My father gives me a bland look over his shoulder. “Isn’t it what you’ve always wanted?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Olivia

I have my own place.

As in my very own I-pay-the-rent apartment, for the first time ever.

It’s a tiny, ancient studio on the border of the Upper East Side and Harlem. It smells like Thai food always, and looks out onto a halfway house.

But it’s mine. I pay for it using my paycheck, which I get from an actual company, not an anonymous businessman who can’t be bothered to take care of his own problem child.

This time, I got a job working for Ethan’s dad. (I know, right?)

Like a total idiot, I’d gotten so wrapped up in my obsession with Paul that I hadn’t thought at all about what I’d do when the three months were up. And when I’d walked out the door I had a broken heart but absolutely zero prospects for getting a job.

So I’d done the unthinkable. I’d called Mr. Price and begged for a job . . . an internship, anything. After my spectacularly disastrous experiment with caregiving, I’d decided maybe the business world was the right fit for me after all.

I’m also taking a few night classes at a community college to get my degree. My parents are totally exasperated that I’ve come full circle. They’re right on one level: it would have been easier to just finish my senior year at NYU with my friends. But I don’t know how to explain to them that that simply wasn’t my path. There were things I needed to do first. Stuff about myself to discover before I could realize that, yeah, the original idea of entering the business world was the right choice for me all along.

Anyway.

The starting salary for a marketing assistant doesn’t leave much room for luxuries. Consistent hot water is a thing of the past, and the heat in my building seems to have two settings: off and try to start a fire.

But I’m doing it. On my own.

However . . . truth? When I see my parents for dinner once a week or so and they ask if I need any money, or mention that their friends are spending the rest of the year in Paris and wonder if I want a paid-for place on Park Avenue for that time, I’m tempted. Just a little.

There’s supposed to be all this pride in doing things for yourself, and I guess there is that, but I miss the trendy restaurants and endless clothes budget of my past life. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t easier before. But easy also feels hollow.

My time in Maine, while 95 percent disastrous, also showed me that I’d rather be doing it wrong on my own than doing it right for someone else’s sake.

That’s why things went amiss with Ethan. I was with him because I was supposed to be. It also happened at NYU. I was there because I was supposed to be the perfect little coed.

And now?

I’m on the right path.

Well, truthfully, I still feel a little lost. But at least I’ve started to figure out what I don’t want, and that’s a start.

I volunteer at the soup kitchen over on Eleventh Avenue every Sunday. Not because I want to continue punishing myself for past mistakes, but because it feels right.

I figure the best any of us can do is make amends the best we can with those we’ve wronged, and try to do better next time. One day at a time, and all that.

Now if only I could forget Paul. I push thoughts of him out of my head. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. Or trying to, anyway.

It’s Friday afternoon. So not the time for moping. If I thought Fridays were awesome when I was a full-time student, they’re downright euphoric now that I’m part of the regular workforce.

Don’t get me wrong, I like my job. As marketing assistant, I’m really more like the assistant to the assistant to the associate marketing manager, which essentially means I make copies for a living, but even three weeks in, I can see a clear-cut career path, and that’s kind of cool. I don’t know that I’ll stay on this path, but so far it’s a hell of a lot better fit for me than caregiving was. I think it’ll be pretty difficult to get my heart broken in marketing, so already that’s a plus.

Still, great job or not, an end-of-the-week cocktail is sounding pretty perfect right about now.

Once I’m out of the subway tunnel, I pull out my cell phone to text Bella. As with the best of friendships, we picked up right where we’d left off, as though I hadn’t been in Maine and barely responsive for three months.

As always, she’s read my mind, texting me before I can text her. Wine tonight? I’m thinking a bucketful, at least.

I smile and text her back. My place?

Her response is immediate. God, no. My sweater still smells like pad thai from last time I came over. Heard about a cheap new wine bar in Hell’s Kitchen. Will text u details.

I don’t even bother waiting for the elevator in my building. On a good day and at off-hours it’s slower than molasses. At six o’clock on a Friday I don’t think I’ll ever see it, especially since there’s a moving truck outside. Some poor soul is about to realize that their bed, couch, dresser, and every other heavy item they own won’t fit in the shoe-box elevators. Poor thing.

I take the steps two at a time. I like to pretend it’s my exercise. I’m winded by the time I reach the sixth floor, probably because I haven’t gone for a run once since I left Maine. It’s stupid, but running makes me think of Paul.

So do turkey sandwiches.

And books.

And military uniforms.

And anyone with blue eyes.

I round the corner toward my unit and nearly collide with a pile of moving boxes. It would seem the new resident is on my floor.