He drops his head and, still clutching my hand, gently rubs his thumb over my wrist, my tattoo. And I think of Harrison.
“Am I?” he asks, his voice plaintive, raw.
I want to tell him no, he’s not imagining it, that I feel it, too. But I can’t bring myself to say the words.
“I’m so confused,” I say instead, the tears coming in earnest now.
His thumb stills on my wrist. “Do you want me to go?” he says gently.
“No,” I tell him, only because I don’t think I can take anyone else leaving me just this second.
“Harrison and I—” My voice cracks. “We’ve been struggling.”
He straightens his spine, listening.
I wipe my face and take a deep, shaky breath. “It’s just—I want a baby. So bad. We’ve . . . lost three. And now he doesn’t want to try anymore.”
“Mia,” he whispers. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
I nod my head and take my hand from his, to wipe beneath both eyes with the tips of my fingers. I stare at his profile, the familiar visage, hair, ears, lips that I feel like I’ve inexplicably been looking at forever. He’s rubbing the palms of his hands on his pants, and it tugs my heart, how vulnerable he looks. I take a deep breath.
“You’re not imagining it,” I say. He jerks his head up. “I feel . . . something, too.”
“You do?”
“Mostly guilty and confused.” I offer a sad smile. “But . . . other things.”
We stare at each other, and God help me, I imagine what it would be like to kiss him.
“I’m leaving tomorrow. For Finland.”
“What?” The world shrinks, my mind focusing on that one sentence.
“My flight leaves at noon.”
“Oh,” I say, my breath catching in my throat.
“I don’t have to go,” he says. “If you want me to stay, I’ll stay.”
“You would?” I peer at him. “You’d stay for me.” I remember our conversation in the bar, about his ex-girlfriend. How he left even when she asked him not to.
He nods. “I would.” He sits up straighter, energy humming off him. “Or you could go with me. We could travel the world—didn’t you say you wanted that? We could be like . . . Hemingway and Gellhorn.”
I narrow my eyes. “Didn’t he kill himself?”
He laughs. “Before that.”
I stare at him, consider how enticing that sounds. To just drop everything and run away. Like Harrison did.
“I don’t . . . This is all so . . .”
“I know,” he says, slumping back over. “Sorry, that was ridiculous . . .”
“No, it’s—it’s nice. I just need time. I need to think.”
He nods. “I’ll be at Caroline’s in the morning to drop off Willy, if you . . . need me. Need anything. Just to talk.” He pauses, searches my eyes. I wonder if he can see the desire pooling in them. Even though I’m not saying anything, I feel like I’m laid bare—that he can see everything I’m thinking. He drops his eyes to my lips, just a glance, but I catch it, and then his eyes are back on mine. We stare at each other, my heart galloping in my chest, neither one of us moving a muscle. It feels like our entire lives are wrapped up in this one moment. Maybe they are.
“I’m gonna go,” he says, not breaking our gaze.
I look away first, and bite my lip to keep from asking him to stay. And then I hear muted applause coming from the other side of the double doors and I remember where we are. “What about Prisha? The award.”
He smooths his tie, one hand over the other. “She’ll understand.”
He hesitates and then leans over, pressing his lips to my forehead and standing up so quickly I don’t even have time to register what happened, how it felt, to relish the warmth of his breath on my hairline.
“Wait,” I say. “Your jacket.” I move to shrug it off my shoulders, but he holds a hand up.
“Keep it,” he says. “Just give it to me next time I see you.”
I take it for what it is, or what I think he means it to be—a guarantee that we’ll see each other again.
I watch his back as he walks down the hall, never breaking his stride, until he turns the corner and I can’t see him anymore.
I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for hours and collapse against the wall. I should go back in to the dinner, but I can’t will myself to move. So I just sit there, as seconds tick by, minutes, hours. And then, at some point, Raya appears. “There you are,” she says. And at those three words, I start to cry all over again.
* * *
“Do you really believe what you said a few weeks ago?” I ask Raya.
“Which thing? I say a lot of crazy shit.” We’re back on her couch, both changed out of our gala clothes. She still has a full face of makeup, and it’s incongruent with her tank and boxer shorts.
“About when the universe tries to tell us something, we have to listen.” I can’t stop thinking about what Oliver said, that the dreams, the near misses, our lives circling each other like water down a drain, everything points to one conclusion—that we’re supposed to be together. I lean my head back on the throw pillow, grind the balls of my feet into the sofa cushion. I’m drained. Exhausted. And my brain is just as cluttered and confused as ever.
“Well, sure, I guess. I mean, I do think the universe talks to us all the time. But how we interpret what it’s saying—well, there’s the rub, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that there’s a lot of room for human error.” She takes a delicate sip of whiskey from the glass she’s holding. “I mean, take any painting, any sculpture. Put two people in front of it and ask them what it’s about, what the artist was trying to say. Nine times out of ten, they’re going to tell you two different things. Everyone has their own perspective, right? Their own life experience, breadth of knowledge, emotions, whatever they happen to be going through in that moment—it all informs their responses.”
I gape at her.
“What?”
“That might be one of the most intelligent things I’ve ever heard you say.”
She tosses a pillow at me, smacking me in the head.
“Well, buckle up, this one might beat it.”
I wait.