Ahead, I spot an old white stone building on the corner, perfectly matched to the description of Mrs. Wilder’s old lending library in Once, my favorite setting in the book because it reminds me of rainy Saturday mornings when Mom parked me and Libby in front of a shelf of middle grade books at Freeman’s before hurrying across town for an audition.
When she got back, she’d take us for ice cream or for glazed pecans in Washington Square Park. We’d walk up and down the paths, reading the plaques on the benches, making up stories about who might’ve donated them.
Can you imagine living anywhere else? Mom used to say.
I couldn’t.
Once, in college, a group of my transplant friends had unanimously agreed they “could never raise kids in the city,” and I was shocked. It isn’t just that I loved growing up in the city—it’s that every time I see kids sleepily shuffling along en masse at the Met, or setting their boom box down on the train to break-dance for tips, or standing in awe in front of a world-class violinist playing beneath Rockefeller Center, I think, How amazing it is to be a part of this, to get to share this place with all these people.
And I love taking Bea and Tala to explore the city too, watching what mesmerizes a four-and-a-half-year-old and a newly three-year-old and which trappings of the city they walk right past, accepting as commonplace.
Mom came to New York hoping for the set of a Nora Ephron movie （my namesake）， but the real New York is so much better. Because every kind of person is there, coexisting, sharing space and life.
Still, my love for New York doesn’t preclude me from being charmed by Sunshine falls.
In fact, I’m buzzing with excitement as I near the lending library. When I peer into the dark windows, the buzzing cuts out. The white stone facade of the building is exactly how Dusty described it, but inside, there’s nothing but flickering TVs and neon beer signs.
It’s not like I expected the widowed Mrs. Wilder to be an actual person, but Dusty made the lending library so vivid I was sure it was a real place.
The excitement sours, and when I think of Libby, it curdles entirely. This is not what she’s expecting, and I’m already trying to figure out how to manage her expectations, or at least present her with a fun consolation prize.
I pass a few empty storefronts before I reach the awning of the general store. One glance at the windows tells me there are no racks of fresh bread or barrels of old-fashioned candy waiting inside.
The glass panes are grimy with dust, and beyond them, what I see can only be described as random shit. Shelves and shelves of junk. Old computers, vacuum cleaners, box fans, dolls with ratty hair. It’s a pawnshop. And not a well-kept one.
Before I can make eye contact with the bespectacled man hunched at the desk, I push on until I come even with the yellow-umbrellaed patio on the far side of the street.
At least there are signs of life there, people milling in and out, a couple chatting with cups of coffee at one of the tables. That’s promising. Ish.
I check both ways for traffic （none） before running across the street. The gold-embossed sign over the doors reads MUG + SHOT, and there are people waiting inside at a counter.
I cup my hands around my eyes, trying to see through the glare on the glass door, just as the man on the far side of it starts to swing it open.
3
THE MAN’S EMERALD green eyes go wide. “Sorry!” he cries as I swiftly sidestep the door without any damage.
It’s not often that I’m stunned into silence.
Now, though, I’m staring, silent and agog, at the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.
Golden-blond hair, a square jaw, and a beard that manages to be rugged without looking unruly. He’s brawny—the word pops into my head, supplied by a lifetime of picking over Mom’s old Harlequin paperbacks—his （flannel） shirt snug, the sleeves rolled up his tan forearms.
With a sheepish smile, he steps aside, holding the door for me.
I should say something.
Anything.
Oh, no, my fault! I was in the way.
I’d even settle for a strangled Hello, good sir.
Unfortunately, it’s not happening, so I cut my losses, force a smile, and slip past him through the door, hoping I look like I know where I am and have definitely come here on purpose.
I never loved Mom’s small-town romance novels the way Libby does, but I’ve enjoyed enough that it shouldn’t surprise me that my next thought is, He smells like evergreens and impending rain.
Except it does, because men don’t smell like that.
They smell like sweat, bar soap, or a little too much cologne.