Shawn's POV- One Year Later
The events of the past year have been, well, fun. Spending a lot of time with my family, attending normal school functions for my sister. Just being there with her makes me feel better about missing so much of her live. I loved touring and meeting all these crazy, fun people but it's exhausting. When I stopped making music, I was okay with it. I wanted to slow down. Move on.
But once it ended I didn't know what to do.
Camila and I had married just two months after I stopped. I thought I was ready for that part of my life. I couldn't wait to jump from one thing to the next. But I didn't expect marriage to be so difficult. It wasn't a normal marriage. I was Shawn Mendes, and she's Camila. And her career skyrocketed. I was selfish. I had assumed that we would lead a quiet life together. But our wedding was splashed all over the front pages, and our life together started out way different than anyone could have ever expected.
I was still processing the break up from my music. I was prepared for it but I wasn't at all. It's like everything suddenly stopped. The writing sessions, the recording, the press conferences, the talk shows, the tours. Just all done with in the blink of an eye. I never realized what it was like to be on the other side of things. To be the person that sits at home and waits for the other one to come home at night. I was so selfish. Camila had never asked me to give up anything when I was gone so much but that's all I wanted from her. I was ready for that normal life, but she was ready for international stardom. Looking back I couldn't blame her.
Our marriage lasted fifteen months. Nine of those months she spent on tour. Whenever she called I'll admit I was bitter. I could have joined her whenever I wanted to but I just didn't feel up to it. Things didn't work out like they usually did. I was the one used to being busy.
She didn't even show up to our final divorce hearing. We didn't have children, no one cheated, we had a prenuptial agreement so everything just went back to the way things were before. Except I had an ex-wife now, not an ex-girlfriend. Such an odd term, ex- wife. I didn't like it but that's how life was now.
When I came to New York last year I was still reeling with the divorce, even though we had divorced in March and by the time I made it to NYC it was already August. I don't know what I did in those months between. I had finally quit smoking, I'd been trying for years and one day I just didn't reach for my pack as soon as I got up. As the weeks grew longer my need for a cigarette just faded. I was finally free of it.
I was free from everything. My Music, Camila, smoking. Yet I felt lost still. I thought New York would help me, and it did for a little bit, gave me some hope when I saw Lucia on the train that maybe, someday a beautiful girl like that could fall for me. But she had already fallen for someone else. Salvatore. Someone I didn't even know but saying his name made my mouth taste terrible, like I had just drank sour milk.
To be creepy, I spent the last year making up ideas about her. That she was a librarian, she sat in the quiet and read books all day. She enjoyed afternoon tea, could speak French, she loved dogs, and spent many nights attempting to write a novel. Sometimes I would dream of her. We would take picnics in the park, she would laugh at my lame attempts to joke, we would watch the clouds together like Ellie and Carl from Up. But I have lost Lucia to the city.
I was back in New York. It's July so the weather is quite hot. I've never been one to wear shorts, and my legs slightly resemble chicken legs. But it's so hot here, so I must wear them. Black has always been my go to color so my shirt slightly resembles that of a homeless man, shirts with holes in it. It's one of my favorites so it's quite worn.
I'm thinking about getting a place here. Not that I can't afford the hotel room I'm staying in, but I just want more space than a room with a bathroom. I'm not a good cook but I'd like my own kitchen to create. People don't follow you around as much as they do in London or LA, I could make New York my own. I wanted to make New York my home. Study some art, dabble in a little bit of everything.
But today, I want to try one last time to see Lucia. It's a long shot. Huge long shot to see if she's still riding the same train at the same time. When I drew those pictures of her I made notes on the bottom of the page about what time the train arrived and what number it was, hoping that maybe one day I'll see her again. I just want to speak with her.
I've still got her book. Maybe she's not with Salvatore anymore, maybe she is, maybe she's married by now, or has a child. But I just want to know. I've never fixated on someone that I've never actually known before. I understand it's a bit creepy but oh well. I've read The Age of Innocence at least half a dozen times. I can see why this book is worn, it's beautifully written, with a sad ending, a real ending.
I love an educated woman. There is nothing sexier than knowledge. I hated that I never finished school. I don't need a piece of paper to tell me I'm smart. I've read books, poetry, I've written songs, traveled the world, so I somewhat know what I'm talking about. I'm eager for knowledge, and if I don't know something, I research it. If I haven't read it, I read it. A thirst for knowledge.
The train comes and I take careful consideration of the train car, I count to the third one, because that's the one that she got on before. This is a big risk, she might not even live in the city anymore. But maybe we could live like a novel. Maybe we could meet like serendipity, or we could meet eyes from across the room and that would be it.
Maybe.
The train slows on West 14th Street. It's a Tuesday and maybe it will happen. I literally cross my fingers under my thighs and hold my breath when I see her. I lean my head back and smile. Today I will hear her voice. I can't hide my smile as she sits down and lets her canvas bag fall to her side. She looks around the train but never across to me. I watch as she crosses her ankles and begins to dig in her bag for what I can only assume is a book. She smiles slightly as someone at the end of the train car is singing for money. She's got a beautiful smile. It's a sweet, shy smile. She's pulled her book out but hasn't opened it yet, her hands clasped over it and I notice no ring so I breath a sigh of relief that she's still not married.
I notice the spine of the book, A Passage to India. Another book I'll have to add to my list. I just want to have something to talk about when we meet. To make me sound more educated. Maybe I'll do a quick search and discover some quotes to impress her with. God, I sound like an idiot, to like a girl that I know nothing about. To focus so much on someone, I know that she won't be exactly like I envision her but that's okay.
We approach Broome street and I see that she's never even cracked the book, too focused on the street performers on the train. And I've been too focused on her to notice anything else. She throws her book back in her bag and gets up to stand by the exit. No way I'm losing her today. I just can't keep getting lucky like this.
I stand behind her, careful not to stand too close to make her uncomfortable. She minds the gap as I follow, I walk slightly ahead of her just until we get to the top of the steps as to not drawl attention from her to think I'm a stalker. I kind of am though. Fairly pitiful. Once she turns to walk down the street I pull my phone out to fiddle with it, slightly paying attention to her, the street is a little busy so I don't want to lose her.
I pause at a mailbox when she stops at what appears to be a flower shop. She pulls her keys out and kneels down, unlocking the metal gate and pulling it up. Once its to the top she uses another key and with a swift hip thrust she opens the door, turning the lights on and flipping the switch to "open" the store. She's a florist.
Pulling my phone out, I take a picture of the sign and continue to walk. I know where she works now. She's not a librarian. She's a florist. She works at a place called Conti Fiori. I pull up my phone and discover that fiori means flower in Italian. Conti means nothing as far as I know. So maybe she's Italian. Her hair is a little bit longer than I remember when I saw her last, but her eyes still have that amazing shine to them.
I put my phone away and walk back to the train station. I decide to visit her today, maybe order some flowers for someone, or just for myself, I don't even care, just to know that I can speak with her. I'm almost giddy with anticipation. Sometimes I wish I could run to the hotel but I know my legs and lungs won't take me. So I head back down the steps, and into the train that has become my place of solitude.
