“You lie,” I say with a laugh. “I’ve met you.”
She laughs, too, caught. “Fine. I wanted to see. But I can use my imagination.” She pauses, and her tone slides back into a more serious version. “Are you nervous?”
“Yup.” I don’t want to elaborate for fear I’ll fall back down the panic spiral I just managed to avoid.
“Honey. It’s gonna be great. You’re wonderful, and maybe she is, too.”
“Maybe.”
“Just promise me you’ll give her a chance. Okay?”
I’m trying hard not to get annoyed. I know she means well, and she only wants what’s best for me. But I’m almost fifty anddon’t need a pep talk from my mommy.
And yet.
“I promise. I’m actually looking forward to meeting her.” I mix up Reggie’s food and then set it on his place mat, where he descends on it like a shark on a seal.
“Great. That’s what I want to hear.” My mother is clearly relieved, and it’s kind of sweet. “Well, make sure you report back and let me know how it went.”
We talk about a few mundane things—my dad’s latest project and how much space it’s taking up in the basement, my brother’s promotion, which I already knew about but let her gush over, the political thriller she started last week—before I have to remind her I need to take Reggie out to do his business before I leave for dinner. She wishes me well one more time, and I finally get her off the phone.
“Your grandma is a chatterbox,” I tell my dog as I leash him up. We head out to the elevator.
Having a dog in Manhattan is interesting, to say the least. There’s very little grass, and the trees are planted directly into the sidewalks. At my house upstate, I have a large, fenced-in yard, so it took Reggie a bit of time to figure things out here. But he has a favorite fire hydrant for his number ones and a favorite tree for his number twos, and it’s almost as if he knows I’ve got plans tonight because he doesn’t drag his paws. Trust me, he can get on a sniffing spree that lasts for hours. Not tonight, though, thank God.
“You’re the best boy, Reg,” I say to him as he finishes up and turns us back to our street. We stop for a moment to chat and sniff when we see Mrs. Haversham and Ralphie, her miniature schnauzer, out for their own walk, but after that, we walk one more block and we’re at our building. I have my hand on the door handle when I think I hear my name.
I turn to my left, then hear it again coming from my right,and suddenly every nerve in my body is standing at attention because it instantly recognizes that voice. I swallow hard and turn to meet dark, dark eyes and a very hesitant smile.
It’s Marina.
Chapter Seventeen
“It is so good to see you,bella” are the first words out of her mouth after my name. She has stepped close but wisely hasn’t touched me, which tells me she must have at least some inkling of how awful she’s made me feel for the past four months.
That being said, God help me, it’s good to see her, too, though I manage to keep that thought to myself. She doesn’tlookdifferent—she’s still remarkably beautiful, still with those smiling eyes and the endless waves of midnight hair—but there’s definitely something differentabouther. She seems…lighter somehow. Breezier. Happy.
Apparently, I’ve completely forgotten the entire English language, because words won’t leave my mouth, and I’m pretty sure I’m just gaping at her as I stand unmoving. Reggie isn’t suffering the same issues, and he jumps at her leg, tail wagging, clearly thrilled to see her.
She doesn’t ignore him. She squats down to give him pets and love, but her eyes never leave my face.
I have so many fucking questions.
Mainly what is she doing here, and how did she find me? Why did she let me leave without answering any of my texts or calls? Oh, and of course, the biggest one of all:What the actual fuck is happening?
As I stand there, doing my best impression of a fish—opening and closing my mouth but making no sound—Marina stands back up. Goddamn it, she looks incredible, and I can smell her without getting any closer, that inviting apple scent of herstickling my nostrils and bringing feelings of comfort and warmth rushing into my system, despite how I’ve felt the complete opposite for a third of a year.
“I was hoping we could talk,” she says then, and I blink at her. Because what?
“You were…” Okay. Two words. Half a sentence. I guess that’s better than guppy silence.
“I know,” she says, lowering her voice. “I have some explaining to do. And some apologizing.” Her smile then is sheepish. “A lot of apologizing.”
There’s so much bubbling up in me right now. Things have gone from a calm simmer to a rolling boil as I continue to blink at her, unable to believe she’s actually standing in front of me, unable to believe she can so easily tell me she wants to talk.
“You want to talk.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement because I don’t even have the ability to bring the tone of the end of my sentence up so it sounds like a question. My anger won’t let me. I try again. “You want to talk…now?”
Her smile finally falters just slightly, and she nods and holds her hands out in a placating gesture. “I know. I know. It’s a lot. I’m asking a lot of you. I understand that.” Her damn accent is making her words flow like cream, and they coat my anger just enough to cool it a bit. “I have so much to explain to you and so much to say.”
