Leo could figure this out, he would . . . thunk! Dodging yet another person who was intent on getting somewhere five minutes sooner than everyone else, I got shouldered into the wall of garbage, pinwheeling my arms to keep from going headfirst into a mountain of gross.
“Oh my God, Roxie! Are you okay?” Clara pulled me back just in time.
“Fucking dick!” I called after the guy with the shoulder, who didn’t even pause, didn’t check to make sure I was okay.
I was hot, I was sticky with humidity, my nose was filled with the stench of garbage, and I could feel my stomach giving a warning rumble. “Fucking dick,” I repeated to myself. “I’m fine—thanks.”
“Want me to smack him? I can catch him,” Clara said, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet.
“No no,” I said, pulling at my T-shirt and trying to get some air. Suddenly everything seemed too close: the air, my clothes, the people, even my friends. It was all too loud, too much. My throat tightened, and a curious lump formed in the back of my throat as I realized in a great whoosh that I was . . . homesick. For Bailey Falls.
For the peace and quiet, for the good country air, for nosey gossipmongers, for the swimming holes, and the wind through the trees. For hills covered in funny little chicken coops on wheels, for brown sugar strawberries, and oh my God, I want Leo and every single thing that comes with it. Everything.
“You look like you’re going to be sick.” Natalie swept my hair back from my face.
“What’s the fastest way to Grand Central?” I asked, digging in my purse to find my phone. Dead. Dammit. That’s what happens when you run off to the city without packing a bag. I was wearing Clara’s clothes today, for goodness’ sake.
“Wait, what?” Natalie asked.
“I’m going home. Metro North runs all day, right?” I asked frantically.
“Mmm-hmm.” She raised a hand and grabbed a cab instantly. “Grand Central,” she told the driver.
“Thanks, I gotta go. I’ll send you your clothes,” I said to Clara, getting into the cab, already feeling better. Lighter.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
Natalie patted her hand. “I’ll fill you in.”
Riverdale.
Ludlow.
Yonkers.
As the train sped up the Hudson, it was as though everything was suddenly clicking into place, like a giant game of Tetris tilting on end and every piece found its home.
The moment I decided I didn’t want to be in that big city anymore, my heart cracked open and began to long for a small town—my small town. For mosquitos and sweet tea, for bare feet and gentle hills that led to craggy peaks. For spring-fed pools and glacial lakes. For nosy neighbors and cranky waitresses and sweet former quarterbacks. For flaky hippie mothers who made falling in love seem easy and wonderful, even when it wasn’t, and always made sure their daughters had adequate fiber content.
For a farmer who groaned when he came, and grinned when I did.
For a farmer who wanted me desperately, but came as an already matched set, a set I’d never try to come between, but would be honored to someday join.
Irvington.
Tarrytown.
Philipse Manor.
I began to list all the reasons I had for never wanting to move back home and live a small-town life like my mother.
1. You don’t want to run the family diner. I’ve run the family diner. I don’t want to continue doing it forever, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d always thought it’d be.
2. You think small towns are small for a reason, in scope and in size. The size was small, but I’d found this summer that small didn’t mean limited.
3. There are no opportunities in Bailey Falls for a classically trained chef who doesn’t want to work in a traditional restaurant environment. Zombie pickles. Jam Class. Potential opportunity at Bryant Mountain House. And the idea that’d been percolating since the Fourth of July: an Airstream food truck.
4. If you don’t go back to Los Angeles and redeem your whipped cream disaster, that town wins. This one was tougher. Did LA beat me? Worst-case scenario? Yeah, it beat me. And?
The and was the tough part. I’d never shied away from a fight. But it couldn’t be a fight if one corner wasn’t willing to participate, right? I’d likely always wonder what if, and what would have happened . . . But who didn’t look back, revisit, and wonder about past decisions? The question was, could I live with knowing that Mitzi St. Renee and her Mean Girls had won?
Cortlandt.
Peekskill.
Manitou.
Somewhere between Manitou and Garrison, I had a sudden realization: someone like Mitzi St. Renee always wins. And you can’t live your life fighting against everyone else’s expectations. And sometimes the deck is stacked, and people with power over your career are assholes, and there’s nothing you can do about that.
Excited for the first time in a very long time, I sat forward in my seat, pushing my right foot against the floor as if that would speed the train along faster. The Hudson sparkled blue on my left, sailboats and kayaks dotting its surface. Huge homes high on the ridge and smaller, simpler homes shared the gorgeous view.
Picturesque towns with tiny train stations, within easy distance of the grandest city on the planet, filled with people who chose to live a world away just an hour up the Hudson. The bright lights and the fast pace were close enough if you wanted it, but far enough away that you could never miss it.
My thoughts danced on, seeing endless opportunities that I’d never bothered to see, to an opportunity with a certain farmer and his daughter. I only hoped that opportunity was still available to me.