Page 3 of Desperate Desires

I would have to try to remember to bring it in with me during my next rotation at the hospital.

Grabbing a tissue, I hugged the robe I was wearing to my body and ambled over to the small sofa in the living room of my small but tidy basement apartment.

I’d left the Aziz family’s favorite compound in upstate New York late Christmas Day, and it took me about three and a half hours to make it back to the Mile Square City.

I’d parked my Land Rover, the one the Volkovs had given me as a present when I finished med school, in the lot located three streets down from the place I rented.

There was never any street parking available on Hudson Street, even though the brownstone technically had a driveway. But that went to the folks who rented the upstairs apartment.

Lucky fuckers.

I’d first discovered this little gem of a town on a bar crawl when I was still in college with Micky, Lucy, and Clementine.

I fell in love with it then and knew it was where I wanted to live.

Hoboken was the perfect blend of city energy and suburban calm—a place where I could hear the hum of life without feeling swallowed by it. I had enough of that at the hospital.

The streets were lined with charming brownstones and apartment buildings, old churches, and storefronts. Their facades worn just enough to feel authentic but well-loved enough to show pride of ownership.

It had the kind of character you’d expect from an older neighborhood in the city, but it was smaller, closer somehow.

What made it even better was the convenience. A short train ride and I was right in the heart of Manhattan and straight to the hospital where I worked—a commute so easy it felt more like a breather than a burden.

Reading on the train was my favorite, but after missing my stop more than once, I switched to audiobooks.

And when the workday ended and all the rush and stress of my job was finished, I stepped back onto Hoboken’s quieter streets and made my way home.

Sometimes, it felt like exhaling after holding my breath all day.

The town itself was a treasure trove of amazing restaurants, cozy cafes, and quirky little shops where you could lose track of time. Whether I was in the mood for a low-key brunch, a gourmet dinner, or just a perfect cup of coffee, there was always a place that felt like a hidden gem.

And then, there were the views—the kind of views that could stop you in your tracks. Standing at the edge of the Hudson River, I’d sometimes find myself staring across the water at the Manhattan skyline, its lights shimmering like stars scattered across the night.

No matter how many times I saw it, that sweeping cityscape felt like a reminder of why I chose this place—a front-row seat to the best of both worlds.

See, I’d never liked living in New York. The city was too much—too loud, too big, too chaotic.

Everywhere you went, there were crowds of people pressed shoulder to shoulder, all in a hurry to get somewhere, all fighting for space that never felt like it was really yours.

I wasn’t exactly a country girl either—I didn’t crave endless fields or the kind of quiet that felt empty.

New York? It made me feel small, like a speck in a sea of noise and movement.

It was as if I could disappear in the middle of Times Square, and no one would notice. And I’d had enough of that feeling to last me a lifetime.

But living in Jersey? Now that was different. That I could do.

Hoboken was the perfect place for me, though my apartment was admittedly on the small side—just a cozy one-bedroom with a small kitchen that doubled as a dining room and laundry room.

Still, it had its charm.

The crown molding whispered of a bygone era, the bay window that let the afternoon sun pour in like a golden flood from the courtyard in the back, and the creaky hardwood floors that felt alive with stories and secrets.

But what really made me love it, what made me grin every time I walked down the weathered stone steps to my own private entrance, was the dream it represented.

My little slice of this incredible brownstone felt like a promise.

Like it was the first step to something greater.

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