Page 60 of The Amazing Date

Crush disappears, racing to his position as I pull Roberto’s arm to stop him from following him. I stifle a laugh. “The race is this way.”

The usher hands us the next clue, which I hand to Roberto, hoping to pull him back to the race. We race up the corridor and turn to the main concourse. The corridor is packed with fans exiting early, the Mets having the victory well in hand.

“We have to head to downtown Manhattan, the Little Italy neighborhood. Let’s move. We can grab a taxi outside the stadium exit.” We hit the end of the corridor, and I pull Roberto to the right. “The exit is this way,” he says, pointing toward the way we entered.

“I know. But you see this crowd. Everyone is leaving early. The road is going to be packed. You remember what Laxmi said? We should take the train.”

Roberto doesn’t hesitate. He trusts my knowledge of the city I now call home. The 7 train stops directly at Citi Field. If we’re lucky enough to snag an express train, we will reach Manhattan in fifteen minutes. The connecting train should have us down in Little Italy in just over twenty minutes. Way faster than a cab.

“We’re probably forty minutes behind the blondes,” I state, directing him toward the stairwell to the trains. “However, if they took a cab, we should be able to cut it down.”

He nods as we race around cheering, drunk fans.

“What’s in Little Italy?” Roberto asks, and I smile.

“Food. Lots and lots of food. And I’m starving.”

“Starving for a victory.” Roberto beams at his cringeworthy play on words.

“Keep it up and I’m going to have to separate you from Ronnie. He’s turning into a bad influence,” I kid and attempt to suppress the laugh from his latest dad joke. They may be silly, they may be childish, but having Roberto spout them removes some of the sting of not hearing them in my childhood home. I bump shoulders with him as we race to the platform, a train pulling into the station.

We hop onto the train, which fills with escaping Mets fans. An impromptu Let’s go Mets chant strikes up as we pull out of the station. The Arthur Ashe Stadium on the US Open’s grounds is on our left, an endless line of people exiting the tennis stadium while another just as imposing line queue up to enter. On the right side of the train, we take in a final look at Citi Field as fans stream out of the exits, the highway backing up as cars exit the parking lot.

Roberto’s eyes are glued to the activity, the madness of the city. I know he is experiencing this from an artist’s viewpoint. I will never understand this perspective, but I don’t need to. I just love being in his orbit as he takes in my city.

I don’t know how many challenges are going to be thrown our way today, but Wilma promised a long leg. I’m selfishly hoping for at least a dozen, if not more. I want to share my adopted hometown with Roberto. Show him every borough, every tourist trap, and every local treasure.

I’ve never had such an overwhelming desire to share so much of myself with anyone before. There is so much to see, so much to do, so much to say, I pray we have enough time.

Chapter 35

Roberto

Rylee’s warm hand pulls me up the crowded subway steps, her movements swift, aggressive, navigating the blockade of bodies as if she does this every day, which she probably does. As she leads me through a high turnstile and another wave of bodies, her moves would be the envy of an NFL running back. LA is home to four million people, but they don’t all exist in what feels like one square mile. New York City is sardine can packed, the cluster of people creating a unique rhythm and energy. An electric buzz that feels as if magic is happening around every corner.

I picture myself sketching my way from the Battery to the Bronx and never running out of inspiration.

We hit the street level, and I pause. It’s as if we’ve been transported to a movie studio back lot. The streets are tight, history in every chipped brick wall, cracked sidewalk, the ghosts of settlers roaming the streets. Staring out of the elevated 7 train gave me a look at Queens. Two-story homes, postage-stamp-sized lawns, tree-lined streets, homes. Little Italy is a completely different vibe. Tight redbrick shops with ancient apartments above them line the congested streets. Old cobblestone peeks out from underneath cracked blacktop, and the image of an old Italian street market with barrels and carts lining the streets hit me. Yet another image that will haunt me until I can get my hands on my sketchbook.

Rylee stands to my left, pushing an errant tendril of brown hair around her ear, a prideful look on her face as she scans left and then right to get her bearings. It takes only a second before she bolts, but a second is all I need to record the image in my head. I rush to keep up with her, her familiarity with these streets yet another plus we’ll need if we are going to catch the other teams.

We turn the corner and bump into a familiar pair of racing blondes. Kelly bounces off my chest and takes a step back. Her eyes blaze with anger, a curse about to cross her lips before recognition sweeps across her face. Her eyes grow wide, her lips matching.

“How did…” she stammers.

Rylee shoots her best gotcha smile, the decision to take the subway paying immediate dividends.

“Doesn’t matter. We’ve already finished the next challenge. You’ll never catch us,” Caitlin barks, pushing through us.

My breath hitches. Already completed?

“It’s super simple, up two blocks to the left,” Kelly yells, turning and racing to catch up to her partner. They disappear down the subway steps, and I race ahead to Rylee. I catch up to her at the corner as she turns right.

“They gave us bad directions again?” I huff out with humor in my voice.

Rylee nods. “Yeah, don’t believe a word they say. I know where we’re going.”

Three doors down, we turn into the tiny doorway with wide, red awnings—Lombardi’s. A small banner with the Pizza Hall of Fame logo hangs on the wall above the register: “Lombardi’s, the First Pizzeria in the United States.” Two members from the competition staff wearing polos adorned with the race logo greet us at the door. The first one leads Rylee to a back room while the second one directs me to a booth. I spot Ronnie sitting and finishing off a slice of pizza, a Coke at his side.

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