I BARELY SEE HIM THE NEXT FEW DAYS, EXCEPT FOR IN THE NEWS LINKS PENELOPE sends to me, a leak announcing Parker’s soon-to-be ascent to the CEO of Virion. It looks like the acquisition is finally about to close. Virion’s stock rises immediately.

Taryn, Emily, and Gwen take me to dinner to say goodbye. This time, we do tacos at Tacombi and talk about our autumns over margaritas and guac.

“You’ll have to visit!” Gwen says. “Winter in the city is so much fun, there’s the holiday markets and ice-skating and the tree.”

“She knows,” Taryn says. “She went to Columbia, remember?”

“Oh,” Gwen says, frowning.

I smile at her. “I would love to.” If Cali decides to finally move into her apartment, it would be nice to spend the holidays with Isabella.

I wonder . . . I wonder what Parker will be doing for the holidays this year. I smile, remembering the tiny Christmas tree from the botanical garden.

“We lost her,” Emily says. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”

I was basically forced into (yeah right, I loved it) telling them all about Paris, in detail— On the stairs?! —and they’re convinced it’s possible for us to do long-distance between LA and San Francisco.

“Of course she is,” Taryn says, sipping her drink. “You don’t just have sex on the stairs and not think about a person.”

I nearly choke on my chip. “Remind me to never tell any of you anything again.”

THE NEXT MORNING, THERE’S A KNOCK ON MY DOOR. I’M STILL IN MY pajamas. I open it, only to find Parker there, ready for a run.

“It’s six in the morning,” I say. We usually run at seven. We haven’t in days, while he’s been busy. Or, perhaps more accurately, avoiding me.

“We have a long day ahead of us,” he says.

I blink. “We do?”

He hands me a latte. It has his coffee shop’s sleeve. I frown. “It’s not open this early.”

“I know. I went in and made it myself.”

I take a long sip and sigh. “This is the best latte I’ve ever had,” I say, meaning it. “Don’t tell Jeremy.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Something is off, but I’m not sure what.

“I thought you were busy,” I say.

“I am,” he admits. “But we said we would do this before the end of the summer. We’re already a little late.”

Do what? Then, suddenly, I remember. I blink. “Parker. You can’t be serious.”

All he looks is serious.

I don’t know what compels me to get changed into yoga pants, a T-shirt, and my sneakers, but maybe it’s because I’m tired of him avoiding me. I’m leaving tomorrow. If he’s willing to give me all of today . . . I’ll take it.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” I say as we ride the train all the way to the very northern tip of Manhattan.

I didn’t mean to quote myself, but he turns to me and says, “I can’t believe it took this long,” and my cheeks heat.

“NOW ENTERING MANHATTAN” THE PLAQUE ON THE GROUND SAYS on both sides, with two drawings of leaves.

“Ready?” Parker says.

“Ready.”

I’m grateful it’s so early, because I move in a haze, part of me still asleep. Ten minutes in, we reach the 215th Street steps, rising like a choppy rogue wave. It looks like there are a million of them.

“How much would someone have to give you to run up and down those steps right now?” I ask Parker. He’s tired. I can see he’s tired, though he’s a lot more awake than I am right now.

“There isn’t enough money in the world.”

The sun is already out, but the streets are decently empty. At the hour mark, we reach the George Washington Bridge and market. We walk in comfortable quietness, as we both fully wake up, along with the world around us. As the hours tick by, there are more people outside. Shop signs are turned around. Doors are propped open.

“First coffee is almost coming up,” Parker says. I glance at him. “I found places for you to get coffee beforehand. Every few hours.”

I must look surprised or touched, because he just raises a shoulder.

“It seemed like cruel and unusual punishment not to.”

We’re at Seventy-Second Street. There are benches and a little coffee truck. I order an iced coffee, and Parker gets us water bottles.

A little later, I take a fistful of Parker’s shirt, surprise making me still. “Look!” I say. There’s a bookstore called Shakespeare & Co. It’s not the same, but it reminds me of the bookstore in Paris.

Parker looks at me, like he’s remembering Paris too.

We reach the edge of Central Park at Columbus Circle. There’s a hot dog cart on the corner, along the roundabout, and clusters of pedicabs. A shining gold statue atop a pillar reflects the morning sunlight.

Four hours into our walk, we start to see billboards advertising Broadway shows and theaters painted to look like their plays. There’s an Applebee’s sign with a giant apple outside of it, and I say, “I wonder how many people unironically post a photo in front of it.” We pass a massive Olive Garden.

Then we’re in the heart of Times Square, in the land of selfie sticks, mascots, and aggressive signage. Every store has flashing lights on its facade, from bars to bakeries.

Billboards ripple around us, flashing from ad to ad, featuring cars, movies, music, makeup, clothes, and even phone plans. We stand side by side and watch the screens, willingly being fed commercials. It’s weirdly beautiful, I think. We drink water while sitting on the red steps.

“How are you doing?”

“My feet are about to go on strike,” I say. “Yours?”

“Same.”

It’s almost ten. “Do your plans include brunch?”

Of course they do.

Twenty minutes later, in NoMad, we stop at the Smith to eat. I have a plate with scrambled eggs, bacon, and avocado, and Parker has a salad.

“Hydrate,” I say, and we both drink water, eyes locked. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but I think if I try to get out of this booth, my legs will just fall off.”

Parker nods. “I’m feeling a similar sort of way.”

We use the bathroom and continue down Broadway, right to the Flatiron Building. We stand, admiring it.

“It looks like a nose,” Parker says.

It really does.

We take a turn onto Fifth for just a couple of blocks for, in Parker’s words, “Elle coffee stop number two.” I’ve been here before. Ralph’s Coffee has green chairs outside and circular tables that remind me of Paris. We wait in line, and I order an iced mocha. Parker gets an iced tea with a slice of lemon. While we wait, I turn around and see a massive mirror on the wall.

Then I regret ever looking at all.

I look exactly like someone who was awoken at six in the morning and has been walking for the better part of the day. I take my hair out of its ponytail and start to frantically comb its top with my fingers. “Why didn’t you tell me I looked like this?” I say, cursing the fact that I clearly was too busy washing my hands in the restaurant bathroom to notice.

Parker pulls me to his side. “You look perfect,” he says, and then he takes a picture of me. I snatch the phone from his hand and take a photo of both of us in the mirror. Parker is scowling, in clear opposition to the influencer mirror photo.

We grab our drinks, then head back down Broadway. We pass a movie theater and ABC Carpet & Home, a high-end furniture store that also, strangely, has three really good restaurant offshoots. Our path takes us directly through Union Square.

It’s hot outside, the sun blazing down, so, at my insistence, we duck into the four-floor Barnes & Noble to get some much-needed air-conditioning. We walk around—me pointing out which books I’ve read, Parker increasingly puzzled by the book covers. He flips through a few pages of some.

“Do all books have maps?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “Only the best ones.”

We stop in front of a romance table. Parker picks a book up and reads the back. Frowns. Picks up another. Does the same thing.

“None of them doing it for you?” I ask.

He puts the third one down. “No. Because none of them sound like us.”

“I guess someone will have to write it, then.”

Adequately cooled down, we walk across the street into the green market. Stands are selling lavender, honey, pretzels, bread, flowers. We stop and buy a pastry, which we split, passing it back and forth, until our hands are sticky. We paper towel them off and keep walking, passing the Strand, another famous bookstore.

“More air-conditioning?” Parker asks, as we step inside.

“No,” I say. “More books.” I’m not an author, but I love being around stories. There’s something peaceful about walking around a bookstore, knowing endless worlds are waiting to be discovered. Knowing there’s always an escape, if we need it.

“Everyone has merch,” Parker says, and buys us Strand pins as a reminder of the day. Then we head back outside. Buildings start to sport purple NYU banners. We enter NoHo. There’s another good coffee shop, La Colombe, but I shake my head. I’d rather power through than have to continue to find bathrooms.

SoHo is packed, and we walk by a mixture of designer stores and brands we’ve seen several times already.

“I think that’s the fifth Sephora today,” I muse, and Parker doesn’t even know what I’m talking about.

The Jenga Building is in the distance now, and we use it as a guiding star, until we reach the Financial District. By then, I’m only making it because Parker keeps saying “We’re so close.”

We pass city hall. A few blocks up, there’s a line of people waiting to take photos in front of the bronze Charging Bull .

Then, finally, mercifully, we reach Battery Park.

The Staten Island Ferry building is our sign we’ve made it.

“If I collapsed, would you catch me before I hit the ground?” I ask.

“Of course,” he says.

But I don’t collapse. Instead, with a surge of energy, I jump up and hug him. He spins me around. “We did it,” I say.

“You didn’t even die.”

“I know, it was great!”

I grab his phone and take a photo of us. “Send that to me,” I say, and then I remember we don’t have each other’s numbers.

We look at each other. Neither of us makes a move to exchange them.

Maybe it’s better this way, I think. If I leave, and he never calls me, best if it’s because he can’t.