If you lived in the city proper, there was little need for a car. Living in the suburbs with Jeff and Brenda had been what I’d needed to heal, but I missed being in the heart of New York. Once, we’d taken a train from the house for the girls to see the gigantic Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. They’d all ice skated, but I’d hung back. No one had ever taken me ice skating before, so I was content to watch from outside the rink. That seemed like just yesterday even though it was already March. “What part of the city do you live in?” I asked, watching buildings fly by outside. “East Village,” Nate said casually. My eyes bugged out of my head. “You’re really serious about this writing thing, aren’t you?” I asked. Everyone knew the East Village was one of the cultural hearts of the city. You also pretty much had to be loaded to live there. “Actually, I wasn’t always a writer,” he said. “I used to be in real estate.” “Aha,” I said. “The truth comes out.”
