Sunday in the Park with Esme

The train rumbled into Manhattan just past ten. The car was half-full - mornings like this always seemed to lull the city into something softer. A rare, golden lull. That sweet spot between summer and autumn, where the sunlight still lingered, but the air held the faintest whisper of cold.

Meg leaned her head back against the window, watching the river flash between buildings. Esme sat beside her, one foot tucked under her thigh, flipping through an old magazine she'd found on the seat.

"I think this is from 2007," she said, holding up an ad for a flip phone.

Meg smirked. "Vintage."

The train rocked. Their arms brushed. Neither of them moved away.

They hadn't done this in a while - just… existed near each other without tension crackling like a third passenger. The air between them was easier today. Not quite what it used to be, but closer.

When they emerged onto the street, the city opened around them like a theatre curtain. Noise, colour, movement.

"You're leading," Esme said. "I have zero plan."

Meg raised a brow. "Since when?"

"Since I decided not everything has to be an objective."

They walked without purpose, meandering through Soho. Past boutiques with curated windows and price tags like taunts. Meg drifted toward a sleek mac she couldn't afford and didn't need. Esme caught her looking.

"You want it?"

Meg gave a lopsided smile. "I want to be the kind of person who wears it."

They wandered further. Paused in front of a window full of hand-thrown pottery, then another with delicate necklaces and gold-plated things that caught the light.

At a stall tucked beside a coffee shop, Meg picked up a pair of ceramic earrings shaped like little pomegranates. She turned them over in her palm, then set them back down.

"I always forget how much I like it here," she murmured.

Esme nodded, quietly. "You used to say you felt more you in Manhattan."

"I said a lot of things."

Still, they stayed close. Browsing old books. Thumbing through scarves they couldn't justify. At one point, Esme held up a beaded clutch that looked like it belonged in a 1920s jazz club and raised a brow. "You?"

Meg laughed. "Absolutely not."

But it felt good to laugh.

They walked for hours. Bought iced coffees they didn't need and sat on the edge of a low fountain, watching the city move. Their boots tapped the same rhythm. The silence between them wasn't heavy anymore. Just familiar.

It wasn't until the sun began to lower - softening the city into something golden - that Esme spoke.

"So," she said, casually. "Flynn."

Meg's head tipped. "That's not a question."

"It's also not subtle," Esme admitted. She picked at the sleeve of her coat. "I just… I'm not trying to fight with you, Meg. I'm really not."

Meg's voice was wary. "But?"

Esme sighed. "But he's a distraction. A charming one, sure. But you and I both know he's not going anywhere. Not really. He floats. You deserve more than someone who drifts in and out depending on where the next good time is."

Meg leaned back, looking away. "It's not like that. We're not like that."

"I'm not judging. I can tolerate Flynn, when he's not driving me insane. But you - " she paused. "You moved here with this spark. Like the city couldn't even dare to ignore you. And now…"

"Now what?" Meg asked, quieter.

"Now you seem tired. Like you're waiting for something that never shows up."

Meg didn't answer. She just watched the water ripple in the fountain.

Esme reached into her bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper - creased and softened at the edges. A flyer.

"Look," she said, setting it between them. "Community art classes. Tuesdays. It's nothing fancy, but it's real. And you used to get this look in your eye when you painted. Like everything else faded away."

Meg stared at it for a long time. "I don't know if I still have it in me."

"Then go find out," Esme said gently. "You don't have to prove anything. Just… try."

The paper fluttered slightly in the breeze. Meg didn't pick it up, but she didn't shove it back either. Instead, she sat there, thoughtful. Silent.

When they finally stood to go, Meg slipped the flyer into her coat pocket.

She didn't promise anything.

But she didn't leave it behind.

Author's Note:

Back in 2019, I was insanely lucky enough to see the Public Works version of Hercules in Central Park. It was the first time I'd ever visited the city, and much the feeling of NY in these early chapters is drawn from that summer.

The mention of the amphitheatre here is a little nod to the incredible weekend at the Delacorte.