Page 112 of Summer and the City (The Carrie Diaries 2)

Actually, I would mind. I’m suddenly tired of doing her dirty work. “I think you should tell her yourself.” I hand Glenn the phone.

While Glenn speaks to Samantha, a saleswoman peeks into the room, beaming with excitement, pulling an enormous rack of wedding dresses behind her. The atmosphere explodes as Donna and her mother rush toward the dresses, pawing and fondling the garments like they’re sugary confections.

I’ve had enough. I dive into the rack of wedding dresses and fight my way through to the other side.

Weddings are like a train. Once you get on, you can’t get off.

Sort of like the subway.

The train is stopped, again, somewhere in the dark catacombs between Forty-second and Fifty-ninth streets. It’s been stuck for twenty minutes now, and the natives are getting restless.

Including myself. I yank open the door between the cars and step out onto the tiny platform, leaning over the edge in an attempt to discover the cause of the holdup. It’s useless, of course. It always is. I can just make out the walls of the tunnel until they disappear into darkness.

The train lurches unexpectedly and I nearly tip off the platform. I grab the handle of the door just in time, reminding myself that I need to be more careful. It’s hard to be careful, though, when you feel indestructible.

My heart does that jackhammer thing that happens whenever I get all anticipatory about the future.

Bernard read my play.

The minute I escaped from Kleinfeld, I ran to a phone booth and finally reached him. He said he was in the middle of casting. I could tell by his voice that he didn’t want me to come by, but I kept insisting and finally he relented. He could probably tell by my voice that I was in one of those nothing-is-going-to-stop-me moods.

Not even the subway.

The train screeches to a halt just inside the platform at Fifty-ninth Street.

I bang though the cars until I reach the head compartment, then I do the dangerous thing again and leap from the train onto the concrete. I run up the escalator, zoom through Bloomingdale’s, and race up to Sutton Place, sweating like a mad thing in the white vinyl.

I catch Bernard in front of his building, hailing a cab. I spring up behind him.

“You’re late,” he says, jangling his keys. “And now I’m late too.”

“I’ll ride with you to the theater. Then you can tell me how much you loved my play.”

“It’s not the best time, Carrie. My mind’s not focused.” He’s being all business. I hate it when he’s like this.

“I’ve been waiting all day,” I plead. “I’m going crazy. You have to tell me what you thought.”

I don’t know why I’m in such a frenzy. Maybe it’s because I just came from Kleinfeld. Maybe it’s because Samantha didn’t show up. Or maybe it’s because I don’t ever want to have to marry a man like Charlie and have a mother-in-law like Glenn. Which means I have to succeed at something else.

Bernard grimaces.

“Oh my God. You didn’t like it.” I can feel my knees buckling beneath me.

“Take it easy, kid,” he says, hustling me into the cab.

I perch on the seat next to him like a bird about to take flight. I swear I see a look of pity cross his face, but it’s immediately gone and I tell myself I must have imagined it.

He smiles and pats my leg. “It’s good, Carrie. Really.”

“Good? Or really good?”

He shifts in his seat. “Really good.”

“Honestly? Do you mean it? You’re not just humoring me?”

“I said it was really good, didn’t I?”

“Say it again. Please.”