“Yeah, it was dark,” she says. “But I’ve been putting myself back together. I moved in with Lauren for a while. Stopped drinking like a fish. Went to therapy. I’m, uh—” She hesitates, like she’s suddenly at a loss for the right word. “Over it.”
That brief pause makes me wonder if it’s fully true. Eight months is not such a long time to heal from a cataclysmic breakup. But I’m not going to ask her follow-up questions—it’s not my business.
“Sounds like we’ve had a similar ride,” I say.
“How lucky for us.”
“I’m grateful, actually. If my life hadn’t blown up when it did, I would probably have been dead before I turned forty. I like living this way. I’m terrified of anything messing it up, rocking my routine, you know? That’s why I haven’t dated.”
I hope this disclosure isn’t too personal. I don’t want to scare her off. But she nods.
“Yes. I totally get that. Though in my case I’m more scared of backslidinginto the emotional side of it. I have this preternatural ability to fall hard and fast, get absorbed into other people’s worlds, and lose sight of myself.”
“Well, aren’t we the optimistic pair,” I say.
“It’s okay,” she says. “We’re safe together.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because how much damage could we do in a week?”
Hope
Felix’s honest, no-bullshit approach to his past—and to mine—is refreshing. This is not a man who intends to seduce me with visions of a better life.
He wants a harmless, fun little cruise fling.
So do I.
I think it will be healing.
The doorbell rings.
“That must be the food,” Felix says. “I’ll go get it.”
“Wait. I have to confess something,” I say.
“Uh oh,” he says. “What?”
“I ordered afeast.”
“Great. I’m starving.”
“No, you don’t understand.”
But he’s already walking away.
I brace myself.
He lets in Crisanto, who rolls a two-tiered cart crammed precariously with silver platters. Crisanto calmly arranges everything on the table as though ordering eight separate dishes is not at all weird and gluttonous, tells us to ring him when we’d like it cleared away, andbon appetit.
“Jesus, Hope,” Felix says when he’s gone. “Are you expecting twelve more people?”
“I wasn’t sure what you liked, and I didn’t want to alienate you with my bad taste,” I say. “I’d rather alienate you with my maximalism instead.”
“You haven’t alienated me. Though I will say pappardelle bolognese, steak tartare, crab cakes, coq au vin, and endive salad are an odd combination.”
“Don’t forget the truffle macaroni and cheese.”
