Lost in Love (8 page)

I'VE BEEN MAKING WARM FUZZIES
for my friends and people going through hard times for years. I used to give warm fuzzies to kids at school who seemed like they had it rough, just to let them know someone cared. Everyone in my Random Acts of Kindness Meetup group started making their own warm fuzzies after I told them about mine. Of course they loved the idea. The Random Acts of Kindness Foundation is all about spreading the love. Their philosophy is that anyone can help others simply by practicing kindness. My group wanted to extend the warm fuzzy circle to people we don't know. How cool would it be to make a bunch of warm fuzzies and leave them around for strangers to find?

Our plan to paper lower Manhattan with warm fuzzies is a go.

Tonight we are papering our neighborhoods with the warm fuzzies we've been making for a few weeks. Like a warm fuzzy bomb is about to explode. Warm fuzzies cannot be rushed. You have to use special paper and quality pens. Your handwriting has to be impeccable. Script is preferred but is optional. Nice printing works just fine. I usually bedazzle my notes with stickers, rhinestones, sequins, or glitter.

Each of us made twenty-five warm fuzzies. Tonight we split up into our respective neighborhoods. I'm covering the West Village with another girl from my group. She's doing the Far West Village. Bleecker Street to 5th Avenue is my territory.

The first stop I make is at a diner on Greenwich Avenue. But I don't go inside. I take out a warm fuzzy cut into a star shape on watercolored paper.
What we think, we become. —Buddha
is written in black Sharpie against the watercolor background. I stick the star in the takeout menu box hanging outside the door of the diner. Next I hit the library. I go up to the children's section and find
The Grouchy Ladybug
. This book is getting a warm fuzzy with sequins and feathers that says:
Have a happy day!
All of our warm fuzzies are stickered with the Random Acts of Kindness seal on the back so people will understand our initiative.

Back on the street, I check my list of papering locations. The ginormous bag I usually lug around is at home. Tonight I just have my mom's High Line member tote I
accidentally on purpose packed when I moved out. I feel so free without a big, heavy bag weighing me down. My plan is to start carrying smaller bags. Not just because it's too hot for big bags in the summer. Escaping the confines of my ginormous bag is part of the whole Enough Mode. Feeling lighter and freer physically will help me feel that way emotionally. Everything is connected. Ditching my actual baggage will help me let go of the secret baggage I've been carrying in my heart like dead weight. And it's definitely part of getting over Austin.

The next stop on my list is Joe, a cute coffeehouse on Waverly. Good karma is totally in the air tonight. My corner window table with the vintage filament bulb hanging over it is free. I rush in and claim the table before anyone else can. New York City cafés can be cutthroat when it comes to seating. If you want a seat that's free, you better go for it without hesitation.

I was so excited to see my table free that I sat down without thinking about it. Now I have to stay for a coffee out of habit. One of my favorite things to do is kick back at a window table and people-watch. This area of the West Village is filled with locals who have been here for decades. And a lot of celebs. One time I was leaving and Keri Russell was right outside. My love for
Felicity
is profound and unwavering. I wanted to take a picture with Keri Russell so bad. But she was with a friend who was
introducing her to someone. I didn't want to bother her when she was trying to have a normal day. “Hi, I'm Keri,” she said to the person she was being introduced to. As if anyone would be dense enough not to know who she was. Keri's sweetness put her right at the top of my celebrity crush list.

After I get my coffee and add cream and sugar, I come back to my table to decide which warm fuzzy I'll leave here. I remember how I used to make warm fuzzies for Marnix and slip them under his door. Sometimes he'd say thanks. Sometimes he wouldn't say anything. But at least he knew I was there for him. That's why I'm knitting Marnix something for Christmas. I want him to know I'm thinking of him every time he sees it. I'm just not sure what to make him. Arizona is warm in the winter, but it gets cold at night. A fun scarf? A hat? Or maybe something cute. A quirky stuffed animal for his desk?

Selecting which warm fuzzy to leave at Joe is not easy. Ultimately I decide to go with a rainbow that disappears into a cloud at one end. In green glitter Gelly Roll pen, I had written inside the cloud:
Anything you visualize, you can create. Dream big.
A croton plant is sitting on the window ledge next to me. I tuck the warm fuzzy under its pot with most of it sticking out. Then I change my mind and stand it up against the pot.

“Scavenger hunt?” someone asks me.

I look up. A boy in his early twenties is standing by my table. A really cute boy with blue eyes and wavy brown hair. He looks familiar, like we've met before, but I can't remember where.

“What?” I ask, borderline rudely. His blue eyes caught me off guard. They're almost the same shade of blue as Austin's.

“Are you doing one of those city scavenger hunts where you take something from a designated place and leave something else behind in exchange? I forget what they're called, but I've always wanted to do one.”

“No. I'm just doing the leaving-behind part.”

“What are you leaving behind?”

“This.” I hold the rainbow out for him. He takes it, his smile brightening.

“That is so sweet. Did you make this?”

I nod.

“And you're just leaving it here for someone to find? How awesome are you?”

“My Random Acts of Kindness group is papering Manhattan with these warm fuzzies tonight. I'm covering the West Village.”

“No. Way.” The boy points at me. “How do I know you?” he asks.

And then it hits me. He's Danny. We met right before last summer at Strawberry Fields, this place in Central Park
where Beatles fans get together. There's usually at least one guy playing guitar and singing Beatles songs. Danny was playing guitar with some other guys there when we met. I went up to him after. We only talked for a few minutes, but I remember that he was just learning to play the guitar back then.

“I think we met at Strawberry Fields like a year ago,” I say. “You were playing guitar and we talked after.”

“That's it.” He cracks a bright smile, his eyes glittering. “I knew I knew you from somewhere. I wanted to come over and ask you, but
Where do I know you from?
is such a line.”

“You're Danny, right?”

“Good memory.” He extends his hand over the table for me to shake. “Danny Trager.”

“Sadie Hall.” Normally I wouldn't give my last name out to random boys for safety reasons. But I can tell Danny is a genuinely nice guy.

Danny gives the rainbow back to me. “May I join you?” he asks. “I have to hear more about these warm fuzzies.”

There's a second of hesitation where I remind myself that I am not interested in boys right now. Especially boys with glittering blue eyes. Those are the most dangerous ones. But then I get over myself. He's interested in warm fuzzies. Not me.

“Okay,” I tell him.

He pulls out the chair across from mine and settles in. I can't help noticing how gracefully he moves for a boy. Most boys slam themselves down into chairs.

“I've heard about your group,” he says. “You're doing magnificent things.”

“Um . . . I'm just, you know. Leaving some warm fuzzies around.”

“But that's impressive. What inspired you to join Random Acts?”

“I like trying to help make the world a better place. Even a little note can make a big difference.”

“That is so true.” Danny glances over his shoulder, then quickly turns back. “Wanted to make sure my laptop was still there.”

Danny was sitting across from me the whole time and I didn't even notice him. My lack of cute boy radar shows how tuned out I am right now. I used to come into this place dreaming of my soul mate walking in the door. Or my soul mate sitting at my corner window table and offering to let me sit with him. My cute boy radar was permanently set to red alert. But I didn't even see Danny when I came in, and he's a cute boy I sort of already know.

“So how's the papering going?” he asks. His blue eyes scorch mine. I actually have to look away to cool my eyes off.

“This counts as an early break. I couldn't resist staying when I saw that my table was free.”

“I love this table, too! I always try to get it. Someone was sitting here when I came in. I was getting ready to move over after they left. But you got here first.”

“Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't know.”

“How dare you not know I was here. And that I wanted this table.” Danny's eyes glitter some more as he teases me. Where was he all those times I hoped to meet a boy like him?

“Anyway . . .” I put the other warm fuzzies I was considering back into my bag. “I better get back to leaving these around. Three down, twenty-two to go.”

“Have fun. Hey, and if you're ever in Strawberry Fields again, come on by. I play there most Wednesday nights.” More glittering eyes. More bright smile.

“Thanks. I might do that.”

Danny goes back to his table. On the way out, I slip a warm fuzzy behind his laptop.

YOU KNOW HOW SOME PEOPLE
drone on in a monotone that's so flat their voice is more effective than a sleeping pill?

Yeah. That's my art history professor.

This art history class might be more interesting if the professor wasn't the most boring man alive. Apparently his idea of fun is being able to recite all the artists and titles and dates in the entire history of artistic creation. Why would you still have all that stuff memorized years after the test if you weren't obsessed? He told us he studied at the Sorbonne in Paris. And that he's been to every major museum in Europe. So the dude has passion. It's just hidden under a wrinkled polo and extremely unfortunate khakis. What is it with middle-aged guys and khakis? Are khakis part of a uniform for guys over thirty? Do they
think khakis are flattering? Khakis are flattering to no one.

My professor could definitely use a fashion hack. A fresh wardrobe might even motivate him to bring some pep and zing to his classes. He might actually be handsome with the right clothes. I can totally see him looking sharp in a tailored suit. Or even just a fitted button-down. He doesn't wear a wedding ring. The poor guy is probably living a lonely bachelor life, coming home every night to frozen dinners and dreary TV. He is clearly in desperate need of a woman's touch.

Restraining myself from daydreaming is a test of strength. I can't stand being cooped up in a lobotomizing class when it's so gorgeous outside. This girl likes to run with the wind. But I'm also a girl who wants to graduate on time. Taking summer session to make up some general credits I missed while I was in Europe sounded like a better option than graduating a year late. Until summer session actually started. I can't believe I'm cramming classes that normally take an entire semester into one summer.

Class mercifully ends with a slide of Magritte's
The Son of Man
. You have to respect an artist who paints apples over people's faces as a metaphor for the conflict between the visible and the hidden in everything we observe. Magritte was the bomb.

On the way out of class, a shy girl with thick black hair piled on top of her head trips over a chair. She crashes into the girl in front of her, who was talking to another
girl—both of those girls get shoved in the kerfuffle. The first girl who got crashed into drops her large coffee cup. Coffee splashes on the shy girl who tripped.

“I'm so sorry!” she says. She looks mortified.

“That's okay,” the girl she crashed into says. “It happens. The coffee was cold, so.”

“Can I buy you another one?”

“Oh, no. I was just going to throw it out.”

Shy Girl still looks mortified. The shoved girls are staring at her as she blushes harder. I'm compelled to do something to smooth out the tension.

“You meant to do that, right?” I ask. “As a performance art piece exposing the hidden from the visible? Anything could have been in that cup. We assume it was coffee because she was holding a coffee cup. But it could have been anything. Even a Magritte apple.”

All three girls laugh. Shy Girl gives me a grateful smile.

“You're dropping some serious spin,” a boy who sits in the back says on his way out. “You should be in PR.”

And just like that, it clicks.

It clicks so hard I'm pretty sure I hear a clicking sound.

The boy is right. I should be in public relations. My social butterfly tendencies and solid extrovert skills are perfect for public relations. What better way to promote people I believe in while constantly making new connections? I can definitely see myself loving the PR world. The image is fuzzy, but for the first time I can make out some
rough edges of my future.

How wild is it that I might have figured out what I want to do with my life on the way out of class, standing around with a bunch of people I don't really know? You never know when an epiphany will strike.

Sadie and Rosanna are loving the epiphany story when I tell them about it in my room later. There's something about having them hang in my room that's more fun than chilling in the living room. I filled my room with as many floor pillows, beanbag chairs, and poufs as it could hold exactly for this purpose. The splashes of bright colors everywhere make my room inviting. You want to come in and you don't want to leave.

“That boy has no idea how much of an impact he had,” Rosanna says from her turquoise beanbag. Sadie has the violet pouf. I'm sprawled out on my bed. “Do you even know his name?”

“Not yet. But I feel like I should get him a thank-you gift. Is that weird? It has to be something generic while coming across as personal. What do all guys like? Gadgets? Hardware? Steakhouses?”

“Sex,” Sadie says. She lifts another slice of pizza from the box on my Jonathan Adler area rug.

“Nothing says ‘Thanks for figuring out my life' like the gift of sex,” I confirm.

“What's your budget?” Rosanna asks.

“Sky's the limit on this one. Without, you know,
coming off as a creeper.”

“Do you know anything about him?” Sadie says.

“Nothing. Today was the first time we ever talked. And I didn't even get a chance to talk back. I was still in delirium mode when he was out the door.”

“How about a pogo stick?” Rosanna offers.

“Why a pogo stick?”

“It's pretty much guaranteed he doesn't have one.”

“Maybe I should just ask him what he wants?”

Rosanna snorts. “Then he'll be like, ‘A new phone is good. Or whatever. A new laptop works.'”

“You really don't have to get him anything,” Sadie says. “You can just tell him what happened and say thanks.”

“But money's not an issue. Daddy will be stoked to hear that I finally figured out my life. Well, my career, which is the same to him. He'll probably give me a new credit card to celebrate.”

Sadie laughs. Rosanna scowls at her pizza.

“Was it something I said?” I ask her.

“No, you're right. He probably will. He gives you everything else.”

I exchange a glance with Sadie. Sometimes it's hard to tell what's going on with Rosanna.

“Are you mad at me?” I ask.

“Not mad. Just annoyed.” Rosanna rips the ponytail holder out of her hair. “Everything comes so easily to you. You don't know what it's like to not get whatever you
want. It's hard.” She scrapes her hair back up into a tighter ponytail, looking at me. “Sorry. I'm in a repulsive mood. I shouldn't be taking it out on you.”

“No worries.” What Rosanna said stings a little. But I brush it off. She's obviously under a lot of stress. I want to help her as much as I can, regardless of her repulsive mood. We've all been there.

“What's wrong?” Sadie asks Rosanna.

“D is out with some girl he knows from high school. This girl Shayla.”

“Shayla?” I ask, incredulous. “Her name is
Shayla
?”

“Allegedly.”

“I hate her already.” Being vehemently on Rosanna's side should help make her feel better.

“He says they're just friends. But it felt like there was something more between them when I met her. I was waiting for D in his lobby last night and he came home with her. She was hanging on his arm, laughing way too hard. He didn't even say I was his girlfriend when he introduced me.”

“Wait. He didn't tell her you're his girlfriend? That's messed up.”

“She doesn't even know he has a girlfriend. She just got back in touch with him recently. They stopped talking after graduation.”

“Oh!” Sadie says. “Then they're still catching up on old times. It's not like they've been talking all these years and
he didn't tell her about you.”

“Why did she contact him?” I ask.

“Some family crisis she's going through. Apparently D is the only good friend she can trust not to tell anyone. Her parents are public figures or something.”

“What's her last name?”

“I don't know.”

“I don't like that he didn't tell her about you right away. Isn't that what you do when you get back in touch with someone after a long time? At least mention the person you're in a relationship with?”

“Thank you.”

“Where are they right now?” The rage I had back when Logan broke up with me is poking at my ribs like a red-hot skewer. I better check myself at the door before I go and throw a drink in D's face. And Austin's face. Morons.

“I don't know.”

“Could you find out?”

“You guys.” Sadie holds her hands up in a stop-everything motion. “Donovan and Shayla are just friends. There's nothing to get worked up about.”

“Right, because boys and girls can just be friends,” I huff.

“They totally can. How is Donovan having a friend who's a girl any different than Rosanna having a friend who's a boy?”

Sadie might have a point.

“It didn't feel like they were just friends,” Rosanna says. “There was this . . . vibe coming from them. You could feel their history.”

“That's what it's like with old friends,” Sadie justifies. “They have history. But if D says they're just friends, I trust him.”

“Do you trust him?” I ask Rosanna.

“I want to . . .”

“What if the bad feeling you had was just . . . like, jealousy?” Sadie asks carefully. “Could that have been possible?”

“Of course she was jealous!” I boom. “Any girl would be jealous of her boyfriend coming home with some girl clawing at him.” I throw Rosanna a cautious look. “Was she hot?”

“Really?” Sadie says. “How are you going to ask her that?”

“It matters.” I bite my lip. “Was she?”

“Super hot,” Rosanna grumbles.

“Damn,” I say.

“Um, okay.” Sadie gets up from the pouf. Even though I only met her a month ago, I know Rosanna and I are about to get schooled. Or attempted schooled. Sadie's positive energy can have a hard time penetrating our cynicism. This girl would defend Walter White
and
Dexter Morgan. “First off, can we remember that Donovan just took Rosanna down to South Beach for four nights? There's
no way he would have done that if he wasn't serious about her.”

“That doesn't change how Rosanna felt when she saw him with Shayla,” I interject.

“Exactly. How she
felt
.” Sadie turns to Rosanna. “Did you see Donovan acting like she was more than a friend?”

“No.”

“And he told you that they're just friends, right?”

“Yes.”

“So why don't you believe him?”

Rosanna shakes her head. “I just don't.”

“Why don't you tell him how you're feeling? It's better to be honest and put everything out there.”

I almost choke on my pizza. “Again with this? Didn't we agree that it's not always better to share every little thing you're feeling?”

“When was that?” Sadie asks.

“After we watched
Unfaithful
.”

“No,
you
said it was better to hide stuff. I think it's better to be honest. Austin lied to me and look how that turned out.”

“Being married is not a little thing. It is monumental. There's a huge difference between having an affair and not bothering the person you're with about crap that could be your own issue.” I look at Rosanna. “Not that this is crap. I would have been furious if Logan walked in with some clingy hottie.”

“This could be my own issue,” Rosanna says slowly. “You know how we were talking about how we all have baggage? I wouldn't be surprised if trust issues were buried in mine.”

“Why?” I ask. But Rosanna doesn't answer.

Sadie purses her lips like I shouldn't be so nosy. Again, the girl has a point. A good publicist knows when to shut up.

Sadie sits back down on the pouf. She looks around my room. “We could do some fun feng shui in here,” she says.

“‘Fun' and ‘feng shui' should not be used in the same sentence,” I protest.

“Have you ever tried it?”

“What do you think?”

“I'm guessing not so much. But it really is fun. We could move those two glass bottles on your dresser to your nightstand. That way they'll be against the southern wall. Objects in pairs against the southern wall are good for relationship prosperity.”

My gaze flicks over to the shopping bag hanging on my closet door. The
Princess Bride
shirt I bought for Jude is inside. I can't believe I haven't given it to him yet. But what did I expect after the Logan debacle? Jude looked so disappointed at the park last week. I hate to disappoint anyone. But disappointing Jude? That's really, really bad.

I wish this summer hadn't turned into such a complicated mess of boy drama. Everything was so simple when
Summer Fun Darcy ruled Manhattan. Now my head is spinning. Jude wants to be exclusive, but Logan is the one I have to be exclusive with. Logan was my first love. As much as I want to be with both boys, that wouldn't be fair to either one of them. Logan deserves my full attention.

But I can't help thinking about Jude.

There was a light that used to be in Jude's eyes when he looked at me. I wish I knew how to find it again.