Once I’m home, I leash up Reggie and zip my phone into my pocket so I’m not tempted to send any certain Italian women texts. We walk, Reggie does his business, and we head back inside.
While I perform my evening routine, I purposely leave myphone charging in the kitchen instead of the bedroom. It’s not that far away, but it’s far enough. I brush my teeth, wash my face, use the facilities, and change into my pj’s. Leaving my phone in the kitchen is harder than I expect, and for a moment or two, I wonder if I feel at all like an addict going through withdrawal, picturing the phone, wanting it, having to consciously keep myself in bed. But I turn on the television and find an episode ofDatelineI haven’t seen, and once I’m sucked in, the phone fades away.
Reggie lets out one of those deep, grumbling sighs that dogs make as they’re settling down for sleep, and I lay my hand on his warm body. As Keith Morrison’s soothing voice lulls me to sleep, I dream of random texts, letters floating through my mind. Looking for the perfect words is part of life for me, so instead of stressing me out, this dream calms me.
I’m asleep before Keith tells me whodunit.
Chapter Eighteen
I spend the next morning vacillating between “puttering” around the house, as my dad would call it—the whole time trying desperately to ignore my phone, still sitting on the counter—and rolling different versions of what I will text to Marina around in my head.
It’s fucking exhausting. My God.
Finally, after washing the stovetop, rearranging my kitchen cabinets, vacuuming the living room, and cleaning the bathroom until it sparkles like a gemstone, I let myself unplug my phone and take a look. A missed call from my mother, a few photos from Chloe of a new pair of shoes she bought, and a text from Kya that simply says,You got this!with a smiling emoji.
“I got this,” I whisper into my empty kitchen. Then I walk into the living room and stand at the large bank of windows. Looks like a nice day, sunny with a bright blue sky—the sliver of it I can see, anyway—and my weather app tells me it’s already fifty-eight degrees.
Quickly, I open up a new text and address it to Marina, then I type before I can second-guess myself.
Hi. Gonna walk Reggie in Bryant Park off 6th Ave. in an hour. If you still want to talk, I’ll be near the Wafels & Dinges stand.
“This way, if she doesn’t show, I can at least have a waffle,” I reason out loud to nobody. The text is a little bit cool and a lot impersonal, but I send it before I can get myself lost in editing it, which I know could easily happen. I tuck my phone away,change into some comfortable walking clothes and my trainers, then leash up Reggie. We’ll wander the neighborhood before we head to the park. We need to take advantage of this spring-like weather while we can. It’s early April, and in this part of the country, we could still get a snowstorm. Like, tomorrow. You never know.
I love New York City. Have I mentioned that? Don’t get me wrong, it can get overwhelming, especially if you’re a person who, like me, grew up in a small city suburb where it was fairly quiet and uneventful. They don’t call New York the city that never sleeps for no reason. It. Never. Sleeps. It’s always bustling, always loud, and there are always people. A lot of folks say things like “it’s nice to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.” And I get that. I am lucky. I have the money to say, “I can live there part-time but need to get away every so often.” Which is exactly what I do.
The fall and the winter in New York are my favorites, because there’s nothing like New York City at Christmastime. The first time I brought Chloe to Rockefeller Plaza in December? I don’t think her mouth closed once the whole time. She just walked around slack-jawed at all the lights and decorations. I still do that.
But spring in New York isn’t bad, especially today, and once Reggie and I have wandered a bit, we make our way to Sixth Avenue. Walking between buildings tends to block out much of the sun in Manhattan, but Sixth is more open, and the sun is higher now and has a clearer shot to warm us as we walk. Reggie has done a lot of sniffing and got all his business finished, so he moves at an easier pace now, next to me rather than dragging me down the street.
I’m aware of my heart rate as we close in on Bryant Park. I don’t feel like it beats faster, but it definitely beats harder. We get to Wafels & Dinges, and there isn’t much of a line. I glancearound but don’t see Marina, and I force myself not to have any kind of reaction, positive or negative. It’s not easy.
I order my waffle, then take it to a table near the Ping-Pong section. Chloe would scold me and correct me, reminding me that the proper name is table tennis, but it’ll always be Ping-Pong to me. I tie Reggie’s leash to my belt loop and take a seat, and he immediately lies down at my feet. I cut a bite of my waffle—which is covered with chocolate sauce and walnuts—and eat it as I watch the games going on and listen to the happy, clicky-tappy sound of bouncing Ping-Pong balls.
Reggie seems to love the games. He doesn’t bark. He doesn’t try to chase the wayward balls that inevitably roll off the courts and into the paved path through the park where walkers hurry by. He just watches, his little canine head moving from one side to the other like a spectator at a tennis match. I think it relaxes him somehow, which makes little sense, I know. Pretty soon, both of us are absorbed in the two matches going on. I don’t notice right away when somebody takes the seat across the small round table from me.
And then I feel her presence.
It’s weird, but true. Ifeelthat Marina is here before I ever lay eyes on her. So when I do turn to meet her gaze, I’m not even a little bit surprised.
“Ciao,bella,” she says softly, and then a quick flash zips across her face, and I wonder if she’s chiding herself for still using that pet name. The truth, though, is that I don’t mind even a little bit. Just like I don’t mind when Reggie gets up and moves toward her, his tail going a mile a minute. Marina’s wearing jeans and a black fleece, and her dark hair is loose and wavy around her shoulders. She’s stunningly gorgeous, and a small part of me is annoyed by that. But it’s very small, because mostly, I’m just happy to have her sitting across from me.
“Hi,” I say, and my smile is genuine. Seeing her warms me.Still. Even after everything.
“How are you?” She looks up from petting Reggie.
“I’m okay,” I say with a nod. “You?”
“I am in New York City and sitting in a park with you. How bad can I be?”
All right, that was pretty charming, and that damn accent still works on me, but I quickly remind myself of how the last sixteen weeks have felt, and I simply look at her and wait.
She gives a slow nod, as if realizing that this is not the time for flattery, it’s the time for explanation. She continues to nod slowly, as if the rhythm of it calms her. She spreads both hands out on the tabletop and takes a breath. When she looks at me, I can feel all her emotion; I can feel her anxiety as well as her hope and her fear. It’s weird and not like anything I’ve ever experienced before. I swallow.
“First and most important,” she begins, “I am sorry. I am so, so very sorry for the way I handled things, and mostly, I’m so sorry for cutting off all contact. I had my reasons at the time, but I know now that it was selfish, and it was hurtful. I apologize.”
“Okay,” I say. “I accept your apology.” I have questions and comments, but I also get the feeling she’s not done yet, so I wait.
“Second,” she says, then swallows and clears her throat twice and looks off at the Ping-Pong players. She’s nervous. That much is obvious to me. I wait her out, which isn’t easy. She’s clearly struggling with words, and I want to help her, but I also know this is her show, so I force myself to sit quietly. When she finally turns so those dark eyes are locked on me, they’re filled with so much, and again, I see it all. I feel it all. Worry, fear, hope, desire, they all collide in that rich dark brown. “Second, I’d like us to try.”
