All of Me

nine • in the 216

• • •

Cleveland is the first city I've visited since we left New York. Actually, it's the first real city I've ever been to outside of the one that raised me. Sure, Mom and I have been to Poughkeepsie a couple times and once Dad took me to Middletown for a weekend away, but they didn't even come close to comparing.

Nowhere else I've been in my life has had even a fraction of the buzz of New York City, the constant thrum of life and the busy streets and the people. It's only since leaving that I've come to realize I'm not the city girl I always thought I was. It's all I've ever known, but it's not who I am.

I love the quiet. I love the stretches of green and the clear water and the friendly neighbors. All I miss about my old city is its familiarity. I didn't leave behind any friends and my memories are locked away inside my mind, and out here I can sleep in a way I never really did in Queens. There was always something to disturb me.

The tourists have the right idea, condensing the best of the city into a few days. There are a million things they miss out on, but they're the same things everyone loves about wherever they're from: the insider knowledge, from hidden alleyways and underrated restaurants to the quickest route across town. Wherever the tourists go, they see the best of each city because that's what they want to see.

Kris knows Cleveland inside-out. He's lived here for eight years: he's a local by now, his head filled with the kind of facts I still know about Queens, facts that it didn't take long to learn about Five Oaks. Once Mom has calmed down with a cup of tea and a moment with the only person who knew Dad for as long as her, we head out to enjoy the day.

Cleveland may not be big – the city feels walkable and Kris insists that a lot of it is – but it has soul. As we wander down Euclid Avenue, stopping every now and then so I can snap a touristic photo, I can feel the city's heart. It's nothing like what I've come to expect of a city.

No-one is rushing past me, pounding down the sidewalk like there's always somewhere better to be. Here, people are strolling, slow and casual, enjoying the journey rather than wasting the way in pursuit of the destination. Maybe it's just because it's Saturday, but I can't feel the pressure I've come to associate with city life.

Kris laughs when I stop again to take a picture of the sign that welcomes us to Playhouse Square, and he launches into the history as though he's an actor reciting lines. He'd make an amazing tour guide: his brain's like a sponge, soaking everything up and holding onto it until he needs to use it.

"You know, after Broadway, this is the biggest theater district in the whole country and we get some amazing theater here," he says as we walk through the square. "I saw Hamilton here a couple months ago, and I caught Leslie Odom Jr's jazz."

A flicker of jealousy courses through me, immediately followed by the churn of my stomach that comes with guilt. I want to live here. I want to see those shows. I want this city. Kris tried to persuade Mom to move here when we started talking about leaving Queens, but we couldn't afford it and she refused his help. At the time I didn't care. I didn't want to leave.

But if I called Cleveland home, I never would have met Gray and it takes a special kind of person to be a soulmate: he's one in seven billion. I already can't imagine life without him and something tells me that even if I was happy in the city, there'd be something missing. A best-friend-sized hole.

And, I tell myself as I reason with the envy in my mind, I'm only ninety minutes away. I can hop in my car any day I have free and I can be here before lunch. As we circle back down Prospect Avenue towards Tower City Center, the sun shines on my cheeks and under its warm glow, I shed the negativity that plagues my mind.