Something that horrifies me.
It’s the small part of me that wants to stay because I’vemissedhim.
I know. Iknow.
But I can’t help it. I loved him so much that his physical nearness is causing a strange, contradictory reaction in my body. I’m both repelled and attracted at once.
So I stay.
Of course I stay.
“Yes, it’s a bizarre coincidence,” I say to Nuala with a smile. “Gabe, Nuala and Clayton are from New York as well. They live in Fort Greene.”
I know this will cause him to hold forth on how much he loves Brooklyn. He does, but in the way of a man with a palatial apartment on the Upper West Side who finds the outer boroughs quaint.
Our tour guide comes in to greet us, then leads us to the pier. Gabe falls into step beside me as we walk to our van.
“How have you been?” he asks. “You look stunning, as always.”
I don’t know how to react. His manner is so off. He’s treating me like an old flame he’s pleased to have run into, not like an ex-girlfriend whose heart he broke last fall.
It occurs to me that I could take this opportunity to eviscerate him for what he did to me. To tell him I was exhausted and incoherent with despair. That I had to crash with Lauren for months because, as he knew, I gave up my rent-stabilized apartment and sold all my stuff when I moved in with him.
But that would show weakness. I want to radiate strength.
“I’m fantastic,” I say. “How are you?”
“Fabulous, now that I know you’re here. How’s Lauren? Has she snared a billionaire yet?”
“Still working on it.”
“I should introduce her to Alfred Khan, the curator. He just divorced and he’s very much her type.”
I’m sure any curator friend of Gabe’sisvery much Lauren’s type—she once wrangled an internship as a gallery girl at Art Basel to meet men. But Lauren hates Gabe, and by association anyone in his orbit, so I’ll pass on her behalf.
“She’s got her eye on a handsome Irishman, so I think she’s good.”
“Are you still working on your collection?” he asks me.
He’s referring to the short stories he encouraged me to write when we were together. The ones he said would dazzle the literati and put me on the map as a writer to watch.
I haven’t touched them since we broke up.
“Yep,” I lie. “Going great.”
“I’d love to read them when you’re ready.”
“Thanks, that’s kind of you. How is your work going?”
“We’re publishing the new Alex Lho book next month. Incredible novel—I think it’s going to win prizes. I’ll send you an advance copy if you like.”
I hate how small and insecure this conversation is making me feel. Gabe’s world was always intimidating, but I felt differently when he assured me so confidently that I was meant to be part of it. That I too was destined for great things.
I feel every bit the broke thirty-one-year-old publicity peon still struggling to get on my feet.
I’m grateful that the van stops, ending this excruciating life update.
We step out onto a beautiful, if crowded, beach occupied by line after line of umbrella-shaded lounge chairs. Our guide leads us to a surf shop and introduces us to our instructors for the day. They divide us into groups according to our experience levels. My level—unathletic with no core strength—is politely called “beginner.”
