Because even though the chances of him forgiving me are very slim, I can’t lie to myself.
I’ve been imagining this meeting, this conversation, for the past decade.
When I step out of the Uber at the Berkeley Marina, I feel slightly lightheaded. My brain’s been getting even crazier on the drive over, and I’m questioning everything. Because is this really a good idea? Waking up and confronting these old ghosts?
I’ve gotten pretty good at ignoring the guilt and regrets over the years—or at least, I’ve tried—so maybe it would be better to just leave things be. What if I only make things worse by confronting him, by opening up that Pandora’s box I’ve tried to keep as tight a lid on as possible?
Promise to live your best life. Don’t let the past weigh you down. If there are things you can fix, bridges you can mend, patch them up. There’s nothing worse than being at the end of the road and looking back at a pile of remorse. Especially when there’s a chance you could have made things better.
I bite back the sting of emotions that threaten to surface at my dad’s words.
I close my eyes and breathe in for four counts before breathing out for four. I do this several times until the familiar calmness settles over me like a comforting veil. It’s not as effective as it normally is, but a ton better than before.
Taking out my phone gives me a welcome distraction. A look at the time confirms that I’m fashionably late, on purpose. The last thing I wanted to happen was to be there first and for him to see me and walk right back out the door again.
This way—if Noah’s still as punctual as ever—he should already be in his seat, which will hopefully give me the advantage I need.
My screen lights up with a reminder of a waiting text message from Francesco.
Francesco: You’re fire on heels, baby girl. Don’t forget that. Go grab that gorgeous man by the nuts. Not literally, of course . . . unless you want to. More in the grab life by the balls. Text me when you’re done, or if you need backup. I’m expecting a full report. Love you.
I laugh when I see the parrot emoji at the end of the message. The one emoji that portrays him without any words as he likes to proclaim he’s as gay as a parrot. We’re all used to it, and it’s been a running joke in the family for years. But as so often, Francesco went above and beyond and actually turned it into the branding for his bar Parrot Lounge.
Cody: Checco’s getting out the parrot costume, but I’ll try to contain him. Sorry I wasn’t able to see you earlier, but he showed me the million pictures he took. You look beautiful.
Goodness, I love my uncles. Since Dad’s diagnosis, they stepped up so amazingly to become two solid rocks in my life. I doubt I could have gotten through the last twelve months without them.
After another deep inhale, I put my phone back in my purse, and pull back my shoulders as I walk toward the entrance of the restaurant.
Ready or not, here I come.
Four
Noah
Legs.
Tanned, toned legs.
They almost make up for my mysterious date being late.
Almost.
I need a moment before I deal with the rest of the woman. So I quell my curiosity and focus on the hostess instead.
The same hostess who’s aiming a bright smile at me like she just won an award for a stellar performance. “Your date has arrived.” Her cheeks redden when our gazes collide. “The server will be right with you.”
I tip my head down. “Thank you.”
With her smile still in place, she turns and heads back to her hostess station. My gaze stays on her for an extra moment, a weird sense of dread pooling in my stomach over facing my date. I’m not even sure why. Because I felt an odd connection to this mysterious woman?
At the same time, this is also the person who spent money on me so we could have this tonight. It’s still a strange feeling to go on a date that has been bought. Can it even be considered a real date under these circumstances?
Or I’m overthinking all this shit, my sister is right, and I’m just extra grumpy lately.
My date clears her voice. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”
Her voice.
It’s so eerily familiar that it throws me back in time for a moment, hitting me like a punch to the chest.
But it does the trick and snaps me out of my stupor, allowing my manners to kick in. I swiftly get up to pull out the chair for her, disappointed when I finally look at her and see a curtain of hair because she’s turned the other way to place her purse on the table.
“It’s no problem.” I push in the chair under her, looking at the back of her dark hair. It has a hint of purple to it. Interesting. Was it already purple last week when I saw her at the ball? I definitely remember it was dark but don’t recall any vibrant color like this.
My gaze wanders away from her hair to where I’m greeted with a stunning view of a toned back and a whole lot of exposed, smooth-looking skin.
Spending most of my time at the pool means I see a lot of skin, and barely ever notice it anymore, least of all get excited over it.
There’s definitely excitement going on at the moment though, but that could be because I haven’t seen any bedroom action in a while. And by a while, I mean in over a year.
After a silent threat to my libido to not embarrass me in a restaurant full of people, I sit back in my chair and catch my first real view of the woman across from me.
At this point, I’m feeling high on the anticipation of seeing her, like all this has been some weird form of foreplay between us.
Time screeches to a complete halt. Like “after a major pileup accident” complete halt.
Because what the fuck?
My chest feels so tight, I have the urge to rub it so the intense pressure on my ribs eases.
How is this . . . What is happening? No . . . This is . . . this is impossible.
The woman smooths her long waves back, breaking the blazing eye contact between us and therefore, allowing me to fully take her in. And I take in every single fragment of her like a starving man.
Her bronze skin, which is peppered with a slight array of freckles. Her full lips. Her beauty mark under her almond-shaped eyes that are still as unique as before, the inner green rings competing with the beautiful gray-blue irises. Her heterochromia that I always found fascinating. And her nose with its . . . nose ring?
The jewelry throws me off so much that I look straight into her eyes again.
Big mistake.
She tilts her head to the side, her lips pulling up a fraction at the corners. “Hi, Noah.”
The connection is intense. Too intense.
There’s so much I want to say, so many things I’ve wanted to say for so long, but it’s like something’s squeezing my throat in a way that no word could ever make it past that constriction.
This time, I break eye contact with her and lean back in my chair, rubbing my hands over my face like I’m trying to get rid of a layer of skin. Or maybe the memory of her. Fuck. Maybe I’m imagining this whole thing? I take a deep breath, and our waitress chooses that moment to stop by to take our drink order and leave us with the menus.
The words all blur on the page, and I know neither one of us is paying attention to the listed food. I’m not the only one who keeps stealing glances at the other.