The streets of New York are bleak and gray. Even the heart and beating soul of the city—its people—are fraying my nerves today. The pedestrians are too thoughtless, the cab drivers too loud.

My apartment echoes as I enter the front door, holding the bag of my belongings I picked up from the hotel. Now that I've sold my company, I can no longer include The Chelsea Grand amongst my portfolio. I went by today and closed my account permanently.

My shoes clack along the hardwood floor, and I enter the bedroom and lay my suitcase on the bed. I open it up and pick up the hangers, unfurling my suits. I shake, smooth them out, and then hang them in my closet. Turning back to the bed, I reach for the stack of boxers and pause.

There in the stack is a piece of clothing I don't recognize. It's white with yellow and green pineapples all over it. Unfolding the item, and holding it by an apparent waistband, I see it’s a pair of shorts. Women's underwear type shorts. Maybe pajama shorts and most definitely not mine. Emmy's? They must be. The night we—

My stomach tightens. I mash them to my face before I even think and inhale as if they are her. I only smell strong hotel detergent. Of course, the hotel must have found them in the room and laundered them. I'm inexplicably disappointed and sink down to sit on the edge of the bed.

I know Emmy's email this week was her trying to reach out. She was trying to smooth over the jagged edges of our parting. Her postscript about my dating life was meant to amuse. But it cut deep.

She's an appeaser, a smoother of ruffled feathers. Even in the few days I'd known her, she had an uncanny knack of calming my nerves, distracting me, even taking the pressure off my interactions with my family. I know I have to put her out of my mind, but I'm finding it almost impossible. How did someone manage to completely barrel into every single area of my life? Her attempt at a joke pissed me off. I sent her an abrupt postscript of my own. And I've been feeling pretty shitty about it. In retrospect it didn't piss me off, it hurt me.

Working with a realtor in Charleston to find a house, I find myself itching to text Emmy about her opinion a thousand times a day. Even when Mac and I went out for dinner at his club last night to celebrate the closing of our deal, I found myself wanting to reference something she said or tell him about her. I almost took a picture of my fucking food, for God's sake.

And what was there to tell Mac, exactly? Nothing. He was old school. Telling him I had phone sex with a stranger and then met up with her to do it in real life would shock him. And I wouldn't be able to explain how we even got to that stage. How we just . . . clicked, and even though we didn't know each other, for a brief moment we'd had the kind of chemistry that clearly transcended time, place, and physical proximity.

And I wouldn't be able to explain how it ended when I didn't understand it myself.

Earlier in the week I opened a dating app and made an arrangement to meet up with a girl I'd texted with a few times, then promptly cancelled. The thought of trying to suffer through awkward conversation is bad enough. The thought of being naked with someone who isn't Emmy, flat out leaves me cold. And feeling slightly ill.

But I also know it's not all about Emmy. It's about something that has fundamentally changed inside me, either from spending time with my family in Charleston, selling my business, meeting Emmy, or a combination of all three. I feel completely lost. But also like I found a lost piece of myself. I'm a different person, and I don't know how to fit into my own life.

It could also be that it's Friday in the city, a weekday, and for the first time in ten years, I have no office to go to. What did I used to do on Friday nights? Did I really hook up that much? I had acquaintances, sure. But did I have good friends?

On Friday nights, Emmy goes out dancing. I squeeze my eyes closed. In a few hours, it will be a week since I got to be inside her.

Aaargh. I can't fucking get her out of my head.

Fuck it. I strip and get into my running gear and leave the condo, heading for Central Park. Maybe if I tire myself out enough, I won't think about anything. I can run right through whatever existential crisis I'm having, and maybe it will all be better. I'm supposed to go out tomorrow with some guys I've known since I first moved to New York, and I'd like to be jovial and not a complete sad sack.

I finally slow as I finish my loop. I'm not nearly exhausted enough not to think. I have a hankering to walk the city in search of a place like Armand's. Something small where someone knows me. But the city is massive, and it's no easy task, especially living uptown where I do. I settle for Starbucks and think maybe I'd be happier if I bought a condo in Chelsea. At least it feels like a neighborhood down there, and it has cobbled streets like Charleston.

I should make sure any place I find in Charleston is in a charming historic neighborhood. Though I need to tell my realtor about my allergy to ghosts. Maybe a new building but still in a charming neighborhood?

I pull out my phone as I walk and begin a quick email to the realtor, asking her to narrow down the search to the French Quarter. I lift my thumb off the screen before I hit send. I need to think about this, and I can't type and walk.

Or I could move to Charleston permanently. I have to be there for Montgomery Homes anyway.

But bumping into Emmy would be hard. Maybe for her too.

God. And doesn't that just say it all? David's words about Emmy's growing up came back to me. She's single because she's afraid things won't last.

I stop walking.

Suddenly I'm thrust forward by a blow at my back. My phone and coffee fly out of my hands, and I get my footing just in time—a miracle since my legs are tired from running.

"Geez. Watch it," a man yells. "This is New York! You can't stop dead in the street." He shakes his head and turns away, marching on. "Fucking tourists."

I'm speechless, not able to respond, adrenaline ebbing from the sudden shock, and then he's gone. I lean down and grab my now empty paper coffee cup and step over the milky mess on the sidewalk so I can reach my phone. The screen is smashed.

I think I might need a much-needed break from this city. I came here hungry, scrappy, and ambitious. Now I'm just fucking tired.

"Excuse me?" a female voice says behind me.

I move to the side. "Sorry," I say so she can pass.

"No, I wanted to tell you that you have something stuck to the back of your shorts."

She's a pretty brunette in a skirt suit and heels.

"What?"

"Turn around," she says, laughing. I smile, bemused, and do what she says. "Okay. Look."

I look back to see her dangling a pale pink scrap of elastic, silk, and lace. Frowning, I bob my head back.

"You're embarrassed. Sorry. But it happens all the time. Static cling from the dryer."

"Those aren't mine." I'm so confused.

She laughs again and presses them into my hand. "You don't seem like you wear women's underwear. Though who knows? But they belong to someone special, I hope?"

I used Emmy's washer and dryer . . . wore these exact running shorts in Charleston. "Yes, someone special," I echo.

"She's probably been wondering where they are. Have a good day."

She strolls off. And I'm left holding an empty coffee cup, a smashed phone, and yet another pair of Emmy's undergarments. Twice in one day.

What in the actual fuck is this life?