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“I’m fine,”
I said sharply as I put on my dark sunglasses.
I made it through to the lounge and then got onto the plane.
And I curled up.
And began to cry for the next five hours.
Quinn & Felix
One
Quinn
I’m in love with a dick.
Okay, look, I know how that sounds.
You’re sitting there thinking, Oh no, one of those women. Not again!
Same shit, different story, right?
Boy meets girl, boy hurts girl, boy loses girl.
Cue rainy montage. Dark night of the soul. Grand gesture.
Blah blah blah.
She forgives him, they bang in the final chapters, and have a baby in the epilogue. Three hundred thousand words of unreleased bonus material in the back matter, and sign up here for my fucking newsletter!
You’ve heard this one before, right? Well, breathe a sigh of relief now, babe—because that’s not quite what I’m dealing with here.
See, when I first moved into the Bradford, I thought to myself, Fuck yeah, Quinn! You finally made it!
As far as starting your own company goes, this is pretty much the dream. I sold that enterprise for so much money that I’m set for life.
Cushy apartment in the swankiest apartment building in NYC. Black cherry Tesla in the garage downstairs. Yearly donations to every notable charity that’s batted its eyelashes at me.
And the investments I made with rest of that check are so solid and secure that even my spoiled future great-grandchildren won’t be able to squander this fortune. But then, when I least expected it, Cupid’s arrow misfired so fucking badly that I probably belong in like, I don’t know.
Maybe a mental hospital. Maybe hell.
See, big city apartment life isn’t always all that it’s cracked up to be.
Sure, the Bradford is luxurious. In fact, it’s kind of like deep pockets Disneyland.
But in New York City, even buildings as swish and luxe as the Bradford have to be facing something. And in my case, for better or for worse, my apartment in the Bradford faces the Birmingham.
The Birmingham is this gorgeous old building. Brick and mortar—real old timey architecture. Sure, it needs a little work, but if you ask me, it’s fucking beautiful.
The Birmingham isn’t the problem here—the dick that lives in the Birmingham is.
On my first morning in my brand new apartment at the Bradford, I woke up in my big, plush bed in my silkiest La Perla nightie. For some reason, I just had this feeling it was going to be the most glorious day of my entire fucking life.
I rolled out of bed and into my slippers, then padded across my hardwood floor to the pretty yellow curtains that cover my ceiling-high bedroom windows. I pulled back those curtains with the biggest damn smile on my face—
And that’s when I saw him.
