HIS PROLOGUE
A little while ago
Ivy crawls up the battered wall, skating between seams, gliding along the old stones until it wraps its green arms around a cracked windowpane.
As if embracing the window—or perhaps silently strangling it.
Ivy on a secret mission.
That’s what I’ll call this shot.
I lift my camera and snap a pic, then another of a sneaky vine hellbent on covering the corner of this tiny old church tucked into an alley several streets away from St Paul’s Cathedral.
There, crowds snake around the famous site, waiting for its doors to open.
Here, there’s only me at dawn, like an intrepid modern-day explorer stumbling upon a hidden gem in London.
I’ll plant a flag and mark my discovery.
Right, sure.
Like that’s my style.
My soft laugh lands lightly in the eerie early morning quiet. The city has barely stretched its arms and drunk its tea. “Bet this ivy becomes famous any day now,” I murmur.
It’s an offhand remark, the kind I’d make while sharing the photo over lunch. “Want to lay odds on when this spot will be overrun by Instagrammers?”
We’d place our bets, I imagine—make predictions, then exchange stories of the day.
It’s a possibility for a future, but an unlikely one.
I dismiss the make-believe afternoon scene and take a few steps back from the church to frame another shot.
Another angle. Another perspective.
I click off a few more, then I lower the camera and drink in the view alone, letting go of the fleeting wish that I could share it.
With . . . someone.
There are plenty of other things to do than share.
Pictures to take, books to read, and work to do.
It’s time to go.
HER PROLOGUE
Ten years ago
I. Can’t. Wait.
With bated breath, I turn the key in the lock of my studio apartment.
Fine, fine. Studio is a generous term. “Closet” is more like it.
But hey, it’s New York, and it’s mine.
I exhale, still over the moon that I’m here, still thrilled about this place I found online.
Despite the ear-piercing squawk from the door as I push it open.
Whoa. That squeal is like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz.
But I’ll snag some WD-40, give the hinges a tune-up. Just like I’ll lavish love on my brand-new place—plants, flowers, posters, the whole nine yards.
I step inside for the first time.
Huh.
It’s smaller than the pics on the website. Stretching out an arm, I can almost touch the other wall. The one with the . . . drawing of a window on it.
Yup. The only window in my basement studio is the one painted on the wall.
I drag a deep inhale of . . . sauerkraut. My new matchbox of an apartment smells like a hot dog cart.
And what’s that hanging from the ceiling?
As I wave a hand in front of my face, something sticks to my fingers.
No. Just no.
Spiderwebs.
There are spiderwebs in my sardine-can home.
I shudder.
Spiders and I don’t get along.
But that’s okay, I reassure my racing heart. No big deal.
I’m in Manhattan. Spiders are nothing. Food smells are a fact of life. Besides . . . I have my own bathroom. I turn ninety degrees, and there it is, literally the size of me.
Yes, I have a gym locker of a bathroom.
But it’s all good.
I can handle this—because the great big this of New York City has always been my goal after studying for my Masters on the West Coast. I plan to embrace every single second in the city of dreams.
I’m like the starlet in a movie musical, fresh off the bus, singing and twirling in her flouncy skirt, ready to tap dance down the Great White Way and show the Broadway director what she can do.
Okay, I don’t sing, dance, or act. But I do know art history, from the caves of Lascaux to Warhol’s Campbell’s soup cans and back.
Nothing will stop me from owning the New York art world.
Not my past, not the tangled web of lies woven through the last few years, and not the people who deceived me.
They’re out of my orbit now, and I plan to make my life my own. New home, new city, new friends.
This is me starting over.
I remember what Mom told me before I left for college. You’ve got this.