There's No Place Like New York City

Chapter 3 - Life's Looking Up

Pre-Note from the Author:

Ahh, so sorry guys about the wait! It's just my life's been hectic and I hadn't been able to make time to write! I know, I know, typical writer excuses, :\.  Thanks so much for sticking with this story!

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Chapter 3 - Life's Looking Up

            Holly

The sunlight streamed in through the window; its heat warming my exposed skin, there was a constant beeping of car horns, and the smell of freshly laundered cloths filled my nose. Mmm…. Wait a second. My clothes don’t smell like that. My eyes fluttered open. What the…? My room had a ceiling fan and all my walls were wooden; this bare ceiling was a plain cream color. Where the hell am I? I struggled to free myself from the tangled sheets.

“Oof!” Smooth move, Holly. Smooth move.

I was on the carpeted ground. Trapped in the cocoon of a very nice-smelling, baby blue blanket. Okay. Something was definitely wrong. My room had paneled floors and my blanket was light green. Oh, right. The Big Apple. Living in the same apartment with the most attractive guy I’ve ever seen. Well, that really snaps things into perspective, doesn’t it? I squirmed out of comforter’s grip. I stood up, stretched, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, washed my face, the whole nine yards. Still yawning groggily, I stumbled to the kitchen, frequently bumping into walls.

Where’s Blake? A folded blanket lay tidily on the sofa. A white index card caught my eye; it was leaning against the coffee machine.

            Hey Holly,

            By now, you’ve probably realized I’m not here. That’s ‘cause I’m at the Pâtisserie Café. Well, I suppose you want to go see your father. There’s some money under this note; it should be enough to have a taxi drive you from here to the NYU hospital. I hadn’t wanted you to take the subway; I was afraid you would get lost. After you visit your father, you can come to the Pâtisserie Café or you can just come back here. Have a great day! 

            Sincerely,

                        Blake

P.S. There’s some food in the fridge, and the coffee machine is easy to figure out.

Aw, he actually cared! I probably would’ve gotten lost on the subway anyway. I tucked the one-hundred-thirty dollars away in my pocket. Time for breakfast.

I scavenged through his scanty fridge and freezer. Hmm… ah, Eggo waffles! I threw the strawberry waffles into the toaster oven, turned the time dial, and hoped for the best. As my waffles thawed, I poked through my carry-on for clothes to wear. I wriggled into a plain white v-neck, ripped jeans shorts, and swaggered out of the room in my favorite comfy pair of leather thong sandals.

Holy shit! Smoke was billowing out of the smoldering toaster. I instantly unplugged it, opened the little glass door, and plucked the burnt waffles off the metal rack.

“Ow, ow! Hot, hot, hot!”

I pitched the black circles into the trash can. There goes my breakfast. Well, at least I didn’t break the toaster. This time, I stuck with the safe choice of fruits.

I wobbled down the apartment steps, still in shock from the waffle incident. I stood on the bustling sidewalk. Uh, how am I supposed to do this? I stuck my arm out hoping a taxi would stop for me.