lord two thousand and twenty-three, I send up aplease God, then throw in a little new-agey manifesting ofmoney loves meto cover all my bases, and open my bank app.

In perfect ear-splitting, soul-crushing harmony, my hopes come to an abrupt halt at the same time the E line shrieks to a stop at the World Trade Center station.

Despite promises of a bonus, my automatic deposit is the exact amount it was last payday. And every payday before that.

I’ve worked for Frank for two years now, and he’s been promising a raise or bonus at least once a quarter since I started. Hasn’t happened yet. Half of my meals are still ramen, and the rent on my four hundred square foot sublet keeps going up.

Honestly, I wouldn’t be bothered by his broken payday promises if he’d follow through on his promise to give me more design work and fewer grab-me-a-coffee assignments. He won’t, but I keep hoping. Only my bank account is honest about what’s happening between Frank and me. We need to break up.

People pour into the train car, squeezing in too tight with dripping umbrellas and raincoats. I close my eyes and find a positive thought to focus on.Good things lie ahead.I put the words on repeat and visualize what those good things look like. Positivity is my superpower. I won’t let my diminishing checking or nonexistent savings accounts bring me down. I take a breath and open my eyes.

A man pushes into the narrow space between where I’m sitting and another woman is standing. His butt in my face isnotone of the good things I visualized. I can either stare at that butt in the too-tight, shiny track suit, or at my phone.

I choose phone.

The car rocks forward, bringing Buttman precariously close to my face. I use my phone as a shield, pull up Instagram, and scroll to the latest reel on Georgia Rose Design’s Insta. I haven’t seen my college roomie, Georgia Beck, in person for three years, but her success always reminds me what’s possible with a lot of hard work and a little luck. I smile to myself when her reel shows her in front of Pedro’s—I should have known she’d be early. She’s in Brooklyn for a couple of days, and I’m skipping out early from work to meet her for lunch in about twenty-two minutes, if the trains keep running on time.

The restaurant has the distinction of having the best tacos in Brooklyn and also being within my budget. Namely, the ten dollars cash I scraped together just in case Georgia doesn’t offer to pay.

She will, no matter how much I insist she doesn’t have to, so I could have chosen somewhere more expensive. But Pedro’s has a cool, rustic vibe that Georgia will dig. And I want to impress her with something, because my current career situation and worn-out raincoat aren’t going to do it. My ability to find cheap, kitschy restaurants will have to do.

The lady sitting next to me presses in so close I can feel her breath. “Is that Georgia Rose? I love her,” she says in the flat, Midwestern twang that I’ve worked hard to lose.

If her accent hadn’t given away that she’s a visitor, the fact she’s talking to me would have. I’ve been here three years, and not once has a native New Yorker struck up a conversation with me on the subway. At least not anyone who wanted something besides money.

Mom trained me from an early age to always be friendly, especially to people who are lonely. This woman is lonely. I see it in her eyes. So I put on a smile. Making conversation with a stranger is better than staring at Buttman’s shiny hiney. “I’m a big fan of Georgia’s too.”

“Is that the Brooklyn Bridge in her reel? Wouldn’t it be amazing if she was right here in New York? I have so many questions I’d ask her. There’s this old farmhouse in Iowa—that’s where I’m from—I’d love…”

She talks for the next five minutes like she just got out of solitary confinement. I nod and smile, glad I don’t have to add much to the conversation, until her words get lost in the screech of metal against metal as the train lurches to a stop.

“This is me. Enjoy your visit.” I jump out of my seat and join the throng of people shoving their way out of the car.

I hazard a glance back to make sure the lady isn’t getting off at my stop. Sometimes it’s exhausting being friendly. But, of course, she’s not following me. I’m not the famous one, and how would she know I was on my way to meet Georgia? I didn’t give it away.

But even if this lady doesn’t find her, I’m prepared for my lunch to be interrupted by someone who recognizes Georgia. While I was running cross-country for our alma mater, Savannah College of Art and Design, Georgia was starting a YouTube channel. Within a year of graduation, her channel had blown up bigger than wallpaper in the eighties. Okay, maybe not that big. She wasn’t plastered everywhere, but she did start her own company, Georgia Rose Design.

Since then, she’s gained a million followers. Between YouTube, Instagram and TikTok, there’s no one under thirty who hasn’t at least heard of Georgia Rose Beck. My little twenty K following on the design-focused Insta I have doesn’t compare to Georgia’s. If she’s not in talks with Target by the end of the year, I’ll be shocked.

I’m happy for her. I really am. But I haven’t seen her in three years, and I want her to myself today. I want to feel like we’re both still struggling students with big dreams. Not one struggling glorified assistant praying for a bonus that’s never coming and one famous interior designing trend-setter.

I pop open my umbrella when I hit the steps leading out of the subway.

The sky is gray with rain, and the rotting food smell is powerful today. I realize why as soon as I reach the sidewalk. It’s trash day and the full garbage bags are piled high down the street.

But I don’t need sunshine or sweet-smelling streets to be happy. I look up and admire the architecture of the buildings I’ve passed a thousand times since moving to Brooklyn. There’s always so much to see here, even if the sky isn’t one of those things. I love the energy of New York, Manhattan especially. It’s always changing and growing and makes me feel like I am too.

When I first moved to Brooklyn four years ago to get my master’s degree at Pratt Institute, I told people I was from Manhattan. I left the Kansas part out. Most people don’t know there’s more than one Manhattan. If pressed, I told them the truth, but otherwise I’d just shrug when they said things like, “it must have been exciting growing up here.”

The truth is, growing up in Manhattan, Kansas (aka, the Little Apple) might have been exciting, given that Kansas State University is there with its football team and handsome farm boy undergrads. But Mom and I lived with my grandparents. Over-protective adults vastly outnumbered little old me. To make matters worse, Granddad had his own church. If I even thought about breaking a rule, you better believe his congregation let him know.

I don’t miss Manhattan, Kansas at all. I’ve adopted The Big Apple as my own, and I love taking a new bite out of it every day.

When I see the sign for Pedro’s, I close my umbrella and spot Georgia right away. She may be short, but her red hair is hard to miss. Her personality is even harder to ignore. I can hear her smile from twenty feet away.

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