Head Over Heels

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏

If you think you can't have it, fight for it, and you'll get it. That's what my mother always used to say when I was growing up. Yeah, it worked for when I wasn't confident during the school spelling bee or when I beat my bully in a math test. But it doesn't work when I'm running late to work on the first day back after Spring Break.

Honestly, I'm currently a complete mess. The wind is howling around my hair, making it stick to my lipgloss as I try to juggle my bag, paperwork, coffee cup and car keys. Why can't I be elegant like how Princess Diana walked down the street?

God is not in my favour today but it's not like I believe in him. I stumble through the revolving doors of Harrisons on Sixth Avenue. A warm gust of air around my ankles welcomes me in as I breathe in the scent of firewood and brown sugar. It's my favourite scent in the world besides new books. It feels like home to me.

I've been working for Harrisons for 2 years now. It is my third job in the music journalism industry. My first was a part-time job at New York Times but I got bored of the constant competition of trying to uphold my job before another sleazy critic could pinch it. Then I worked for a small local business in Queens, which was good because my brother, Christopher lives there but the pay was very low and my dad convinced me to quit. Then I had my work experience in Liverpool- eesh. I miss that place a lot. But I don't miss David. I don't miss David one bit. David can go fuck himself or that girl he cheated on me with. Stupid British asshole.

I screamed when I got the job at Harrisons because, to be honest, I really didn't think I'd get it. You see, Harrisons is very unlike NY Times in the sense that it's a newspaper revolved around music. Like Rolling Stone but even more retro and overall better writers. But maybe I'm just being biased.

I rush over to the elevator, muttering good morning to the receptionist. I'm looking down at my Mary Jane Docs' as I walk and examining the scuff I incurred on the sidewalk. This resulted in me walking straight into someone.

I come in contact with a hard male chest and it slams me onto the ground.

"Shit. I'm so sorry" I mutter as I gather my papers from the ground. I notice my coffee cup feels weirdly light. Oh no.

"This isn't how I planned my Monday morning to go" he laughs before joining me on the floor. I don't recognise him but he's got a work ID strapped to his trouser pocket- it reads 'Anthony Connors.'

I sheepishly smile up at him as for some reason I'm unable to respond when I notice I've smiled my latte all down his cream shirt.

"Oh my god! Oh my god! I'm so sorry!" I jump up and cover my mouth in embarrassment.

He gazes down like he doesn't understand but he must've felt the hot liquid against his skin. Well, my Monday morning is going splendid.

"Oh, it's okay, I have hundreds of shirts identical to this one."

"I feel terrible. Let me buy you a new one-"

He cuts me off with a laugh. "That won't be necessary...Amara is it?"

I nod and hold out my hand, my cheeks still flushed with embarrassment. "Yes, Amara Martin, music historian. And you are...?"

"Oh, I'm Anthony Connors, I'm head of critics." He tightly holds my hand and shakes it. How is he head of the critics' department and I've never met him?

"Nice to meet you, Mr Connors. And sorry about the coffee"

"Please, call me Anthony" he smiles. "Don't worry about it, Miss Martin."