I tried to see what he saw; it was beautiful, sure, but it was magic only to him. I didn’t mind. I didn’t say it out loud, but that was my New York in a nutshell: those special things that we share only with ourselves, the treasures whose shine only we can see. The unremarkable street corners or nameless coffee shops that held worlds of their own.

“What would you do after you sat and stared at a building?” I asked.

“I’d run the length of the Brooklyn Bridge and back, and then sprint to my old apartment in the East Village.” He laughed. “I had a lot of stress to burn that year.”

I nodded. “Cool.”

“Franny.” He laughed and gave me a look of disbelief. “Don’t say it.”

“I’ve driven across it plenty of times!” I said, knowing exactly where he was going with this.

“But you’ve”—he shook his head, exasperated—“never walked across it.”

I shrugged and made a face. “It seemed too touristy.”

“Oh my god.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “And you’ve lived here what, nine, ten years?”

“Twelve,” I confessed with a grimace. “If you count college.”

“Twelve?!” He threw up his hands at me and gaped.

“You’re going to really be horrified by this, but my apartment’s only a few blocks away from the bridge too.”

“Franny, no!” I’d never seem him this animated, and it made me smile.

“Look, I biked across the Williamsburg Bridge once,” I said, holding my hands up defensively. “I’ve been to the Cloisters. I know where to get the best whitefish salad in the city. I’m not a total monster.”

“Okay, well, do you have thirty more minutes?”

“I’ve got all night,” I said, my eyes bright, my words obviously flirty. I took a second to try to remember back months ago, when he seemed so cocky and loathsome on that bright NYN morning show set. How had this side of him not been evident all along? My brain struggled to remember exactly what about him I’d found so horrible in the first place.

“Perfect,” he said, tugging at my wrist. “Let’s go.”

We crossed Fulton Street to the sidewalk that led us to the mouth of the bridge. Even though it was nearing eleven, there were people in packs ahead of us, enjoying the unending warmth of the day. The wooden planks of the walkway stretched on for what felt like forever, with the occasional cyclist speeding through the crowds in that no-bullshit way only a New Yorker on a bike can possess.