1996
The NYU campus was abuzz with incoming freshman, none more excited than Grace. Moving in to her dorm was one of the best days of her life because of what it represented—freedom and the chance to prove that she was enough. That she could do whatever she put her mind to. Without help from anyone.
Her roommate, Carly, was from North Carolina and had the funniest accent. Carly was a devout Catholic, and the first thing she did was hang a crucifix and ask Grace where she was going to church that Sunday.
“Our Lady of the Kimmel Center Cafeteria,” Grace said. “God and I are on the outs at the moment. I’m afraid if I set foot in a church right now, I would likely be struck by lightning.”
Carly laughed. “Oh, girl, I know just what you mean. I’ve been there myself a time or two. Well, I hope ya’ll are able to make up one day. Just let me know if you change your mind.”
Double majoring in journalism and fine arts was going to be a challenge for a number of reasons. For one thing, the Fine Arts school was on the other side of Manhattan. She would need to take a train or bus to get there, so she scheduled those classes on opposite days from her other classes.
Second was the workload, which really wasn’t an issue at all because, unlike most of the kids there, she didn’t plan to have a social life.
Tuition and housing were covered by her scholarship, but she did need some extra money for books, art supplies, and personal items. She still had some money from the articles she’d sold in high school, but she really didn’t want to touch that, so she decided to look for a part-time job.
She had a week before classes started, and she used that time to learn her way around. She walked around Greenwich Village and Soho, and felt a welcoming energy that made her feel as though she belonged. A feeling she’d hadn’t experienced in a very long time. And she learned that the number 1 or number 3 buses, or the 4, 5 or 6 subway trains, would get her to her fine arts classes.
The day before classes started, she noticed a sign in the window of a small art gallery in Greenwich Village for a front desk person, and went in to inquire. The stark white walls of the gallery stood in contrast to the bold color palette of the art on the walls. Though her knowledge of art was limited, she could tell from the shapes and patterns that the paintings belonged to the same artist. A shiver of excitement coursed through her at the mere thought of having her work shown in a gallery someday.
Grace told the owner, Francesca Rinaldi, that she was a student at NYU and could only work part-time, but that she would work hard and was willing to do anything to help out. The interview went well and Francesca hired her on the spot.
The gallery was located on Cornelia Street, which was convenient to both her dorm at Hayden Hall and the campus at Cooper Square. As she walked back to her dorm after landing the job, she could not contain her smile. She was on her own and on her way.
1998
Her first two years of college passed quickly, and Grace had never been happier. The workload was demanding and she had very little time for herself, but she never complained. In fact, her hectic schedule provided the perfect excuse to avoid all the drama that went on around her.
Though they weren’t friends, she got along fine with the girls on her floor. But she had no time or patience for the boys. They all seemed immature, more interested in getting into her pants than into a discussion. She’d heard stories from some of the girls about how, once they’d been in your pants, you never heard from them again. She didn’t want any part of it—the sex or the games.
Saturday morning was the only time during the week that she claimed for herself. Rather than sleeping in like everyone else on campus, she woke early and hopped the subway to Central Park.
In the fall of her junior year, on a picture-perfect Saturday in November, Grace strolled across the makeshift football field. She kicked leaves into the air as she walked to the bench where she normally sketched. The air was cool and crisp, leaves swirling to the ground in colorful splendor as she went.
A group of men tossed a football around on the other side of the field. The same men who played there every Saturday. She thought about the sketch she’d been working on for the past month when, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of white barreling toward her. She launched into a full sprint, too late to get out of the way. The man leapt into the air to catch the ball and tackled her in the process, spilling her and the contents of her backpack onto the field.
He jumped to his feet, pulling her up with him. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there. I didn’t mean—are you alright?”
She yanked her hand from his. “It was an accident,” she said, knowing full well it was anything but. He’d tried getting her attention for weeks, but thus far she’d ignored him. She had no interest in anyone who could be that obvious.
She bent down to pick up her things at the exact time he did, and they bumped their heads together, knocking them both back. She grabbed her forehead and glared at him.
He flashed a lopsided grin. “I, um, I’m not normally such a clumsy oaf.” He helped her collect her things. “Are you an artist?”
“Something like that.” She glanced at the torn, grass-stained college sweatshirt he wore and up at the Harvard boy with the intense brown eyes and long eyelashes. Unimpressed, she grabbed the last few pencils from his hand, zipped them into her backpack, and hefted it onto her shoulder. “Thank you for your help.”
His eyes locked onto hers. “I’m Antonio Ramos.”
She forced a smile that was pure fiction. “I’m sure you are.” Then she walked off the field toward the bench where she normally sketched without looking back.
Some people thought it was strange that she was twenty years old and had never had a boyfriend. Had never even dated. But the truth was, she had never looked at a boy and felt anything other than indifference, if not contempt. Antonio Ramos was no exception.
After collecting herself, she sat down on the bench and pulled the sketchpad from her pack. Turning to the sketch she’d started a few weeks ago, she studied the stone bridge that crossed over a small pond. The bridge had a lush ivy cover, and when the sunlight hit it just right, it reflected into the pond. Today the sunlight was just right.
An hour later, as she was applying the finishing touches to her drawing, Antonio Ramos called to her from the field. She pretended not to hear him but a moment later she heard his footsteps behind her. He obviously couldn’t take a hint.
“Yes?” She didn’t look up from her sketchbook, but from her peripheral vision she could see him standing in front of her, shifting from one foot to the other.
“Uh, oh, well, I just wanted to apologize again for tackling you earlier.”
“Apology accepted.” When he didn’t leave, she looked up. “Was there something else?”
“No…I suppose not. Well, I guess I’ll see you around. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
As he walked away, a smile tugged at one side of her mouth.
The following week, Grace walked the long way around the field to her bench. She’d thought about not coming, but in the end she decided she wasn’t going to let Antonio Ramos chase her away from her favorite spot. So she arrived later than usual, when the men were just finishing their game.
As she sat down, she glanced over at them and Antonio waved. She waved back—she didn’t want to appear rude—but she didn’t return his ridiculous smile. She was not interested in him, or any other guy, for that matter. And even if she were, she had no time for them. It was as simple as that.
She tried to focus on the sketch of the bridge, but she was finding it hard to concentrate. She flipped the page to another sketch she’d been working on and studied it.
“Is that me?”
Grace flew off the bench as though she’d been electrocuted and hugged the sketchpad to her chest. “I…no…it’s not you,” she said. “And what are you doing sneaking up behind me like that?”
He gave her a knowing smile and her cheeks prickled with embarrassment.
“Sorry about that. I thought you heard me calling to you. Gosh, I’ve only met you once before and I believe this is my third apology. I think it must be a new record.”
Grace cracked a smile and pointed to the basket he held in his hand. “What’s that?”
“Oh, well, I thought you might be thirsty, or hungry, or something, so I brought some coffee and scones. Would you like to share them with me?”
“Scones? Seriously?” She reached for the basket.
He snatched it away. “Yes, and believe it or not, I baked them myself.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You bake?”
“Why the note of surprise?”
She looked him over from head to toe. “It’s just that you…don’t look the type.”
“Oh, I see. And just what ‘type’ do I look like?”
“A jock. More Hot Pockets than hot buttered scones.”
He put his hand over his heart in mock indignation. “Hmm, okay. So I guess that means you don’t want any then.”
“I didn’t say that. I mean, since you went to all that trouble, I guess it would be rude if I refused.”
“Quite.” He sat down on the bench beside her, looking pleased with himself. He took out a thermos and a container with the scones, and placed it between them. He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her.
He held up his cup and made a toast. “Here’s to the beautiful artist who has captured my attention, whose name I don’t know and, frankly, don’t want to know because that would spoil the mystery.”
She rolled her eyes, but she smiled anyway. “Grace,” she said at last.
“Grace. What a beautiful name.”
She took a bite of a scone and raised an eyebrow.
He watched as she practically inhaled the scone and reached for another.
They talked for the next hour. She told him she was a student at NYU, studying both art and journalism. He confessed he was a lawyer and that he worked for a non-profit organization in the city.
She drained her coffee and he offered her more.
“No, thank you.” She glanced at his watch and jumped up from the bench. “It’s my turn to apologize now, Antonio Ramos. I’m sorry, but I have to run. I’m late for work, and there’s a big show at the gallery tonight.” She crammed her things into her backpack and ran off.
“See you next week?” he called.
She turned and waved, and shouted, “If you’re lucky, Antonio Ramos!”
Luckily, a train was just pulling into the station as she arrived and she hopped on. As the train hurried along the tracks, she thought about Antonio Ramos and her stomach tightened. Forget about him, Grace. He’ll only break your heart, or leave.
Or both.