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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

AMELIA

Stride and Seek hasn’t been the fruitful experience Yvonne promised. The initial set of chaps? Pleasant enough to begin with, but swiftly dismissed.

The first—a rather dashing architect—certainly had potential, but it wasn’t long before his endless chatter about pillars and porticos proved he had all the romance of a brick. Then came Mr. Tattoo, full of smiles and swagger. He almost had me, but, the moment “bartender” was uttered, my interest evaporated. Already had my fill of that cocktail, thank you very much.

I can’t seem to find anyone appealing here. Or it may very well be that my attention keeps wandering to Jake. Even incognito, he has his partners giggly and googly-eyed in no time.

All right, deep breath. Let’s have a proper go at this, then. I scan the group once more, ignoring the uneasy twist in my gut.

A tall, sandy-haired gentleman catches my attention. He’s in a crisp suit and paisley tie. Perhaps I should consider someone more put together? I approach and introduce myself. His name is Christopher, and he smiles back. Okay, promising.

When I ask him about his job, he puffs up. “I deal in derivatives trading,” he begins.

I try—I really do—to follow along. But by the time he’s explaining the third type of swap, I’m battling the urge to yawn.

I can’t help from peeking over his shoulder at Jake. The redhead he’s chatting up seems to be thoroughly enjoying herself, cozying up to him and giving him coy smiles. When she strokes his forearm, a tiny green monster stirs in my chest. Bet their discussion doesn’t include stocks of any kind.

I pull my gaze back to Christopher, redoubling my efforts to pay attention. “That sounds…interesting.”

His eyes light up. “Oh, it is. Let me tell you about the risk management strategies we employ.” He’s off again, and I’m nodding at what I hope are the right moments.

Corrine leads us to the following landmark, Delmonico’s on Broad Street, and I wish my financial guru farewell.

On to the next. A man in the plaid shirt has a “fresh from the farmer’s market” vibe that piques my curiosity. When I offer him a welcoming smile, he takes it as a cue to close the distance between us.

He introduces himself as Peter and tells me he’s visiting from Upstate New York. There’s an earnestness in his voice that’s endearing. “Oh, you should make the trip sometime in the fall. We’ve got the best apple-picking festival you can imagine. The whole town gets into it. There are tons of apple pie contests.”

I can’t help but be drawn into his enthusiasm. “How charming! I really should try some. At home, it’s apple crumble that’s more popular.”

We discuss the merits of crumble versus pie. Not the most engaging conversation but better than derivatives. Which is nice. Peter is nice. Perfectly palatable, really. It’s a pleasant change of pace.

I find my attention wandering, and force it back to pie—err, Peter—and smile and nod as he extolls the virtues of cider. Yes, I’m quite the scintillating conversationalist.

At the next stop, I bid him goodbye.

Another man, almost as tall as Jake, comes over. He’s in a blazer with deliberately-not-so-deliberate tousled sandy hair and an air of entitlement.

“Hi, I’m Brad.”

“Amelia,” I say.

“Hi, Amelia.” I do believe the chap is speaking to my chest, addressing my right tit “Amy” and the left “Lia.” His perusing grin is nothing short of smarmy. I look around to see if there’s anyone else I could partner with, but everyone is already occupied, including Jake who’s with another woman.

I sigh and give Brad a polite smile. He takes my answering grimace as a sign to put his hand on my lower back as we walk through Bowling Green. Maybe he’s just trying to be helpful?

Corrine leads us to the iconic Charging Bull statue and launches into a tale of bull and bear markets.

“So, Amelia, what do you think of bulls?” Shocking. A man asked for my opinion—whether it’s because he’s interested in my thoughts on livestock or large statues doesn’t matter, I’ll still call it progress.

“I suppose the metaphor makes sense,” I begin, cautiously optimistic about this dialogue. “The bull, often used to depict power, is well-known for being strong and unyielding, and quite majestic in its own right?—”

“Absolutely,” Brad interjects, his eyes lighting up. “Majestic and powerful. Yeah, they’d know how to dominate, huh? Kinda hot, thinking about the…power dynamics.” He winks.

My brain does a full stop. Here I thought a man was asking for my opinion, not giving it to me.

I force a smile. “Actually, I was referencing their enduring symbolism, not their…power dynamics,” I correct him. Seriously, did he mansplain my own analogy to make it sexual?

He chuckles, clearly missing my irritation. “Hey, nothing wrong with appreciating a little stamina in the markets, right?”

I glance around, hoping for a diversion or possibly a rescue from a swooping superhero. But no, Jake is thoroughly absorbed in his companion. Brad steps into my line of sight. “So, I find the whole area just pulsing with energy, you know? Wall Street really knows how to…get the blood flowing.”

I take a step back, feeling like a matador trying to dodge a sleazy bull. Polite enthusiasm, polite enthusiasm, you can do this. “Ah. Yes. Of course. And isn’t it known for its music history too?”

Brad’s eyebrows shoot up. Apparently, a non-flirty conversation doesn’t compute. “Music? Here?”

“Oh, absolutely!” I exclaim. “In fact, the Charging Bull was featured in Weird Al Yankovic’s ‘I’ll Sue Ya’ music video. It’s quite a pop culture landmark as well as a financial one.”

Brad blinks, his sleaze-fueled momentum derailed. He quickly regroups. “But?—”

I interrupt, raising my voice enough to barrel over what I’m sure is going to be another dubious gem. “And that’s only the beginning. Around the corner, Trinity Church hosts an array of concerts. They’ve had everything from full orchestral ensembles to intimate performances by soloists.”

Brad recovers fast. “Intimate performances in dimly lit venues, huh? Sounds like a perfect setup for some close encounters.”

I backpedal furiously. “Well. Umm… Many of the performances in this neighborhood weren’t exactly candlelit and cozy. More, you know, impactful. Big! Big performances with even bigger messages!” I say, waving my hands as if I’m trying to physically enlarge the concept.

A couple beside us stop their own conversation and glance our way. Oh god, I’m being that person, aren’t I?

But survival calls for desperate measures, and right now, drowning out Brad is a matter of conversational life and death. “We’re talking about the kind of music that doesn’t just fill the space. It practically protests by existing!”

Brad leans in, but I plow ahead, refusing to let the conversation slide back into the gutter. “I mean, some of the songs performed were more than mere melodies. They were anthems that underscored some of the major protests that took place right in this neighborhood. Music that wasn’t just for tapping your toes, but for stomping your feet—against the financial system, no less. They were more rallying cries than whispered sweet nothings.”

The woman in the couple glances at Brad then gives me a nod of solidarity, clearly getting the gist of my frenzied diversion tactics. “Think guerrilla warfare with culture bombs,” I say with a slight smile. She chuckles, and suddenly, I’m not just throwing words to escape Brad; I’m rallying the troops.

I continue to regale him with tales of impromptu street performances and secret gigs in nearby bars. More people glance my way now, even Jake, who doesn’t bother trying to hide his grin.

Before we hit the next stop, Brad’s smarmy smile has completely disintegrated into a bored grimace and excuses himself under the pretense of finding a loo.

At Zuccotti Park, I try once more to mingle, pairing up with a lanky software developer. But that results in me consoling my current companion about his latest breakup instead. Perhaps I should sell myself as a rebound? After all, I’m in no position to be picky after today’s stacked failures.

His attention keeps straying to a spot beyond my shoulder. I swivel my head in that direction. “I think that’s Jake Cunningham.” His voice pitches high at the end.

I clear my throat, and his gaze returns to me, his expression sheepish. “Would you mind…?”

“Yeah, yeah.” I wave him off. Broken-hearted joins the Jake Brigade, growing less and less morose with each step. More power to him, I suppose.

Jake catches my eye and gives me a not-so-apologetic shrug. Harrumph.

My plan for embracing this dance of match-talk-step-swap scheme is waning. Still, I decide to give it one last try.

Corrine is speaking again, “And right here, George Washington took the oath that made him the first president of the United States,” but her voice is barely piercing through the buzz. The group has fragmented into clusters: women on one side, mostly observing the men forming the ever-expanding Jake Cunningham fan club, and a few stragglers like me.

I spot a man fumbling with his phone, trying to take a selfie with the imposing statue. “Need a hand with that?” I offer.

“Would you? That would be amazing, thanks!”

He hands me his device with a relieved smile. After I capture a few well-angled shots, Corrine’s now on the Bill of Rights.

“So, tourist, history buff, or looking to partner up?” I ask, leaning casually against the cool stone of the historic building.

“A little of all three, I guess,” he admits, taking his phone back and pocketing it. “Actually, it’s my first day off in weeks. I’ve been swamped with work—law firm life in Long Island.”

“Oh, I understand. I just started a new position myself, and honestly, I’m drowning. Should be glued to some tutorial videos, but here I am,” I confess, sharing my plight. “My friend insisted I needed sunlight more than screen time.”

He chuckles, his laughter warm and genuine. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jake notice our interaction, but I pay him no mind.

My companion adds, “Nothing wrong with playing hooky for a day. Sometimes, you’ve got to step away to see things clearer, right?”

Just as I’m warming to the idea of a potential tour buddy if not a romantic partner, disaster strikes in the form of Jake Cunningham, doing his best impression of a peacock at mating season. He’s loudly narrating yesterday’s game, complete with grand gestures and booming bravado.

“…and there I was, fourth and goal. Seventeen seconds left. Coach decides to go for it, and I think, ‘This is it. This is the moment…’”

My new acquaintance’s attention drifts, hooking onto the drama. “Is that…Jake Cunningham?” he murmurs, awe coloring his tone.

“Yeah, that’s him,” I reply flatly. Another one lost to Jake’s siren’s call.

“Oh, wow, I heard someone say his name, but I didn’t really…” His voice trails off as he watches Jake describe dodging linebackers as if they were slow-moving toddlers.

“I guess he’s hard to miss today,” I quip.

He gives me a sheepish grin, torn but ultimately swayed by the gravitational pull of celebrity. “Maybe I could…” he mutters, already inching toward the growing crowd.

“Go ahead. Catch that story—it’ll be something to tell,” I say with a resigned smile.

I wave him off to go to bask in the glow of Jake’s celestial presence. So much for my womanly wiles.

Corrine’s on the move again. Four or five of us follow her. The rest are locked in on Jake.

That’s when I spot another woman, also abandoned, giving me a “can you believe this?” look. She sidles up beside me, her stylish bob bouncing as we meander down Pine Street, observing the Pied Piper of starstruck, slightly pervy, armchair quarterbacks energetically mime a football play, transforming a casual anecdote into an epic reenactment.

“Gah. I thought flirting would be easier. At this rate, I might as well invest in an automatic friend, even though I’d rather have a hands-on job,” she laments.

I laugh at her words.

As another hapless bloke succumbs to Jake’s gravitational pull, she sighs dreamily. “But the man is so gorgeous, it’s kind of hard to blame them.”

She has a point, and truth be told, I’m glad the men have edged out the women who were flocking to Jake earlier.

The lady who’d smiled at me when I’d been trying to distract Brad, joins our little gallery of the spurned. “She’s not wrong,” she chuckles, eyeing Jake. “Now that’s a bull I wouldn’t mind taking by the…horns.”

Jake’s theatrics continue, something about “fourth down and glory on the line” echoing down the street, prompting her to turn to me. “I really liked what you said earlier about the bull and those protests. Makes you realize there’s more to Wall Street than money.”

“Absolutely,” I agree as we stroll. “Familiar with Rage Against the Machine?” Both women nod.

My enthusiasm builds. “Well, back in 1999, they made the music video for ‘Sleep Now in the Fire,’ close to where we assembled. They were only supposed to shoot on the steps of the New York Stock Exchange but ended up causing such a ruckus, trading stopped for the day.”

I drop my voice, and people gather in. “Rumor has it that when the director was hauled off by the NYPD, he yelled, ‘no matter what happens, don’t stop playing!’”

Somehow, my audience has expanded. Anybody who hasn’t latched on to Jake has joined me.

As the Brooklyn Bridge comes into view, I segue into tidbits about the many artists that referenced the structure in their music and videos. Talking about these spots feels far more natural than forced small talk about finance and apples.

I dive into stories about the Mudd Club, which operated north of us in the late seventies, serving as an antidote to the uptown glitz of Studio 54 for the ultra-hip of the time.

When we approach Pier 17, I discuss more recent performances that have taken place in the area—indie pop, electronic music, and the like.

At this point, even Corrine has stopped trying to wrangle Jake’s fandom and joined my contingent. She doesn’t seem bothered that I’ve assumed the lead, occasionally chiming in with added details herself.

Before I know it, the tour finally wraps up at the South Street Seaport, bustling with restaurants that could have been perfect for post-tour dates—had Jake not hijacked almost all the males in the group.

One woman peers at her wristwatch then back at me. “I could listen to you all day, but I’m meeting my son inside.”

A tiny thrill blooms in my chest. She enjoyed my ramblings? “Oh. Well, that’s lovely to hear. Umm. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

A couple more nods and soft murmurs of “Yeah, that was cool” and “Wish we had more time” echo around me. I throw Corrine a guilty glance; I hadn’t meant to take over her tour. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem too offended.

Jake signs a few more autographs before donning his cap again, a cue his show’s over. As his fans reluctantly disperse, his eyes find mine. He makes his way back to me, and I have his full attention once more.