Where We Continue

Chapter 1 - I Was Just Thinking About You

Nov 19th, 2004 - Taylor

I love walking through Central Park, admiring the spectacular colors of the autumn leaves against the sophisticated backdrop of Manhattan's architecture. I enjoy the crisp breeze almost as much as my new green cashmere coat and faux fur earmuffs. I rarely had a reason to shop for that kind of stuff back in California.

I was heading back to my apartment after an afternoon with some of my new classmates, one last outing before we all took off for Thanksgiving break. We saw a jazz quartet play in the park and a couple people brought wine. Even though I only had a couple cups (OK... four), my head was buzzing. My breath was visible as the sun and the temperature dropped lower.

Instead of bothering with the subway, I hailed a taxi, something that was already becoming a bad habit of mine. One of my first nights here in a train station, a rat ran across my Louboutins and I saw a drunk guy vomit on his own lap. I love everything about New York, except the subway. I loathe the subway.

I looked out the window at all the people on the sidewalk. This place was completely different from home. I would have never spent my Friday listening to jazz and sipping chardonnay back in Mt Blue. I mean, I spent half an hour tonight debating whether or not the new Chanel line is simplicity at it's finest or just plain boring, which led to an even longer discussion on modern art and minimalism. I love my friends back home and miss them terribly, but they would probablt die of boredom if I talked about that kind of stuff all night.

The ride to Chelsea wasn't a long one. My place is only a few blocks from FIT, and from what I have seen of my friend's drab dorm rooms, I made the right call living off campus. My apartment was a simple studio, but once decorated, it was a dream come true. 

Well, except for the fact that I was supposed to be sharing it with my boyfriend.

Busta didn't get into any schools or find a job... mostly because he didn't actually apply to any of them. I told him we would figure it out, but he didn't make it on the house hunting trip. He also didn't make orientation week when I moved in. He also didn't make any of the weekends after that. Tomorrow will be the first time I see him since I left. Half of me is over the moon. The other half is pissed.

The bright side was I didn't have to compromise on decor for my apartment. Everything was warm neutrals and metallics. I have an upholstered suede headboard for my double platform bed and a vintage wooden screen separating it from my "living room". That consists of a cream, midcentury loveseat, two side tables and a mirrored dresser that also doubles as a TV stand. My kitchen is really just the front wall of the apartment, where there's a fridge, a range and a sink all in row with cabinets above and below. I put a small butcher block island in front of it and hung a tiny chandelier over it for ambience.

Between my peaceful space, the excitement of the city and meeting all kinds of new friends and fellow fashionistas, I was feeling equally inspired and vindicated. I worked my ass off since middle school to get a 4.0 GPA, high AP scores and to place in the 99th percentile for the SATs, and because of that, I got to bypass a lot of intro classes and placement exams. It was a head start that I was not going to take for granted. I had recently met with my academic advisor and we laid out a pretty exciting plan for the next four years. It has pros and cons though, so I'd have to talk it over with my parents while I'm home.

When I got inside my apartment, I popped an aspirin, drank a glass of water and heated up some leftover lo mein. I did not need a headache on the plane tomorrow. It was early evening, but I got undressed and crawled into bed anyway. Busta told me once "If I lived alone, I'd probably be eating Chinese food in my underwear every night." I have to admit, once I tried it, I saw his point.

My phone rang.

"I was just thinking about you," I said, skipping any greeting.

"Oh, is that so?" Busta's voice was as sunny as the California sky on the other end. "How come?"

"Because I'm eating noodles and I don't have any pants on."

He laughed. "That's my girl, always making me proud."

"You know, I still think this would be way more fun if you were here with me."

There was a pause. "You're coming home tomorrow."

I sighed. "Yeah, Busta. Which means you have successfully made excuses for like 10 weeks in a row why you can't come out here."

Another pause. "I was calling to tell you how psyched I am to see you. Are we going to be fighting the whole time?"

It was a fantastic question. Whatever I said next would set the tone for the whole trip. We have had this argument plenty of times before. It usually goes like this: Busta says he's not in the mood to talk about things because he worked a long day. I remind him I had a long day too, of classes and homework. He's says it's not the same as landscaping, plus he's still getting used to doing it full-time. I tell him maybe he should take a vacation to New York if it's so stressful, and he snaps that he doesn't have the time or the money and that they are shorthanded and blah blah blah.

"We aren't going to fight. We are going to do lots of fun things together, but no fighting," I answered, steering the ship into calmer waters. "I get frustrated sometimes, but you know I can't wait to get my hands on you."

"Oh, really?" Sometimes I feel like I can hear his gigantic smile over the phone. "Are you sure you don't want me to come pick you up from the airport? We don't have to wait any longer than we have to. I hear the cell phone lot is very romantic this time of year."

"Very funny. My parents are really looking forward to getting me and then we are going to do dinner as a family. It'll be early though and I already told them I was going out after," I assured him.

"OK. What are you up to for the rest of the night? How was the play?"

"It was a jazz quartet," I corrected him.

"Sure, how was that?" he mumbled.

"It was... nice. I don't consider myself a jazz fan, but in the right setting it's really cool. But now I'm home, and I'm killing whatever cultural brain cells I gained today by watching some Dawson's Creek. I got the first two seasons on DVD the other day."

Busta scoffed. "That show sucks."

"No it doesn't!" I exclaimed. "It's sweet. Sometimes it reminds me of us, in a weird way. Except for the wardrobe, the whole town of Capeside is outfitted by the clearance bins of J.Crew and American Eagle. Blech."

"I am nothing like that Dawson douche," Busta jumped in. "I mean, I did climb through your bedroom window a lot, but at least I got laid."

I got up, phone in one hand, takeout box to throw away in the other. "No, Joey climbed in Dawson's window, not the other way around. And of course you aren't Dawson, I meant Pacey and Joey. They end up being soulmates. She's kinda serious and academic, and he's funny and... um..." My train of thought ended abruptly.

"And... he's a loser who slacked off and didn't go to college either?" he said. "Cool, good to know."

"Busta, you know I didn't mean anything like that. I meant that they were opposites."

I heard him start to speak, but he stopped himself. I realized I was pacing the length of my apartment, still holding the empty Chinese food container. I walked back to the kitchen and put it down. He didn't say anything.

"Hello?"

"Hey," he said coldly. "I'm pretty beat and I still need to shower. I'm gonna go."

"Where did this call go so wrong?" I asked, genuinely confused.

"It's fine. Can't wait to see you. I love you."

"I love you too." The words were barely past my lips when I heard the dial tone. His goodbye was perfunctory, the words fell flat. I wasn't excited to go home at the moment and I wasn't frustrated either. Now I was just nervous.