I dress, dry my hair, and sit down at my computer when my phone pings a text. As has been the case for seventy-two hoursnow, my heart skips a beat on the off chance it’s finally Marina.
It’s not. Of course.
It’s Scott.
Got everything set for tomorrow. He names two of the biggest bigwigs at my publisher, people I know don’t have time in their super busy schedules to turn themselves into pretzels trying to jibe withmytimeline. He goes on to tell me he’s sending a car to pick me and Reggie up from the airport when we land, that he’ll have us taken to my apartment so I can get a few hours’ sleep, and that the biggest of bigwigs are so looking forward to meeting with me to go over the book. In an unprecedented move, I was sending the book to Scott as I wrote it. It’s not my usual process—I don’t normally let anybody see my work until it’s completely edited—but I was so far behind, and I knew Scott was beginning to panic, so sending him chapters as I went, even before edits, was the best way to calm him down. He’s seen everything except the last two chapters, and the fact that these people want to meet is huge. And that only means one thing.
I can’t change my flight.
I can’t be all, “Gee, sorry, Scott, but this girl I like is ignoring me and I can’t leave Italy until I go stand outside her house with a boom box blasting Peter Gabriel.” Yeah, okay, I’m fully admitting to being middle-aged, but still, you get my point.
“So, that’s it then.”
I whisper the words as I drop down onto the bed and just sit there, staring off into space, seeing nothing and feeling everything. Reggie gives my arm a nudge with his nose, something he does when he’s worried about me. I pick him up and hold him close. “I’m okay, sweetie,” I say softly.
But am I?
I don’t feel okay. I feel so many things—sad, angry, stressed, incredulous, frustrated—but okay isn’t one of them. I pull out myphone.
Hi. I wish you’d talk to me. I don’t understand. I wanted to change my flight and stand in your lobby until you had to see me, but
I stop typing. Fuck it. I dial instead. As expected, it goes straight to voicemail. I clear my throat.
“It’s me. Again.” I take a deep breath and blow it out. “Look, I was going to change my flight, but I can’t now. My publisher wants to meet with me tomorrow, and these are people I can’t blow off, but I want you to know I was all set to change my flight.” I stop. Ugh. This is coming out all wrong. Accusatory. I steady myself and try again. “I’m so sad you’re shutting me out. I didn’t want to leave like this.” I pause again. “Okay, well, you have my number. I really hope to hear from you.” One more pause, because this time, that lump is back in my throat. I try to clear it, but my voice is husky and breaks slightly when I say, “I’ll miss you, Marina.” I don’t say goodbye, I simply hang up.
I sit there, looking down at my hand holding the phone. I feel disbelief, but also numb and empty. Of all the ways I saw things going, this was not one of them. Maybe that makes me naive. Maybe I’m just stupid. Or maybe I’m being selfish. Marina isn’t wrong: Ididsuggest we were casual, and I meant it. For my protection and for hers.
So why does the idea of leaving her feel so awful in my heart?
Chapter Sixteen
I love New York City in the spring.
Not that March is technically spring, but it’s when things start to turn. Winter loosens its grip and eventually gives up the fight, letting flowers and warmer breezes enter the chat. All the snow finally melts away, pops of yellow from early-blooming daffodils taking its place in the parks. Brown and muddy gradually dries up, making room for newly green grass that will be lush and bright in the next eight weeks. And now that it’s late March, rather than early, I feel like I can wander Manhattan without needing boots or some kind of rain gear just to keep my shoes and pant legs from being spattered with dirty wet from the sidewalks.
In fact, today is gorgeous. High fifties, sunny, electric blue skies. Definite signs of spring. I’m meeting Jessie for lunch, as she’s in town to see her publisher, and whenever we’re both in the city, we try to meet up.
There’s a small, unobtrusive bar and restaurant in the Theater District called Mandy’s. It’s off the beaten path and kind of hard to find, which is what I like about it. It’s not touristy at all, and if you don’t live here—not just in New York, but in this area of several blocks—you probably have no idea it exists. I had my apartment here for nearly two years before a friend clued me in on Mandy’s.
It’s small and dim inside—hard to tell what time of day it is when you have a table at Mandy’s place—and I have to stand inside the door for a moment so my eyes can adjust. When theydo, I spy Jessie at the corner of the bar waving her arm in the air.
I head her way, a smile on my face. “I take it we’re eating at the bar?” It’s her favorite.
“Listen, I even commandeered the corner so you can look at my gorgeous face while we chat.” That’s always my complaint: that sitting side by side at the bar means I can’t see her face without turning my head the entire time.
She slides off her stool to give me a hug, wraps me up tight. Jessie gives the best hugs.
We sit back down, and she’s right—the corner really does take care of my one complaint about eating at the bar. “Whatcha drinkin’?” I ask, glancing at her martini glass.
“This one’s a lemon drop, but I’m gonna move on to either a chocolate or an espresso one next.”
“I haven’t had a martini in forever,” I say, then order one, telling the bartender to make it as dirty as he can. A few minutes later, he slides me a glass of the cloudy deliciousness, a stick with three stuffed olives sunk diagonally into it. “To friends,” I say, holding my glass up. Jessie touches hers to it and we sip. I hum my approval, because damn. This is a good martini.
“So?” Jessie says. “What’s new? Got sick of being upstate?”
“I did a little, yeah. Spent the holidays with my family, got some work done, did a couple interviews, tossed around some ideas, and got bored.” I chuckle. “I felt like I needed some hustle and bustle and to see a few new shows.” Jessie is not a Broadway girl, so we don’t dive into which shows I have tickets for or am trying to get tickets for. She just nods in understanding because she knows me.
“And how is Reginald Aloixious Chambers, my favorite dog in the whole wide world?”
