Besides concluding that I was seriously naive in thinking the movies were anything like real life, and finding myself unable to write the story as proposed, I realized geography wasn’t my problem and moving wasn’t the solution. On any given weekend in New York City, there are dozens of local events—street fairs; arts and music festivals; food, beer, and wine tastings—to make up for what the small town lacked. For every connection I failed to make in the small town, I had a friend or family member missing me back at home. Those loved ones more than make up for the strangers who pass me on the street with zero acknowledgment or push me out of the way for a seat on the subway on a daily basis. I left the small town with a better appreciation for what was waiting for me in the expansive backyard of New York City: the pizza, the opportunities for growth and recreation, the people! There’s no place like home. It took more than three clicks of my heels to get back, but it was worth the journey.

I rolled my neck. It wasn’t bad, but it still felt unfinished.

“Too much or the perfect amount of cleavage?”

I looked up at my mother, dressed to kill in form-fitting black skinny jeans, a low-cut black tunic, and red kitten heels. “The fact that you have cleavage means you should guard your underwear drawer, because I might need to steal that bra.” I smiled. “Which is to say, the perfect amount. Going out?”

“I’m meeting Terry at Vino at eight.” She walked past me.

This news was a nice reprieve. I slid my computer a few inches away to seal the redirection of my attention to my mother. “This is a third date, right?” The light was now on in the kitchen, and I heard her emptying the dishwasher. “Don’t. I’ll empty it later. Third date?” I asked again over the sound of water running.

A moment later, she sat next to me on the end of the couch with a glass of water. “We were out of clean glasses. Yes. He has sex appeal, and I liked his shirt on the first two dates.”