“Okay, so for the sake of just getting it all out there,” I said. “My goal is to buy that brownstone this year and get married next year. Ideally, I’d like to start trying for babies, well pretty much immediately, given my age, but we can get on the same page about that. I’ll be knocking on forty’s door sooner than I realize but there’s not much I can do about that.”
I swallowed the excuses for why that probably didn’t work for him I wanted to hurl his way. Excuses he could pick up and read off like a cue card as the reason this was all too much for him.
“When do you want to go look at the house?” he asked. “That way we can see how much work it’s really going to need.”
I laughed and shook my head. “We might get to look at it now. I know it’s empty and the agent is a family friend,” I said, pulling out my cell phone to text my mom for Sandra’s number. Mom replied quickly with her contact information.
I sent the text to Sandra, feeling a buzz of excitement mixed with nerves. She responded immediately, giving us the go-ahead to visit the brownstone.
“Looks like we can go now,” I said, standing up. “Sandra just sent me the code to let ourselves in. She warned that the place is a mess, so we’ll have to look past that.”
Max grinned, his eyes lighting up. “I love messes,” he said as he stood.
We left the café, hand in hand, and I felt an unexpected sense of comfort settle over me. The streets of New York were bustling with activity, but in Max’s presence, everything seemed a bit more serene, a bit more manageable.
The walk to the brownstone was filled with light conversation and comfortable silence. The late afternoon sun cast a warm, golden hue over the city, adding a picturesque quality to the day. Leaves rustled gently in the breeze, and the sounds of the city played a soft, rhythmic backdrop to our stroll. For the first time since leaving my globe-trotting days, I felt content.
Approaching the brownstone, I was struck by its potential. The building had a classic charm, with its aged brick façade and the promise of hidden stories within its walls. It stood proudly among its neighbors, a testament to the enduring beauty of old New York architecture.
“This is it,” I said, gesturing toward the building. “It needs a lot of love, but I can see it being transformed into something really special.”
Max peered up at the brownstone, his expression thoughtful. “It’s got character, that’s for sure. I can already see your touch on it. Let’s take a look inside.”
We made our way up the steps, and I punched in the code Sandra had provided, 0104, with Max peering over my shoulder.
“0104?” he asked. “Hmm, that’s my birthday.” He side-eyed me with a grin as we stepped forward.
The door creaked open, revealing the dusty, untouched interior of the brownstone. We stepped inside, and I was immediately struck by the potential of the space, despite the layer of neglect.
As we walked through the double-door foyer and into the front entrance hall, my eyes sparkled with the potential. Stairs led up to the second floor and underneath layers of dust and old paint was, undoubtedly, a charming wooden railing. To our right was a small sitting room with a pocket door that hung haphazardly from its track and to our left was a dining room that had peeling red paint hanging in strips.
“Perhaps some water damage here, but we can fix that,” Max said as he poked and tapped at the walls.
As we explored each room on the lower level, we discussed possibilities and ideas, and the vision of what could be took shape in my mind. The high ceilings, the spacious rooms, and even the worn-out floorboards seemed to whisper promises of a future filled with love and laughter.
We tentatively took the worn-out steps up to the second level and glimpsed into bedrooms where trash was piled in the corners. Intricately carved trim lay hidden beneath layers of dirt and the wooden floors creaked beneath our feet. Max kept assessing walls with a tap of his knuckles as I pushed open the door to the room at the end of the hall.
“Oh, my gosh, look at this, Max,” I said as my breath hitched in my throat. A gorgeous fireplace flanked one wall of what must be the primary bedroom.
“Wow, that’s incredible. I bet if I scraped this paint off, we’d find marble,” Max replied. “It has to match the one downstairs in that small room at the back. You should use that one for your office, it will get really good morning sun since it faces east.”
I smiled at the implication of his words. I glanced at him, seeing the sincerity in his eyes. The realization that he was envisioning a future with me here, in this space, filled me with a sense of warmth and possibility.
As we stood there, in what could one day be our bedroom, the significance of the moment wasn’t lost on me. Max’s vision for the house wasn’t just about renovations and décor—it was about us, about a life we could build together. It was both exhilarating and grounding, a feeling of coming home not just to a place, but to a person.
“We have a lot of work ahead of us,” I said, my voice tinged with a mixture of awe and excitement.
Max wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close. “We do, but think of all the memories we’ll create turning this house into a home,” he whispered, his breath warm against my ear.
I leaned back into his embrace, allowing myself to fully absorb the weight and beauty of his words. Here, in this dilapidated brownstone that held so much potential, I saw a future I hadn’t dared to imagine before—one filled with love, laughter, and the shared joy of creating something beautiful together.
As we left the brownstone, locking the door behind us, I felt a profound sense of rightness. The path ahead was uncertain and would undoubtedly be filled with challenges, but for the first time, I wasn’t facing it alone. With Max by my side, I felt capable of facing whatever came our way.
THIRTY
ISABELLA
There are moments in life when leveraging one’s family name feels not just advantageous, but almost necessary. This was one of those moments. Navigating the complex terrain of New York City’s real estate, I found myself drawing upon the Esposito legacy to secure what was soon to become much more than a mere property—it was the manifestation of a dream, a cornerstone of my future. It took a flurry of phone calls, a whirlwind of paperwork, and a few strategically placed conversations, but forty-two days after Max and I first explored the dusty, forgotten corridors of the old brownstone, the keys dangled heavily in my hand, a symbol of new beginnings.
