Page 111 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 1

“His feet have?—”

“Shit.”

“Exactly.”

Anger fills her chest, and she shakes her head, exhaling it loudly with a foot stomp. “Ugh! I’ll go this way.”

As. If. I’m the nuisance.

Me?

Why am I even sticking around to have this conversation? Why am I bothering? Going in different directions—that’s us. She crosses the street, and I turn the corner, both of us heading back to our own lives and hopefully never seeing each other again.

I continue toward the building up ahead alone.I’m good. I’m fine.Alone is how I thrive. I’ll be here a year or two. That’s nothing. I have plenty of work to keep me busy.

Work.

I’m here for work. That’s it. I have a plan in place, and nothing and no one will keep me from achieving my goals. I’ll go in, change my shirt, and get to the office.

The doorman opens the door for me and nods. “Welcome home, Mr. Christiansen.”

“Thanks, Gil.” When he coughs, turning his head away from me, I ask, “Is it worth noting I’ve had a shitty morning?”

“It was noted the moment right before you arrived.”

Funny guy.

2

Juniper “Juni” Jacobs

It’s notthe first time I’ve been called a stalker . . .

New York has changed. Apparently, I can’t walk in the same direction as somebody else without people assuming I’m following them home. Despite how sullen the guy at the park was, I’m not letting his mood taint mine.

As I look out the window, the Manhattan streets are busy below, but the sun is shining above. It’s a beautiful spring day, and I need to make the most of it.

After giving Rascal a bath, I blow-dried his hair before returning him to his owner, Mr. Clark. I turn up the music and finish getting ready, feeling good after my shower and hoping I’ve successfully gotten rid of the smell.

Walking around the apartment, I gather my stuff.

A book to pass the time if I have to wait.

Stationery and pen to take notes.

Snack. I scribble an S on the end. A single snack would be a flat-out lie.

Wallet.

Charger.

Phone.

Mints.

I’m traveling light, except for the nonfiction book I’m bringing with me. Sometimes, these meetings take ten minutes, and sometimes, I’m left waiting for two hours. I feel better prepared. I swing the straps of my bag over my shoulder and grab my bottle of water on the way out the door.

Sixteen flights down, I enter the lobby and am greeted with a warm grin. “Good afternoon, kiddo.”

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