I realized I was staring, and blinked to recalibrate. “Oh, you mean my cousin and…”
“Lola,” she said.
“Lola, right. Yeah, they’ve only made it weirder.”
She laughed at this, which felt like a win.
“Well, hey, I accept your apology—again.” She leaned toward me and gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “And I hope you have a nice life.”
It was a funny thing to say, yet her voice was completely sincere.
“I hope you have a nice life too, Franny. And a nice night.”
And then, with a swipe of her MetroCard, she was off through the turnstile, lost back to the city that had given her to me.
*
Franny was still on my mind the next morning, our conversation on replay in my brain, ready for me to analyze and obsess over. I couldn’t stop thinking about her, and that alone felt off for me. Even work wasn’t distracting me like it normally did. And so I texted Serena and asked if she was able to bump up our first date by a few days and meet after work today instead. We’d talked briefly on the phone last week, introducing ourselves and making plans to meet in person. Talking with Serena had been easy and familiar, which was exactly what I needed right now to quell this off-balance feeling Franny had stirred up in me.
We had planned a run around Central Park, which was definitely a departure from my usual meet-for-coffee-or-a-cocktail first-date routine. I felt a slight pang of guilt using a date with Serena as a way to pull my brain out of my thoughts about someone else, but as soon as we hit the pavement I was convinced it had been a good move. She was outgoing and did the bulk of the talking, but she also seemed to genuinely enjoy the run and she laughed at my dumb running jokes.
“I’m in charge of understanding fashion trends, picking jewelry and accessories for shoots and features, scouting the market so I know what should be in the magazine each month,” Serena said, her blond ponytail swinging gracefully down her back.
“Wow, I had absolutely no idea what an accessories editor even was,” I huffed, trying not to let on that I was out of breath. She was pacing for a race next weekend, which meant she was trying to keep her miles under eight minutes each. I was a nine-minute-mile guy, and I was definitely hustling to keep up with her.
“I style photo shoots too.”
“That seems like a lot to do on top of training for the marathon,” I marveled.
“Well, that’s not even all of it. I’m also on a committee for a charity gala happening at the Museum of Natural History in August. All the proceeds go toward ALS research. My sister-in-law was diagnosed last year.”
“God, I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“I tend to channel my grief into productivity. I’m probably a little type A,” she said with a small laugh, though her face hinted at sadness. “Did Eleanor mention that?”
Eleanor had, in fact, mentioned that. But she’d also said Serena worked closely with her fiancé Henry’s group at the magazine and that he thought she was also “generally nice,” which was as good of an endorsement as any. And true to Eleanor’s promise, she was “hot.” Beautiful, really—with long tan limbs and sharp cheekbones and pale-blue eyes.
Serena was easily someone I’d normally be attracted to, and I could see why Eleanor thought she’d be a perfect setup. So why was I feeling absolutely no spark? It was probably work, and the stress of Damien quitting, I reasoned. I had too much going on.
“You have to come,” she continued. “We’ve sent out the formal invites, but I’ll email you the info and get one out to you.”
Six miles later, we leaned over a bridge by Sixty-Fourth Street, stretching. My calves throbbed, my arms ached, but still—I felt good. Serena was amiable and chatty, making me laugh once or twice. Our conversation was easy and familiar. Enjoyable, even. This had been nice. Perfectly nice.
“Oh!” she said, unstrapping her phone from around her bicep. “I almost forgot. Do you mind if I take a photo of us for my Instagram?”
“Oh god, I dunno,” I said. “I don’t exactly have the best track record on Instagram.”
“I saw.” She laughed knowingly. “But social media and influencing is literally my job.”
She opened up her phone and began scrolling through her feed. “I have to photograph my outfits every day. I have this hashtag called #SerenaStyle, and basically it’s become this whole thing.”
“How so?” I asked. It wasn’t like I didn’t get how Instagram worked, but I’d found that people used the phrase “whole thing” to describe, well, lots of very different things.