What Happens to Men When They Move to Manhattan?. Jill Knapp

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СКАЧАТЬ as implied that you could do better than Nicholas Anderson.” She crossed her legs and started looking around the bar, as if this conversation was suddenly boring her.

      I shook my head and clapped in front of her face to regain her attention. “It’s not a question of doing better, Cass. I love Nick, he’s my boyfriend. Michael is in a relationship and regardless of geography he and Marge seem to be doing fine, so moving on!” I said in a self-declaring rant, and then downed the rest of my drink.

      Cassandra, not knowing when to leave well enough alone concluded with, “Marge, ugh! I even hate her name.”

      “We’re moving on!”

      Now I was the one practically yelling.

      We both looked at each other and burst out laughing. We’ve been friends for ten years and had never gotten into a real fight. Sure there were moments when we would get short with each other, but it always ended with a laugh, knowing how ridiculous we sounded. She flipped her short, golden hair back, and gave me a light punch on the shoulder.

      “Excuse me,” someone said from behind us.

      I turned around to a very well-dressed man in what I assumed was an expensive, and well-tailored, suit. It was one of the laughing bankers from the corner. I noticed he had grayish eyes and recalled earlier that day in class, when I had learned how rare that physical trait was. All in all, a good-looking man.

      “Are you sisters?” he asked as he leaned in a little closer to us.

      When he came closer I could tell he was older than Cassie and I, definitely late twenties or possibly even thirty. I turned to Cassandra, expecting her to answer with some quick retort, but she just sat there, staring at the guy. I felt the need to jump in.

      “No, sorry. We’re not sisters,” I offered, not really sure why I felt the need to apologize, but he seemed completely disinterested in what I had to say and continued looking at Cassandra.

      She finally recovered from her swoon and said, “That’s right, we’re not sisters. People always ask us if we’re related, though, because we have the same hair color.”

      I loosely grabbed a handful of Cassandra’s, barely shoulder-length, hair and held it up to my own in an attempt to justify this comment. My hair was about five inches longer than her hair, hanging down the middle of my back. Despite this difference, the coloring was virtually the same.

      “Dirty blondes?” he smirked.

      I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at him. Anyone over the age of 18 should never make a joke that pedestrian. He barely noticed my dismay.

      “Bryce Peterson,” he said. I work for Ernst and Young, in accounting”.

      Bryce took a sip of his beer and then continued, “I just started working there this week, so a few of my buddies and I are out celebrating. What are your names? What do you do?”

      I thought it was odd that he offered up his credentials without us even asking. Also, his questions were directed at both of us, but it seemed clear he was only interested in Cassandra’s answer. I felt relieved; I had enough problems with men right now. For example, I couldn’t get the thought of Michael’s soft graze against my arm out of my mind. Something so insignificant was suddenly the main focus of most of my thoughts. I couldn’t tell Cassandra, she’d never let me hear the end of it. Besides, I felt guilty for ever feeling this way.

      “Hello there, Bryce. My name is Cassandra de Luca and I work for Prestige magazine,” she said proudly, although it was clear he had never heard of the publication.

      Cassandra had just been promoted from intern to publications assistant. I still wasn’t entirely sure what her job entailed. “Um hi, I’m Amalia Hastings,” I uttered, giving a little wave to Cassandra and Bryce, who appeared to be in a staring contest at this point.

      “I’m studying Biology and Behavioral Sciences at NYU; decided to go for my Master’s,” I continued, but it was no use, the attention was clearly not on me.

      I checked my watch again, nine-thirty. If I left now, I might actually be able to get a good night’s sleep. I decided to let Cassandra and Bryce talk and call it a night.

      “Okay Cassie, have a good night,” I called to her and grabbed my purse. “Nice meeting you, Bryce.”

      “Yeah, sure. Goodnight,” she mumbled, seemingly mesmerized by her new crush.

      I laughed to myself and then made my way to the door. The cool, crisp fall air felt great when I got outside. It was refreshing after coming out of the stuffy, crowded bar. I smiled and thought about how lucky I was to be living in this city. I started to make my way down Barrow Street when I heard something. It sounded like a twig snapping. The type of sound you hear in a horror movie just before the damsel in distress gets stabbed.

      “Amalia?” a voice called. My heart started pounding faster, and this time I couldn’t blame it on illness.

      “Yes?” I called out. The figure came closer to me and was now in focus. He stood there, smiling and I felt a little dizzy. I took a deep breath and finally spoke, “Hi, Michael.”

       Chapter 4

       I’m all yours

      “Thank God you cooked!” I clapped as I walked into Nicholas’s studio apartment.

      His place was dimly lit, all of the lights were off except for the overhead light in the kitchen.

      “Oh, were you hungry? I think I may have some leftovers in the fridge,” Nicholas replied jokingly, wryly smiling.

      I dropped my purse onto the bed and kicked off my new ballet flats I had just picked up at Necessary Clothing. My bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor, but it felt good after the nine-block walk. I walked over to Nicholas and kissed him hello.

      “Ha! You are hilarious,” I smiled. “Thanks for agreeing to eat dinner at five like a senior citizen. I wanted to make sure I got to see you today and my class is going to end late tonight.”

      “Honey, of course! Besides if I didn’t cook for you, you’d most likely die of malnutrition. After all, one cannot survive on pasta and whiskey alone. Why do most of your classes start so late anyway?” he asked for what felt like the hundredth time.

      I was waiting for him to become irritated with my always having to run off to class or to the library, but he never did. Nick was the perfect boyfriend; patient, understanding, and insanely cute. I watched him cooking for me and I think I fell a little more in love with him.

      “Um, I assume it’s because most people work until about five or so; so they schedule most graduate level classes at six-thirty or seven,” I replied, stroking his hair.

      I motioned to him for a hug and placed my head on his chest; my head fit perfectly under his chin, making me feel safe.

      “And I don’t only survive on pasta and whiskey,” I insisted. “There’s also scotch and dark СКАЧАТЬ