He rests his back against the ledge and folds his arms over his chest. “Were you born here?”
I shake my head. “No. Moved here from Maine after I graduated college.”
He scrunches up his nose, and it’s kind of hot. Watching this guy—dressed in his Burberry shirt with his two-hundred-dollar haircut—making silly faces.
“So you’re in Boston purgatory, huh? That’s gotta suck.”
“What do you mean?” I ask him.
The corner of his mouth curls up. “The tourists treat you like a local; the locals treat you like a tourist.”
I laugh. “Wow. That’s a very accurate description.”
“I’ve been here two months. I’m not even in purgatory yet, so you’re doing better than I am.”
“What brought you to Boston?”
“My residency. And my sister lives here.” He taps his foot and says, “Right beneath us, actually. Married a tech-savvy Bostonian and they bought the entire top floor.”
I look down. “The entire top floor?”
He nods. “Lucky bastard works from home. Doesn’t even have to change out of his pajamas and makes seven figures a year.”
Lucky bastard, indeed.
“What kind of residency? Are you a doctor?”
He nods. “Neurosurgeon. Less than a year left of my residency and then it’s official.”
Stylish, well spoken, and smart. And smokes pot. If this were an SAT question, I would ask which one didn’t belong. “Should doctors be smoking weed?”
He smirks. “Probably not. But if we didn’t indulge on occasion, there would be a lot more of us taking the leap over these ledges, I can promise you that.” He’s facing forward again with his chin resting on his arms. His eyes are closed now, like he’s enjoying the wind against his face. He doesn’t look as intimidating like this.
“You want to know something that only the locals know?”
“Of course,” he says, bringing his attention back to me.
I point to the east. “See that building? The one with the green roof?”
He nods.
“There’s a building behind it on Melcher. There’s a house on top of the building. Like a legit house, built right on the rooftop. You can’t see it from the street, and the building is so tall that not many people even know about it.”
He looks impressed. “Really?”
I nod. “I saw it when I was searching Google Earth, so I looked it up. Apparently a permit was granted for the construction in 1982. How cool would that be? To live in a house on top of a building?”
“You’d get the whole roof to yourself,” he says.
I hadn’t thought of that. If I owned it I could plant gardens up there. I’d have an outlet.
“Who lives there?” he asks.
“No one really knows. It’s one of the great mysteries of Boston.”
He laughs and then looks at me inquisitively. “What’s another great mystery of Boston?”
“Your name.” As soon as I say it, I slap my hand against my forehead. It sounded so much like a cheesy pickup line; the only thing I can do is laugh at myself.
He smiles. “It’s Ryle,” he says. “Ryle Kincaid.”
I sigh, sinking into myself. “That’s a really great name.”
“Why do you sound sad about it?”
“Because, I’d give anything for a great name.”
“You don’t like the name Lily?”
I tilt my head and cock an eyebrow. “My last name . . . is Bloom.”
He’s quiet. I can feel him trying to hold back his pity.
“I know. It’s awful. It’s the name of a two-year-old little girl, not a twenty-three-year-old woman.”
“A two-year-old girl will have the same name no matter how old she gets. Names aren’t something we eventually grow out of, Lily Bloom.”
“Unfortunately for me,” I say. “But what makes it even worse is that I absolutely love gardening. I love flowers. Plants. Growing things. It’s my passion. It’s always been my dream to open a florist shop, but I’m afraid if I did, people wouldn’t think my desire was authentic. They would think I was trying to capitalize off my name and that being a florist isn’t really my dream job.”
