Page 99 of Backlash

As soon as he’s gone, I buy the book and tuck it into my purse. I’ll give it to him for Christmas, so he can’t be mad.

It turns out that separating was a terrible idea, because it takes us twenty minutes to find each other again. He’s carrying a brown paper sack when he finds me.

“Reading material for the plane home,” he says. “I can’t be left in a bookstore unattended.”

“Noted.”

“Can I put it in your bag?” He reaches for the flap.

“Let me!” I grab it and carefully tuck it next to his present so he can’t see.

He leads me around another corner, and we find ourselves under massive scaffolding that covers one side of the street completely, even blocking the signs above businesses. We duck into a shop selling artisan meats and cheeses, and it takes me a moment to realize we’re actually in a sort of shopping mall devoted to, well, eating.

It dawns on me where we are. “Wait, is this…”

“This is Eataly,” Sterling says.

The day we visited my mom’s grave together, he had told me about it. I push away a stab of sadness at the memory and focus on the moment. Mom would want me to make every day in New York a diamond. She loved the city, but never went after the disastrous family trip when I was four.

Eataly is a rabbit warren of artisan food, wine, and cooking gear. It’s vaguely like a department store, but decorated like Old Europe, stuffed to the density of a Valmont football game crowd, and, best of all, sells everything from mini jam jars to entire casks of wine.

You don’t just buy a cutting board here, you buy an African rosewood one crafted by a guy in Italy who makes three or four a year—and only if he feels like it. I understand this kind of luxury, even if this example is beyond my imagining.

For a moment I wonder why we’re here, since it’s so expensive, but the reason soon becomes apparent. They are aggressively sampling, hoping to move inventory in the last two days before Christmas. We hold hands, both of us grinning stupidly at each other as we pop whole new ways of experiencing the world into our mouths. My favorite is a cheese called Taleggio, which spreads like soft butter and tastes like the secret lovechild of brie and cream cheese.

I discover something about Sterling at Eataly. Whenever I take a bite of something, I notice he’s almost nervous. At first I think it’s because he wants to make sure I’m having a good time, but before long I realize he’s studying me with the same careful concern he uses when we’re alone. He wants me to enjoy this as much as he does.

But despite how much we’re eating—more than I ever have, in fact—I want more. I’m ravenous for Sterling’s New York. I don’t want to go back to Valmont with regrets. I don’t want to wonder how good the weird-looking buns in the Chinese corner stand are, or why a shop sells only baguettes. I want to know.

And that means trying everything.

And maybe that’s why, after stumbling groggily back onto the street, and with Sterling holding a small bag of things I just couldn’t help buying, I make a decision: for the rest of the trip, when I see something that scares or intimidates me, I’m going to try it.

Why not?

24

Sterling

She is completely fucking insane. Like, different person insane.

And I’m pretty sure I created this monster.

My carefully planned day has flown out the window—not that I’m disappointed. Ten minutes ago, we ate frog legs from a stall in Chinatown while holding NY-style soft pretzels in the other hand. I dragged her onto the subway after, and as I gave her a kiss, we both had to stifle oily, smoky burps. We were nearly hysterical with laughter, and—this being New York—no one even seemed to notice.

I’m nearly broke now, but I would consider robbing a bank if it kept this incredible day going. How often do you know, while it’s happening, that you’re having experiences that will last you the rest of your life? I’ve never felt that before. The stuff in my past—I wish I could forget a lot of it. I always imagined that if I got married or went on a trip to Europe, those memories would be the kind that last. Big, huge moments. The kind you’re supposed to remember. I had no idea it could just… happen.

But that’s what it’s like with her. She keeps saying my New York, but it sure seems like it’s all hers now. I steer us to Greenwich Village, with a vague eye on seeing if my favorite falafel place is still there. In New York, you just never know.

We climb the stairs up from the subway stop, emerging onto relaxed streets. It’s a different side of the city than she’s seen so far. Not as much bustle. It’s a nice change of pace.

“Oh, it’s looove-ly,” Adair coos—taking one look at the ample shade trees, their branches bare for winter and strung with lights, the cobbled alleys, the sleepier vibe—and falls in love with Greenwich.

“Planning your new life?” I tease, pulling her to me and kissing her beneath her ear.

“Tell me you wouldn’t like to live here,” she demands, pecking me on the cheek.

“I would not like to live here, Lucky. Hate to break it to you.”