Songs for this chapter are:

Coloring- Kevin Garrett

Shiver- Coldplay

Halsey- Roman Holiday

"Excuse me, sorry!" I move out of the strangers way.

When he passes, his hood falls down. I don't recognize the man. He's wearing a black coat and gray windbreaker pants. He nods at me, being friendly enough. Our apartment building has to have at least thirty units and I've seen nearly every person or couple who live here, but not this guy. He might have just moved in. He doesn't respond to me so I keep walking. 

People in New York are just so nice. I could have moved a little further north to Toronto where everyone is nice. Less guns there too, that's a plus. 

When I reach the corner of my street, I break out into a run. I wait for the pain to ache in my knee, but it's bearable today. I pick up my speed. My Nike's hit the sidewalk with hardly any noise at all. I need to use this time to have my brain decipher a few things. First, Dakota's behavior. She's barely spoken to me since she broke up with me, and now she's acting like we will see each other every day. 

She was so worked up over her audition and I wish there was something I could do. I can't go to one of the most prestigious ballet academies and knock on their door claiming racism without any proof. Especially with all the madness going on in the country as it is. I'm positive that she's right, that they won't cast a non-white lead in a major production, which is complete bullshit. If I cause a scene or stir, it could backfire. The last thing that I want to do is to cause her to get too much negative attention while trying to build a career there.

The shit that I'm used to helping her with is so different than this. Our problems were much heavier back then, yet so much lighter. Much more time sensitive. Life and death. I don't know what to do with practical, day to day problems like school, and I don't know what to do with this disgusting of ignorance. I could actually help solve our old problems, not this one.

This is one of the few times that I would like to be Hardin for about an hour. I would rush down to that campus, pound on the door and demand justice for her. I would convince them that Dakota is the best ballerina they have there. Despite her reminder that she's not a "Ballerina" yet, but hopes to be one day. I never knew the ballet world was so intense and so structured. Ballet to Dakota is what hockey is for me, only ten fold.

She's been dancing since she was a kid. She started with hip-hop, moved to jazz, and settled on ballet in her teens. Believe it or not, beginning ballet as a teen is a huge disadvantage and in some circles can be considered too late to begin. But Dakota smashed those assumptions during her first audition at the School of American Ballet. My mom sent her the money to go to her audition. It was her birthday present. She cried grateful tears and promised my mom that she would do her best to make it up to her.

My mom didn't want to be paid back, she wanted to see the sweet neighbor girl rise above her circumstances and make something of herself. Dakota came running through the house with her letter waving above her head. Her hair bounced above her head and her eyes were wild with excitement. She was screaming and jumping and I had to pick her up and flip her small body upside down to get her to stay still long enough to shout her news into my ear. She was so happy. I was so proud. Her school may not be Joffrey, but it's an exceptionally rated academy and I was damn proud of her.

Hardin would go marching down to that academy. I can see him now, parking his white Ford Capri on the lawn of the school and threatening to shove his foot up the Master's ass unless they recast the role. But sadly, I'm not Hardin and I don't want my foot shoved anywhere. All I want is for her to be happy and for her talent to be recognized. I want to fix this for her, but this is seems to be out of my control. If she asks me to take it further, to help her raise her voice- I will, but for now, I'll wait. As frustrating as it is, I can't think of one realistic solution to this specific problem. I should have asked her what else is going on, there has to be more.

I file that away for later and shift my focus to Sophia—Nora. That's going to be hard to get used to. She does look more like a Nora than a Sophia, and luckily I'm not as bad as Hardin with names. He refuses to call Dakota anything other than Delilah, even to her face. Enough about brooding Hardy.

Hardy.

That makes me laugh. I'm calling him that the next time he calls Dakota, Delilah.

As I pass a grocery mart, a woman with her hands full of paper bags is staring at me so I stop laughing at myself and my corny ways to stick it to Hardin. Or Hardy.

I laugh again.

I need more coffee.

I'm only about a twenty minute run away from Grind, but it's the opposite direction from my apartment than the park. Coffee is worth it. I turn around to run back toward the coffee shop. I pass the woman carrying the shopping bags again and I watch as one of the sacks slips from her hand.

I rush over to help her but I'm not fast enough. The brown bag tears and cans of food roll onto the sidewalk and she looks so frustrated that she may scream at me just for helping her. I grab a can of chicken soup before it rolls onto the street. Another bag tears and she curses in frustration as the items tumble to the ground. Her dark hair is covering her face, but I would guess she's about thirty. She's wearing a loose dress and has a slight bump underneath. She may be pregnant, but I know better than to ask.

Two teenage boys cross the street and walk toward us. For a moment, I believe they may actually help us. Nope. While we are scrambling to clean up her grocery disaster, they don't bat an eye at us. No offer to help, they just pick up their boots and are nice enough to step over a box of rice directly in their path. There's another example of kindness in this city.

"Do you live far from here?" I ask the stranger.

She looks up from the sidewalk and shakes her head. 

"No, just one more block," her deep brown hands push through her hair and she groans in frustration.

"Hmm, okay. Let's get these under control," I point to the pile of groceries from the two bags. Seeing as I don't have any extra bags hanging around in my pockets, I pull my sweatshirt over my head and bend down to put the groceries into it. They may not all fit, but it's worth a try.

"Thank you," she offers. 

She's out of breath. She moves to bend to help me, but I stop her. A car honks, then another. The best thing about living in Brooklyn is the (usual) lack of honking. Manhattan is a chaotic, angry little island, but I could see myself living in Brooklyn forever, teaching at a public school, and raising a family. That's my plan. I've got to get a girl on a date first, so this may take a while. Let's just say it's my five year plan...

Okay, ten year plan.

I push a bottle of oil into the nook of my arm, "I've got it. It's fine." I tell her.

I look into her hooded eyes. She's watching me now, unsure whether to trust me or not. You can trust me, I want to promise her. 

However, chances are that if I say that, she will do the opposite. The wind is picking up, instantly bringing the temperature down a bit. I move faster and once I get all the groceries inside, I tie the sleeves together, creating my best version of a bag. I toss in a box of crackers and a pack of lunchmeat.

I stand to my feet and place the sweatshirt bag in her hands. Her eyes soften. 

"You will make some woman very happy someday, young man," is all she says before she recollects the remainder of her grocery bags that didn't break, readjusts the sweater in her arms, and starts to walk away. I'm flattered by her compliment, but if she knew how awkward I am, she would think differently.

"Do you need help? I can help you get them home?" I offer, sure to poise my tone as an offer, not a demand. It's going to take her a while to get home, carrying those bags like that.

She shakes her head and looks past me, in the direction she was headed. "It's just right here. I've got it."

I hear a tinge of an accent in her words, but I can't make it out. As she walks away, it dawns on me that she actually doesn't need my help- she's carrying the bags and the sweatshirt full of groceries just fine. I suppose this is supposed to be some metaphor sent by the cosmic forces to show me that I don't have to help everyone, like Augustus and the cigarette. Well, our metaphors aren't the same, but still. He obviously had it worse than me, poor guy.

I let the woman go on her own and continue my journey south toward Bushwick. I love the neighborhood I live in. It's close to the cool things in Williamsburg, for a much lower rent. Our rent is still high now, and I'm sure if the cool factor of our neighborhood keeps rising, it will double in no time. It's not as expensive here as I thought it would be. It's not cheap my any means, but those rumors of a gallon of milk costing ten dollars in New York City, aren't true. For the most part. The Russian man who owns the corner store under my apartment does like to hike his prices up but it's so convenient and his daughter often gives me a fair deal. One of the best things about the city is the endless options, from corner stores, to restaurants, to people, there's always another option. 

(Author's note: I'll update again tomorrow, and the next day. Who do you ship Landon with so far? I'm curious, as always.  ;) xo )