“I certainly wouldn’t call you the hero.”
Cinching her lapels between her fingers, she opens her mouth to say something and then stops herself, giving me a once over.
I step aside and she lunges for the door, stopping on her way out to turn back.
“If you only knew the things I’ve done to protect this family … you wouldn’t be so quick to judge,” she says. “In fact, you’d be thanking me”
With that, she slams the door behind her.
I wait a few minutes, ensuring that we won’t cross paths in the lobby, and then I collect my keys, phone, and jacket, text my driver, and head to the lobby to wait.
I order him to drop me off at my usual place, so I can meet a former colleague for a drink, and I spend the fifteen-minute drive attempting to wrap my head around the fact that Larissa had a child—and that she left it to me.
Never in my life have I so much as entertained the idea of having a child.
They’re sticky. Messy. Loud.
They smell.
They steal your sleep and commandeer your weekends with zoo trips and soccer practice.
Honestly, the thought of being a father figure sends a wave of nausea to my middle.
I could never raise a child—let alone someone else’s child.
The cab drops me off in front of Ophelia’s, and I head in for a double vodka on the rocks to clear my head.
Even in death, I’m cleaning up Larissa’s messes.
Eleven
Astaire
* * *
“What are we drinking tonight?” asks the female bartender, who is the opposite of Eduardo from the way she greets me with a bubbly smile to the way she half sings along with the Greta Van Fleet song playing in the background.
I like her already.
I don’t know what compels me to set foot in Ophelia’s just three nights after my incident with the world’s cruelest stranger, but here I am, sitting in the exact same chair at the exact same bar, trying to convince myself that fate wouldn’t be so mean as to force us to cross paths twice in one week.
Plus, I needed to get out of my apartment.
It’s been hours since I sent that second email and Bennett has yet to respond. Either he didn’t see it—or he did see it, laughed, deleted it, blocked my email, and went on with his life.
Either way, it’s all the same.
“Surprise me.” I wink.
Her eyes light. “All right. I can surprise you. But first, answer this one question: if you could travel to any city in the entire world right now, where would you go?”
“Easy. Paris.” That’s where Trevor and I were going to honeymoon. We’d been saving like crazy in the year leading up to his death, and the week before he died we were one paycheck from buying the tickets and reserving a hotel room with an Eiffel Tower view.
I can’t count how many times we’d watched An American in Paris and then stayed up until the wee hours of the morning, making plans, getting ourselves geared up for our big trip.
The bartender winks back at me before turning around and grabbing various bottles and turning into a liquor-licensed mad scientist. A minute later, she presents me with a pale yellow cocktail in a crystal champagne flute.
“For you,” she says. “A Soixante Quinze, otherwise known as a French 75.”
I take a sip without asking what’s in it—I wanted to be surprised after all. The taste of lemon, champagne, sugar, and gin dance on my tongue.
“Good, right?” She wipes a damp spot in front of me with her towel.
“Amazing.” I take a generous swill and she struts away, peacock-proud, to help another customer.
From my periphery, I take in my surroundings. The place is busier tonight than it was Thursday, naturally.
Couples kissing.
Holding hands.
Groups clinking glasses.
Laughter.
So much laughter.
Trevor and I moved here two years ago, having both landed jobs in the Worthington school district. When we weren’t working that first year, we were in full wedding-planning mode—which unfortunately left minimal time for socializing and making friends in our new town. All of our college friends are back in Indiana, and I don’t see them nearly as much as I’d like.
They came around shortly after he died, taking turns spending weekends with me, picking up my shattered remains and trying to piece me back together with distractions and attempts at good times. But after a while, they all went back to their own lives.
I had to do the same.
It’s funny, when you’re younger, you think your friendships are everlasting, you think you’ll always be there for each other, that nothing will ever change no matter what. And day to day, nothing changes. But then one day you wake up and realize priorities shifted, people got married, took jobs across the country, started families.
You keep in touch online at first, chatting and sending messages for hours on end when you catch each other online at the same time. But eventually life gets in the way of that too and you might be lucky to get a “happy birthday” text once a year.
The distance is always subtle at first, gradual, and then it’s gaping.
“Double Belvedere on the rocks.” A tall, dark figure fills the space next to me, his voice vaguely familiar as he flags down tonight’s vivacious bartender. “And a Manhattan.”
The expensive-cologne-wearing gentleman takes the spot beside me as he waits for her to deliver his order, and I steal a glance from the corner of my eye.
Chiseled jaw. Onyx hair. Full lips.
It’s official.
The universe has a wicked sense of humor.
I keep my focus on the back of the bar, twisting the stem of my drink between my thumb and forefinger, attempting to pay him no mind as the words of my latest email dance in my head.
“I know you … how do I know you?” His words buzz in my ear as I inhale his intoxicating scent.
I shrug, reining in any and all emotions in favor of maintaining a poker face.
“You were in here the other night, weren’t you?” He leans closer, bringing with him the scent of money, privilege, and influence.
Taking a sip, I keep my gaze trained ahead. “Probably.”
“Fishing again?”
Asshole.
“How’d you know?”
He sniffs. “Lucky guess.”
The bartender delivers his drinks, two crystal tumblers set atop two recycled-paper coasters. He reaches into his wallet and places a couple of twenties on the table, the weight of his stare lingering and setting my senses ablaze.
It’s unclear at this point if he’s read my latest email.
Bennett slides the Manhattan to the spot beside him before checking his phone. He must be waiting for someone.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
Finally, I turn to him. “Excuse me?”
“I come here all the time, and now all of a sudden I’m seeing you twice in one week. Why are you really here?”
The nerve of this man.
“Stalking you.” And then I add, “Obviously.”
He sips his vodka and studies me.
“You must be incredibly bored right now,” I say.
“Obviously.”
“When you saw me here, sitting by myself, what about this led you to believe I wanted to be bothered?” I feed him his line from the other night. Maybe it’s petty, but maybe I don’t care. He’s already accused me of “fishing” for men and went on to sarcastically confirm that he’s only talking to me because he’s bored.