Greatest Distraction (Distracted #1) (9 page)

“Hello, old friend,” I whispered to the ground far below us, smiling. Elle and I had many great moments while living at Central. I couldn’t wait to get there, to unpack. Me, the one who hate
d doing chores, looking forward to unpacking – it must be a miracle occurrence. That never happened.

As the ground rose to meet us, I clung tight to the armrests, holding my breath as I had every landing I’d ever been a part of. It was tradition. I knew I was smiling like a loon, my knuckles turning white from my grip and my face turning red from the lack of air, but I was elated. I couldn’t hide my happiness. I knew I needed to get a grip – as much as I loved this place, most of the natives here weren’t the smile-like-you’re-nuts types – it would just take me a few minutes.

The second best thing about riding first class? You’re the first let
off
the plane as well. Lucy passed me my bag, which she’d retrieved from the overhead storage, and I thanked her before passing her a tip for her help. It floored me that most people didn’t tip their flight attendants. To be honest, I was never sure if it was legal, but my father had always done it, so I carried it on in his memory. When she shook her head, I merely shrugged and left through the side door, making my way down the ramp, on a mission to find the baggage claim.

Luckily, JFK airport is much easier to maneuver than the Hartsfield-Jackson airport in Atlanta, and it took me no time to find the right color and number that coordinated with my plane. The other passengers had been released from coach when the baggage started to round the conveyer belt and I fidgeted. This, for me, was probably my least favorite part of flying. Once, when Elle and I were on summer break during the time between
our sophomore and junior years of college, we’d decided we were taking a trip to Cozumel for a week. Basking in the sun off the coast of Mexico had sounded fantastic … until my luggage had been ‘misplaced.’ We’d only gone for two weeks and I didn’t get my things until day eight of our visit. It had been awful and I’d worried the whole time that my stuff was lost forever. Elle had packed enough for a full month, and since we were the same size, I was lucky I could wear what she had, but the whole experience had soured me on storing my bags where I couldn’t see them. Freeloading wasn’t something I was good at, and I’d hated that I’d had to constantly ask if I could wear her things. She’d yelled at me so often during that trip. “
If I didn’t want you wearing my things, I wouldn’t have offered, silly,”
she’d scolded. Even now, just imagining the look of complete indignation on her face made me smile.

I could have jumped for joy when I saw
the first two of my bags rounding the belt, the emerald green ribbon I’d tied on them bright and easy to spot. Of course, it probably helped that the bags were bright pink with zebra stripes, but I was sticking with the ribbon making them easy to see. Snagging them off quickly, grunting a bit as I pulled them down – jeez they were heavy – I took a few deep breaths to keep from panicking. I had one more to wait for; I refused to think the worst. After what seemed like bloody forever, my third and final suitcase came rounding the curb. I was celebrating inside as I grabbed it, pleased that it was also the lightest of them all. Carefully piling it on top of one of the larger cases, I pulled the grips and awkwardly got them outside where a slew of cabs were waiting.

Grateful when one of the cabbies jumped out to help me with my overload of luggage, I allowed him to put my things in the trunk before climbing in the backseat.
The first thing I did inside was look for his license, verifying the picture was the same man helping me – my father raised me cautious, not stupid – and then reading the name associated to the face. I loved little details like that.

“Where too, Miss?” Ahmed, the cab driver, asked me kindly. His accent was slight and I couldn’t help but beam at him, earning a slight grin in response.

“West Sixty-Seventh Street, please, Ahmed,” I told him, being sure to use his first name. He wasn’t just a driver, he was a person, dang it.

“Ah, right outside Central Park. Great view, too. Is this your first time in the city?”

“Nope – my best friend and I went to college here. It’s good to be back.” I was bouncing in my seat, literally. Giddy and excited, just like a little kid on the verge of Christmas morning.

“Allow me to speak for the great city, herself, when I say ‘welcome back.’”

“Thank you!” I smiled once more at him before busying myself with taking in the landscape. The city didn’t seem different than I remembered, but it did, all at the same time. That probably didn’t make sense, but it is what it is. The biggest change, of course, was the now built Freedom Tower, taking place of the ruins at Ground Zero from the twin towers. It was beautiful, a perfect tribute to those who lost their lives on that awful day. I mentally made a note to put it on my to-visit list, determined to make my way there at some point this trip.

Manhattan was beautiful, full of bumper
-to-bumper cars and traffic. Normally I’d be grumpy and yelling at people to get out of the way, but I wasn’t in a hurry today. I took in the people still filling the sidewalks, all walking to where they needed to be, but all different. There were men in business suits and suitcases, next to girls in sandals and jeans. There was a hotdog cart on the corner, still selling his Nathan’s franks – I swear I could smell the grease, the mustard and the onions, even through the closed windows. My mouth was watering and made me remember how little I’d eaten during the day.
MMM, yummy
.

Chapter Seven
 

I was so consumed with taking in the sights of my old city friend, I didn’t notice that the cab had come to a complete stop. Glancing up toward Ahmed, I was gifted a bright smile, his eyes twinkling at my distraction. I returned the gesture with one of my own. Yep, Cloud Nine I was on.

“We’re here, Miss,” he said, his tone seeming to share in my excitement.

Looking around, I noticed we were, indeed, outside of the elegant brownstone I called home for four years with Elle. It looked just as I remembered and I craned my head upward to look for her unit among the windows.

“Would you like help with your bags?” the cabdriver asked politely, not rushing me out of the vehicle. I also noticed he’d turned the meter off, not charging me while I gawked.

“Thank you for the offer, but no. I think I can manage,” I answered, grateful for his kindness. New York, in my experience, wasn’t generally known for southern hospitality, so I’d enjoy it while I had it.

Completely ignoring me, Ahmed climbed out of the car, moving around to the trunk. I scrambled out of the backseat and to his side, my hand landing on my luggage just as his did. He jerked abruptly, pulling the bag from my fingers and out of the trunk, placing it gently on the sidewalk beside the car. Confused, I pulled my arm out of the way and scooted toward the sidewalk as he repeated the gesture with my remaining bags.

“One piece of advice while you’re in New York?” the man said as he shut the trunk and turned to me. I raised my eyebrows, equally intrigued and irritated. After a long pause, he finally continued. “When someone offers to help you, follow your instincts.
My
first instinct was to scold you and tell you to accept a helping hand, but…” he trailed off, waving a hand toward me and shaking his head.

“But what?” I asked, not moving from my real estate on the sidewalk. Why did I want to know? Curiosity killed the ca
t and all that. Not knowing would drive me crazy.

“But, Miss, you’re a pretty young thing in the big city. Better for you to be cautious. Here,” he explained, extending his hand an
d giving me his card. “Take my card. If you need a ride while here, give me a call. I’ll make sure you get there safe … You remind me of my daughter.” The last he’d offered almost as an afterthought.

My irritation quickly vanished, hearing a hint of my father in his words, making my heart smile, despite looking nothing like him. My father had been tall and lean, skin a flawless tan he’d managed to maintain due to years of work in the summer. Ahmed, however, was
short, slightly round in the middle with skin the color of toffee. I almost could’ve hugged him, if for no other reason than passing on some fatherly advice, to protect me. I didn’t, of course, because that would have been creepy, and against my instincts. I did thank him profusely though, along with shaking his hand and paying him the fare for my ride.

As the yellow cab pulled away, I carefully stacked my luggage and maneuvered my way inside the building, my feet leading me to the elevator by memory alone. I pressed the button and smiled to myself as the door opened immediately, revealing an empty car. It took no
time to reach the correct floor, and I easily found the door, the ‘#2E3E’ much like a giant ‘X’ marking the spot. Seeing it made me super happy; we’d spent many nights creating clever rhyming names with the unit number – most of them including Elle being drunk with a number before or after it.
‘One drunk, two drunk, three drunk Elle!’
Never mind, don’t ask – definitely an inside joke.

I slipped the key in the lock, releasing a breath of relief I hadn’t known I’d been holding when it
disengaged and the door opened. The smell of cinnamon and roses, just like Elle’s house in Georgia, grew and I smiled, recognizing the scent and turning on the lights. As I stepped inside, my eyes widened and my heart sped, just like it always used to. My condo in Atlanta was pretty, but if this place was used for the scale? I lived in an old refrigerator box, in the middle of the ghetto. Not even kidding. Maybe it was because I hadn’t been to Central in forever, but good grief, it was amazing.

Rich, authentic hardwood floors met me, shining a beautiful maple, perfectly accenting the eggshell color of the walls. On the side of the spacious living room was a set of sta
irs that I knew led to the bedrooms. The other side was home to a large, open-space kitchen, complete with white marble countertops, an industrial silver fridge, and matching appliances. A black wood dining table sat in the corner, a fireplace strategically behind it, acting as a perfect focal point. The couch and other living room furniture was plush, but simple, the red of the accent pillows going well with the tan suede.

High ceilings, and by ‘high’ I mean ridiculously so, elegant bright lighting
, and wall art completed the room. Almost. The real Pièce de résistance were the windows. Framed with drapery the same scarlet red as the throw pillows, they were amazing: floor to ceiling, almost a full wall, and the view cinched the deal, perfectly overlooking Central Park.

I let my bags drop where they would, they’d gotten heavy while I’d taken it all in, and shut the door behind me. The security latch followed the deadbolt and I couldn’t help but chuckle at myself. It’d been forever since I’d used mine at my place. Old habits in familiar places died hard, I guess.

Starting for the kitchen, my foot scuffed on something, bringing my attention downward. Under my feet were envelopes, a lot of them actually, each different colored with my name written elegantly on the front. They’d obviously been dropped off through the small, old-fashioned mail flap Elle had demanded be installed on the door when we’d moved in.

Intrigued, I took them to the coffee table and sat on the floor in front of it. Delicately pulling the flap of the gold envelope, a slip of card stock dropped into my hand, the paper rich and the writing pristine:

Miss Ryen F. Macek,

You are cordially invited to the twelfth annual ‘Beauty in Art’ gala,
to be held on Thursday, the thirteenth day of March at eight in the evening.

All proceeds will be donated to the ‘No Child Left Behind’ foundation.

White carpet event, Black tie required.

The address to the event was printed at the bottom, along with a name and number to contact with any questions. No return address was listed on the invitation, but I at least knew
how
I’d gotten it. Elle. I also had the sneaking suspicion that the rest of the pile would be pretty much the same; all invites to different events, all personalized with my name, all dropped off for me personally. Geez, I needed to remember to thank her.

Speaking of events and galas and different
-colored carpets, I checked my watch, surprised so much time had passed. Taking two of my pieces of luggage - I wasn’t superhuman strong; I couldn’t carry three suitcases, plus two extra bags up the stairs in one trip – I rushed to the rooms on the top floor. Instincts kicked in, and, without a moment’s thought, I entered what I’ll always consider
my
bedroom. If I’d had more time, I would have jumped on the bed, just for good measure and good memories. Most of my furniture still remained; it had been too much of a hassle to get them to Georgia, and I was happy to see them. Sure, the tickets I used to prop on the vanity were gone, along with kiss marks on the mirror, but I’d expected it to look different. Seeing the same room I remembered warmed me.