Page 144 of Summer and the City (The Carrie Diaries 2)

“But what about love? Does she ever win at love?”

“Especially not at love.”

I hesitate. “That sounds like a curse, Cholly.”

He laughs loud and long. “You know what they say: One man’s curse is another man’s opportunity. So what do you say? Can we meet in my office this afternoon at three?”

“In New York?”

“Where else?” he says.

Whoo-hooo, I think, swaying through the first-class cabin on the train headed back to the city. The seats are enormous and covered in red velvet and there’s a paper napkin on each headrest. There’s even a special compartment where you can stash your suitcase. It’s a heck of a lot nicer than coach.

“Always go first-class.” I hear Samantha’s voice in my head.

“But only if you can pay for it yourself,” Miranda counters.

Well, I am paying for it myself. Via Bernard and his lovely gift. But what the hell? I deserve it.

Maybe I’m not a failure after all.

I don’t know how long I’ll stay in New York, or what my father will do when I tell him. But I’ll worry about that later. For the moment, all I care about is one simple fact: I’m going back.

I teeter up the aisle, looking for a place to sit and someone decent to sit next to. I pass a balding man, and a lady who’s knitting. Then I spot a pretty girl with a luxurious mane of hair, flipping through a copy of Brides magazine.

Brides. She’s got to be kidding. I take the seat next to her.

“Oh hi!” she says eagerly, moving her bag. I smile. She’s just as sweet as I thought she’d be, given that gorgeous hair.

“I’m so glad to get you as a seatmate,” she whispers intimately, looking around. “The last time I took the train to New York, this creepy guy sat right next to me. He actually tried to put his hand on my leg. Can you believe it? I had to move my seat three times.”

“That’s terrible,” I say.

“I know.” She nods, wide-eyed.

I smile.

“Getting married?” I ask, indicating her magazine.

She blushes. “Not exactly. I mean, not yet. But I hope to be engaged in a couple of years. My boyfriend works in New York. On Wall Street.” She ducks her head prettily. “My name’s Charlotte, by the way.”

“Carrie,” I say, holding out my hand.

“What about you? Do you have a boyfriend?”

I burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” she says, confused. “They say Paris is romantic, but I think New York is romantic too. And the men—”

I laugh even harder.

“Well, really,” she says primly. “If you’re going to laugh the whole way to New York . . . I don’t see what’s so funny about going to New York to find love.”

I howl.

“Well?” she demands.

I wipe away my tears. I sit back and cross my arms. “Do you really want to know about love in New York?”