marveling at all the tiny details he’d overlooked before. Ear-blasting sounds, a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors and a melting pot of smells. He took a deep breath of New York air—a million divergent perfumes, roasted chestnuts and strangely enough, honeysuckle.
Over the past year, he’d divided his life into two distinct periods. Prelayoff and postlayoff. Prelayoff ended precisely at 4:30 p.m. on February seventeenth. Then, Ian didn’t have the time to waste twelve hours standing around Times Square waiting for a giant multicolored orb to fall from the sky. Postlayoff, he still didn’t have the time, but now he had the will.
New Year’s at Times Square had been on his list of life to-dos since he was ten, waiting to be checked off. Prelayoff, he didn’t worry much about getting to Times Square. Postlayoff, he realized that life was not cooperative and orderly, and when you got the chance to have a once-in-a-lifetime moment, you just did it.
The night’s crowd was packed shoulder to shoulder. It was impossible to move, nearly impossible to breathe, and he found himself sharing the uncomfortably close personal space of a large group of awestruck foreigners who didn’t understand the common English vernacular: “You’re standing on my foot. Please move.”
As he took in the trolling lights and squinty-eyed police and happy, perky people, Ian waited patiently for something miraculous, something life-altering, something hopeful. But all he got was a trampled foot and a deafening horn in his ear.
Still he waited, colder, sober, and now thinking that perhaps he’d been a little wiser prelayoff when he had avoided Times Square like the plague.
Hell. On what planet had he actually thought this was a good idea? It didn’t matter that it was New Year’s Eve, Times Square, nearly midnight. In the end, he wasn’t an investment banker anymore; he was an employment counselor, and a lunatic one at that.
Beckett had told him it was stupid. Told him that nobody froze their ass off in New York in January when they could stay home and have a decent party, guzzle champagne and watch the ball drop from the confines of a well-insulated apartment. And of course, it was at that moment that Ian had looked his best friend square in the eye and launched into his winds of change spiel: new beginnings, living life—doing it right.
And there, crushed amidst two million other cockeyed optimists, he felt a killer wind shoot through him, the truth dawning with frigid clarity.
Ian was a sap. Time to pack in the New Year, accept what he had and trudge onward. Life was what it was, and nothing—not even a few mind-shattering hours in the center of the universe—was going to change it.
Feeling all sorts of foolish, he turned, starting toward the relative tranquility of the subway, because somewhere out there, his sanity and his friends were waiting. Before he managed another step, a pull at his arm knocked him off balance. Ian whirled, prepared to tell the jerkwad—foreign relations be damned—to quit touching him. But then he stopped—
Stared.
Gawked, actually.
Gorgeous.
She was honeysuckle in the flesh. She looked like it, smelled like it and damn, he wanted to know if she tasted like it, as well. His body shocked to life, filled, throbbed.
Hello, winds of change.
Watercolor-blue eyes were panicked and filled with worry. Warm, tawny hair streaked with gold spilled from her knitted cap.
“Have you seen my phone? I can’t find my phone. Help me find my phone. Oh, God. I lost my phone.”
Her voice was soft and tense against the noise of the crowd. She was searching for her phone. Help her.
“Where’d you lose it?” he asked, raising the volume, noticing the beefy tourist sizing her up with beady eyes.
“On the ground. I dropped it and I really need to find it. I shouldn’t be here. It’s a complete zoo. Why did I come here?”
To meet me, thought Ian, a stupid, romantic thought, right up there with his winds of change spiel. Ian grinned, a foolish, romantic grin, but he couldn’t help himself. “We’ll find it,” he offered, and bent to the ground. She hesitated, her eyes wisely fearful, but then she bent, too, testing the restraint of millions of drunken partygoers, probably taking her life in her own hands, yet still trusting him.
At ground level it was like being underwater, swimming against the tide of directionally challenged fish. The dim light was diffused by shifting legs and restless feet and a continuous swirl of coats. Her hands grabbed for the edge of his sleeve, her eyes terrified. “You okay?” he asked, and she nodded once, but still he worried.
“We’ll find it,” he assured her again, keeping one hand tied to hers. With the other, he searched for what had to be the most important phone in the world.
“I can’t believe I lost it,” she chattered, the words tumbling out in a panic. “I can’t believe I screwed up. I’m not careless. I can’t be careless. I won’t be careless.” A clumsy set of legs bumped into her, and she jumped, flying closer to him.
“Don’t get crazy. It’s got to be here somewhere,” he soothed, heroically gathering her closer, trying to find her phone, trying to keep her from being flattened, all the while warning himself that just because a beautiful woman stumbled into his arms, it did not mean the winds of change had finally blown his way.
Blindly he groped the rough asphalt. His hand got stomped on twice, but apparently the gods actually owed Ian something good this year and apparently Frank Capra wasn’t dead in spirit—because at that moment Ian’s fingers latched on to plastic. Rectangular, sturdy, magical plastic.
“Got it,” he yelled, quickly pulling her upright before they were both trampled to death—which never happened in Frank Capra movies.
The flashing neon signs lit up the jittery alarm in her eyes, and he pulled her to him, instinct more than reason. “It’s okay. It’s here,” he said, feeling the tremors run through her, absorbing them into himself. “It’s a phone,” he murmured, whispering against her hair. “It’s only a phone. Don’t cry.”
“Don’t like the crowd,” she muttered, her face buried in his shoulder.
“You picked the wrong place to figure that out.” He was relieved to hear her awkward laugh, and decided that holding a beautiful crowd-o-phobic was worth a layoff, worth being labeled a sap.
In the end, Ian had been right. New hopes. New opportunities, and they all smelled like honeysuckle.
He stroked the back of her woolen coat, feeling the slow ease of her shivering. It didn’t take her long, and he knew the exact moment when she stiffened, her chin lifted and the fear had passed. “I’m not crying. I don’t cry,” she told him, her voice a lot firmer than before.
Then she gazed at him—her eyes dry, and more focused than before. “I’m not crying,” she repeated. “Thank you. This was stupid. I’m sorry. I don’t like being stupid.”
Her profile seemed so fragile, so oddly out of place in the chaos of the crowd, the lights and the noise. Her face was thin, delicate, a medieval maiden out of a fairy tale. Yet there were hollow shadows in her eyes, shadows that didn’t belong with such beauty. It took more than a lost phone to cast shadows like that. Gently he tracked her cheek, pretending to wipe at nonexistent
