If there was one thing Anne Shirley would stand firm against all arguments, it was that a person could never have too many books. That being said, it was possible she’d taken more than was strictly practical when she packed up her childhood room for her final year in grad school at Redmond College. Her adoptive mother, Marilla Cuthbert, had tried to persuade her to leave most of the collection in the attic of Green Gables, her home for the last twelve years. But picking which books to leave and which ones to take was a Sisyphean task. Every time she thought she’d managed it, a book in the “stay” pile would catch her eye, and then another, and another, and yet another.
The result was having to navigate a maze of cardboard boxes squeezed into every available space whenever she needed something across her new bedroom. The mess was making her eye twitch; disorganized spaces just added unnecessary stress to her life. Everything in its place and all that. One of the downsides to the tiny Hell’s Kitchen apartment she was renting with her best friends Diana Barry and Philippa Gordon was that it didn’t have much storage. Or any, to be exact. The only solution was to try and convince their landlord to let her build bookshelves that would cover one of
the bedroom’s walls. And maybe some in the living room. Perhaps a lone shelf above the toilet. There were a lot of books. But that was a problem for another day, because tonight the roommates were abandoning the never-ending chore of unpacking and going out instead.
It was nice to be back in the city with two of the three girls she loved best in the world.
Philippa’s family was from Connecticut and she’d been gone for the entire summer, but Diana and Anne were both from Avonlea, a small tourist town in the Hamptons. They’d seen plenty of each other over the last few months, barring the Barry family’s annual two-week vacation spent in the south of France. Most of Anne’s time had been split between working in the Green Gables Winery, helping inspect the vines with Marilla’s brother, Matthew, and bartending in the tasting room. Perpetually single and not in the least disturbed by it, Matthew had lived up at the family home that shared the property with the winery since well before Anne came to foster there at twelve years old. Walking the fields with the elderly man had been one of her favorite summer activities for years; he’d become a wonderful father figure for her over time, and she wouldn’t give up those afternoons for a hundred trips to Europe.
Although Anne always missed Diana desperately when she was gone. The stories her friend told when she came home again helped make up for it, since Anne herself had never actually been off the island before college.
Although she’d had a great summer at Green Gables, Anne did appreciate having a wider variety of choices again for an evening out. The sum of Avonlea’s nightspots were either pricey restaurants
with white tablecloths and a dress code or dive bars that smelled like the fishing docks. The town was a perfect example of the odd mixture of old and new, unimaginable wealth and those struggling to just get by, untouched preservation beaches and the gentrified boutique tourist towns that made up the Hamptons.
Shoving aside a stack of boxes with a grunt, Anne finally managed to get to her closet, clothes being the one thing she had unpacked fully. She pulled out a dress she’d been saving since last spring that she’d found for a steal in a vintage shop not far from her old dorms. Loving the feel of the thin cotton, she dropped it over her head, twisting to slide the metal zipper up one side. It was a pretty thing, blue polka dots with white, capped sleeves and a scoop-neck collar. Closely fitted down to her waist, the material flared out in soft folds until it just brushed the tops of her knees. It was shockingly comfortable, and the deep blue complemented her pale, freckled skin nicely. But best of all . . . it had pockets.
Even after four years at NYU and two years at Redmond College, a small private university located on the edge of Greenwich Village where she was enrolled in the graduate program, the endless wonders and surprises the city held never failed to delight her.
Rubbing her lips together one last time in front of the mirror hanging on the wall opposite her bed, Anne pressed one fingertip against the corner of her mouth to erase a smudge of muted rose lipstick. Then she slipped into a pair of flats, because “beauty is pain” was bullshit and she didn’t subscribe to that idea at all. In the postage-sized living room, Philippa was fiddling with the strap of her own shoes, a pair of three-inch heels, because
the tall brunette never seemed to get blisters. Or acne. Or bad hair days. Anne had to remind herself that she really, truly liked Phil—she could make even the tragedy of pairing socks and sandals look good.
As she entered the living room, the other girl glanced up and broke out in a delighted smile. Oh, right, that was why. Because Phil was the sweetest, most generous person, always ready to boost a friend’s confidence and genuinely happy to do it. She was easy to love. Anne knew she’d lucked out when they’d been assigned roommates during freshman year of college.
Phil gave Anne a once-over. “You look so cute! Like a sexy Donna Reed, but without the pearls.”
A laugh came from the other end of the couch, where Diana sat. “Yeah, but a lot more likely to burn down the house while cooking.”
“Really nice. Don’t lie, you had two helpings of the chicken and dumplings I made last week.” Anne narrowed her eyes at her best friend, outfitted in orange shorts and a brilliant pink tank top that showed her dark brown skin to its best advantage. She’d always had a natural talent for finding the colors that suited perfectly. Except that one unfortunate incident with the puce tank dress when they were fifteen. But really, hardly anyone looked good in puce.
Her other best friend raised one brow, eyes sparkling with mischief, and elegantly crossed one long, smooth leg over the other. “Is that what that was? I thought it was potato soup. My grandma would have chased you out of the kitchen with a wooden spoon if you’d told her
those lumps were supposed to be dumplings.”
“Wow.” Anne pressed a hand to her chest with a mock gasp. “First of all, how dare you. I spent at least twenty minutes making that. See if I ever cook you dinner again.”
“I’m crushed.”
“I’m so very serious.”
“My life will never be the same,” Diana said sweetly, as she got up from the couch to herd Anne and Philippa out the door, being the only one who ever managed to keep track of the time. Diana and Anne had been inseparable since the seventh grade when Anne moved to Avonlea, and she knew Diana was only teasing. Probably. She did have an unfortunate history of feeding her best friend dubious food, like the rum cake Marilla made when the girls were fourteen that Anne had thought was just a pineapple Bundt. They’d only stolen a few slices, but the older woman had a heavy hand with the liquor and the two girls were pretty tipsy by the time they’d polished their pieces off. Mrs. Barry had been so angry. Anne still inwardly winced whenever she thought of how Diana had thrown up all over her mother’s new Gucci boots.
Oops.
“Tell me again why we’re going all the way out to Brooklyn to drink beer we could probably get at the corner store and play board games, of all things?” Philippa asked as she navigated her way down the sidewalk during their two-block trip to the subway. Anne envied the grace in which she avoided the cracks and grates, as smooth as if she were walking across a polished wood floor.
Then what her friend had said sunk in. “Wait, we’re taking the subway to play board games?”
“Anne!” Diana exclaimed, giving her a flat look. “Didn’t you open the link to the bar’s website I texted you? It’s not just board games. They supposedly have everything, all sorts of board and trivia games, even a small vintage video game arcade.”
“You said bar! You said bar, and the potential for sexy guys in low-slung jeans, with beards. What else did I need to know?”
“Oh my God, you dork.”
Phil giggled at the flabbergasted expression on Diana’s face. The three girls chatted about their class schedules the rest of the way to the subway. School started up again in just a few days, and Philippa and Anne were headed back to Redmond College. Philippa was, fingers crossed, graduating from the School of Medicine by winter break, so she could start her doctorate studies early. Diana was a dozen blocks or so south, at Parsons, in her final year studying design at the School of Fashion. The desk in her bedroom was already crowded with piles of couture sketches and heaps of scrap material that seemed to multiple with alarming frequency.
Two years for Redmond’s Master of Education program was standard, but Anne had stretched it to three in the interest of not creating too much pressure and stress while working fulltime as well. Monday would be the first day of her last year, finally. There had been a brief dream in high school of being a Serious Author, but it began to morph into something else when she started to help her fellow writing club members put a shine on their own work. That was when she discovered there was nothing she loved better than watching a story made from half-formed ideas and nuggets of creativity take shape.
If there was one thing Anne Shirley would stand firm against all arguments, it was that a person could never have too many books. That being said, it was possible she’d taken more than was strictly practical when she packed up her childhood room for her final year in grad school at Redmond College. Her adoptive mother, Marilla Cuthbert, had tried to persuade her to leave most of the collection in the attic of Green Gables, her home for the last twelve years. But picking which books to leave and which ones to take was a Sisyphean task. Every time she thought she’d managed it, a book in the “stay” pile would catch her eye, and then another, and another, and yet another.
The result was having to navigate a maze of cardboard boxes squeezed into every available space whenever she needed something across her new bedroom. The mess was making her eye twitch; disorganized spaces just added unnecessary stress to her life. Everything in its place and all that. One of the downsides to the tiny Hell’s Kitchen apartment she was renting with her best friends Diana Barry and Philippa Gordon was that it didn’t have much storage. Or any, to be exact. The only solution was to try and convince their landlord to let her build bookshelves that would cover one of the bedroom’s walls. And maybe some in the living room. Perhaps a lone shelf above the toilet. There were a lot of books. But that was a problem for another day, because tonight the roommates were abandoning the never-ending chore of unpacking and going out instead.
It was nice to be back in the city with two of the three girls she loved best in the world.
Philippa’s family was from Connecticut and she’d been gone for the entire summer, but Diana and Anne were both from Avonlea, a small tourist town in the Hamptons. They’d seen plenty of each other over the last few months, barring the Barry family’s annual two-week vacation spent in the south of France. Most of Anne’s time had been split between working in the Green Gables Winery, helping inspect the vines with Marilla’s brother, Matthew, and bartending in the tasting room. Perpetually single and not in the least disturbed by it, Matthew had lived up at the family home that shared the property with the winery since well before Anne came to foster there at twelve years old. Walking the fields with the elderly man had been one of her favorite summer activities for years; he’d become a wonderful father figure for her over time, and she wouldn’t give up those afternoons for a hundred trips to Europe.
Although Anne always missed Diana desperately when she was gone. The stories her friend told when she came home again helped make up for it, since Anne herself had never actually been off the island before college.
Although she’d had a great summer at Green Gables, Anne did appreciate having a wider variety of choices again for an evening out. The sum of Avonlea’s nightspots were either pricey restaurants with white tablecloths and a dress code or dive bars that smelled like the fishing docks. The town was a perfect example of the odd mixture of old and new, unimaginable wealth and those struggling to just get by, untouched preservation beaches and the gentrified boutique tourist towns that made up the Hamptons.
Shoving aside a stack of boxes with a grunt, Anne finally managed to get to her closet, clothes being the one thing she had unpacked fully. She pulled out a dress she’d been saving since last spring that she’d found for a steal in a vintage shop not far from her old dorms. Loving the feel of the thin cotton, she dropped it over her head, twisting to slide the metal zipper up one side. It was a pretty thing, blue polka dots with white, capped sleeves and a scoop-neck collar. Closely fitted down to her waist, the material flared out in soft folds until it just brushed the tops of her knees. It was shockingly comfortable, and the deep blue complemented her pale, freckled skin nicely. But best of all . . . it had pockets.
Even after four years at NYU and two years at Redmond College, a small private university located on the edge of Greenwich Village where she was enrolled in the graduate program, the endless wonders and surprises the city held never failed to delight her.
Rubbing her lips together one last time in front of the mirror hanging on the wall opposite her bed, Anne pressed one fingertip against the corner of her mouth to erase a smudge of muted rose lipstick. Then she slipped into a pair of flats, because “beauty is pain” was bullshit and she didn’t subscribe to that idea at all. In the postage-sized living room, Philippa was fiddling with the strap of her own shoes, a pair of three-inch heels, because the tall brunette never seemed to get blisters. Or acne. Or bad hair days. Anne had to remind herself that she really, truly liked Phil—she could make even the tragedy of pairing socks and sandals look good.
As she entered the living room, the other girl glanced up and broke out in a delighted smile. Oh, right, that was why. Because Phil was the sweetest, most generous person, always ready to boost a friend’s confidence and genuinely happy to do it. She was easy to love. Anne knew she’d lucked out when they’d been assigned roommates during freshman year of college.
Phil gave Anne a once-over. “You look so cute! Like a sexy Donna Reed, but without the pearls.”
A laugh came from the other end of the couch, where Diana sat. “Yeah, but a lot more likely to burn down the house while cooking.”
“Really nice. Don’t lie, you had two helpings of the chicken and dumplings I made last week.” Anne narrowed her eyes at her best friend, outfitted in orange shorts and a brilliant pink tank top that showed her dark brown skin to its best advantage. She’d always had a natural talent for finding the colors that suited perfectly. Except that one unfortunate incident with the puce tank dress when they were fifteen. But really, hardly anyone looked good in puce.
Her other best friend raised one brow, eyes sparkling with mischief, and elegantly crossed one long, smooth leg over the other. “Is that what that was? I thought it was potato soup. My grandma would have chased you out of the kitchen with a wooden spoon if you’d told her those lumps were supposed to be dumplings.”
“Wow.” Anne pressed a hand to her chest with a mock gasp. “First of all, how dare you. I spent at least twenty minutes making that. See if I ever cook you dinner again.”
“I’m crushed.”
“I’m so very serious.”
“My life will never be the same,” Diana said sweetly, as she got up from the couch to herd Anne and Philippa out the door, being the only one who ever managed to keep track of the time. Diana and Anne had been inseparable since the seventh grade when Anne moved to Avonlea, and she knew Diana was only teasing. Probably. She did have an unfortunate history of feeding her best friend dubious food, like the rum cake Marilla made when the girls were fourteen that Anne had thought was just a pineapple Bundt. They’d only stolen a few slices, but the older woman had a heavy hand with the liquor and the two girls were pretty tipsy by the time they’d polished their pieces off. Mrs. Barry had been so angry. Anne still inwardly winced whenever she thought of how Diana had thrown up all over her mother’s new Gucci boots.
Oops.
“Tell me again why we’re going all the way out to Brooklyn to drink beer we could probably get at the corner store and play board games, of all things?” Philippa asked as she navigated her way down the sidewalk during their two-block trip to the subway. Anne envied the grace in which she avoided the cracks and grates, as smooth as if she were walking across a polished wood floor.
Then what her friend had said sunk in. “Wait, we’re taking the subway to play board games?”
“Anne!” Diana exclaimed, giving her a flat look. “Didn’t you open the link to the bar’s website I texted you? It’s not just board games. They supposedly have everything, all sorts of board and trivia games, even a small vintage video game arcade.”
“You said bar! You said bar, and the potential for sexy guys in low-slung jeans, with beards. What else did I need to know?”
“Oh my God, you dork.”
Phil giggled at the flabbergasted expression on Diana’s face. The three girls chatted about their class schedules the rest of the way to the subway. School started up again in just a few days, and Philippa and Anne were headed back to Redmond College. Philippa was, fingers crossed, graduating from the School of Medicine by winter break, so she could start her doctorate studies early. Diana was a dozen blocks or so south, at Parsons, in her final year studying design at the School of Fashion. The desk in her bedroom was already crowded with piles of couture sketches and heaps of scrap material that seemed to multiple with alarming frequency.
Two years for Redmond’s Master of Education program was standard, but Anne had stretched it to three in the interest of not creating too much pressure and stress while working fulltime as well. Monday would be the first day of her last year, finally. There had been a brief dream in high school of being a Serious Author, but it began to morph into something else when she started to help her fellow writing club members put a shine on their own work. That was when she discovered there was nothing she loved better than watching a story made from half-formed ideas and nuggets of creativity take shape. It gave her a sense of deep satisfaction to guide others as they found their voices and discovered how to write the story only theycould tell. She was surprised and pleased to realize she seemed to have a natural talent for it.
So, Anne adjusted her dreams and shifted her focus to becoming a teacher, with the encouragement of her English instructor Ms. Stacey. She especially liked the idea of working at a university, or maybe a high school. As much as she loved babysitting, she recognized that working on a lesson plan that included learning the ABCs would drive her bonkers within a year.
She had her eye on a few opportunities this year, to get a job at a university in the city after graduation. Her mentor, Dr. Lintford, was known to have an in with several deans, including the one who headed Priorly College, where Anne desperately wanted to end up. She’d almost gone there instead of Redmond—it had been a close choice—and the small, private college was a perfect place to start her career.
But tonight, she was going to put it all out of her mind, and just enjoy her last evening of summer with Diana and Phil.
After what seemed like an endless trip out to Brooklyn, the girls trooped up the subway exit stairs and followed the GPS on Diana’s phone. They ended up in front of a bar that had an eighties video arcade mixed with a traditional pub vibe, snuggled between a tattoo parlor and a Korean grocery store. The two themes shouldn’t have worked together, but weirdly, they did.
The noisy bar was just as interesting inside, beams of bright light scattered throughout the room, cutting through the dim atmosphere. Old, battered arcade
game booths mixed with pinball machines, Skee-Ball, and large flat-screen TVs set up with every gaming system imaginable ran along the back wall. Another side of the room was crowded with shelf after shelf of boxed games. She didn’t even know there were that many board games in existence, and it seemed like Archie’s Amusement Arcade had them all. Between the front door and the pinball machines was a crowded bar and an open area filled back to back with round tables, nearly every seat taken. It seemed like 1980s nostalgia was having a serious comeback.
As a Run DMC song slid into Guns N’ Roses, Diana led them through a sea of patrons, using her sharp elbows twice to get to a clear spot at the long, wooden bar when necessary. As she struck up a conversation with a bartender blessed with a disturbingly sexy, bushy beard who had made a beeline to her and Phil, Anne idly turned and scanned the room. Being theshortest of the three of them, and most likely to get crushed by people who didn’t seem to notice she was standing there, she was used to hanging back and letting the other girls order drinks. Her eyes skipped over the noisy crowd, noting with a shudder the karaoke setup in one corner. Absolutely not. There wasn’t enough vodka in the world. The vintage arcade games looked fun, though. It had been years since she’d seen Galaga, much less tried her hand at it.
At the dartboards set up next to Ms. Pac-Man, movement caught Anne’s eye, as a man with his back to the rest of the bar threw a perfect bull’s-eye. The burly guy with two full-sleeve tattoos playing against him let out a loud whoop, as the first guy turned around for a fist bump. Anne’s stomach dropped like she’d started the downhill on the world’s tallest roller
coaster. She would recognize that lazy, confident stance and lopsided grin of self-satisfaction anywhere. It’d been over six years since the summer night she last saw him, the night she’d vowed to never, everthink about again, but suddenly it felt like yesterday.
Without conscious thought, Anne pressed her fingertips against her mouth as if she could banish the unwanted memories of a long-ago kiss.
Gilbert Blythe, bane of her teenage years, longtime academic rival, golden boy of Avonlea, and the only one who’d even come close to wounding her heart, was supposed to be three thousand miles away in California. He’d left for UC in Berkley at the end of the summer after they graduated high school, to study journalism or something, she couldn’t quite remember. None of their mutual friends knew what he’d been up to since, it was like he’d dropped off the map completely. Apparently, he didn’t even come home for the holidays anymore, his parents flying out to celebrate on the West Coast instead. Not that she asked. But Avonlea was very small in a lot of ways; it was impossible to spend more than a weekend there and not be updated on every piece of gossip that happened since her last visit.
So what in God’s name was he doing in Brooklyn?
As if he could hear her thoughts across the rowdy bar, Gil turned his head from where he’d been talking with his friend, deep brown eyes locking on hers with uncanny accuracy. Even at this distance, she could see he’d gone still, straightening from where he’d leaned one shoulder against the wall while waiting for his friend to take his turn. Then he was moving, weaving between two tall tables crowded with people, oblivious to his
friend’s confusion at his abrupt exit. Refusing to acknowledge the traitorous stutter of her pulse, Anne steeled herself with a determination not to show her nerves at his shocking reappearance. He strode through the spotlights breaking up the dim bar, trademark tousled curls shining an envy-evoking burnished mahogany, a sharp contrast to the bright orange she’d been cursed with since birth. Muscled shoulders flexed in a way that had her mouth going dry, under a tight T-shirt Diana would laughingly call “smedium”-sized, as he closed the distance between them with a singular focus that was annoyingly familiar.
Gil halted in front of her much too close for comfort, one lone dimple popping out as the intensity in his eyes morphed into a mischievous glint. She struggled to ignore the phantom pressure on her lips again, lifting her chin in an attempt to channel calm dignity. She would be the mature, smart adult she’d grown into, not the teenage girl who’d been lost in silly romantic fantasies of kisses under the moon.
“Anne,” he said, sliding his hands into the front pockets of his jeans with a casualness she wished she could emulate. The dimple deepened as his smile grew into a grin she knew all too well, one that had never failed to make her wary. That smile was trouble. More specifically, trouble for her.
This was bad. This was very, very bad.
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