She doesn’t blink, doesn’t shift her posture. I couldn’t read her if I tried.
“Look, I’ll stop rambling. And I know my word is shit,” I say. “I know you have no reason to believe a single thing I say. But I just want you to know—”
“I have to go,” she says, pushing past me and marching toward the door. Her eyes are glassy, but her expression is cold.
“Wait,” I say as she grabs the door knob.
Love doesn’t wait, and I follow her into the hall where the air is hot and stale and scented like oregano. Nothing about this moment is romantic. It’s not a scene from a movie. It’s real life, and real life can be ugly and suffocating and uncomfortable sometimes.
“Can I ask you one question?” I keep back a few feet, giving her space and trying to respect that she doesn’t want to be here anymore.
Love stops, turning to glance back at me, her eyes examining mine. I wait for her to speak, to say anything at all, but all I hear is a screaming baby from the apartment next door and a man yelling at his wife to “Shut that kid up or I will!”
“I have to go,” she finally says.
And I let her go. With burning eyes and a cannon-sized hole in my chest, I watch her walk away from me.
I don’t chase her or cause a scene, because she means too much to me and I’ve already done enough.
And besides, she deserves better.
Forty-Nine
Love
* * *
I’ve always loved the way the city empties out on Saturdays. Things are a little less crowded and chaotic and a little more peaceful. There’s more room to breathe, the locals a little less agitated.
Stopping by a flower cart on my way back from grabbing coffee, I pick a bouquet of dark pink peonies—some of the last of the season since fall’s not too far off. Peonies are the kind of flowers you have to enjoy while you can because they don’t bloom all year and they never last very long once they’ve been cut from their vine, but my God, are they a fragrant thing of beauty in their prime.
“Thank you.” I hand the man behind the cart a twenty and he hands me my flowers wrapped in brown paper.
Balancing the flowers under one arm, my bag over my shoulder, and my coffee in my free hand, I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket and somehow manage to grab it.
The number across the screen is unfamiliar, though I recognize the New York area code. For a moment, the most miniscule part of me wonders if it’s Jude, though after the way I stormed out of his apartment and ignored his request to ask me a question last night, I can’t imagine he’d turn around and call me up the very next morning.
Sliding my thumb across the bottom of the screen, I clear my throat and answer.
“Hello?”
“Love?” the man’s voice says on the other end. I don’t know who this is, but it only takes an instant for me to know who it isn’t.
“This is she.” I tuck my flowers tight beneath my arm and trek home.
“It’s Sascha,” he says, his accent more apparent. “From The Hamptons.”
“Yes, I remember. How are you?” My tone is more cordial and formal than it should be. But I never expected him to actually call and truth be told, I was perfectly fine with that.
Sascha, in all his exotic beauty and unabashed interest, doesn’t do it for me.
“I’m very well,” he says. “Yourself?”
I stifle a yawn. “Doing well.”
“I’m coming back to the city this week. Wanted to see if you had any plans for Friday night?”
“Oh. Um.” I struggle to find the best way to turn him down. The mere thought of going on a date with him already feels like an obligation, and I haven’t even said yes.
“I thought maybe I’d cook us dinner at my place,” he says. “Then we could go out on the roof, watch the stars.”
He’s trying too hard, which is a shame because he doesn’t need to. By all accounts, Sascha is a catch. But I can’t help but feel that much more turned off. It doesn’t matter anyway. There’s nothing he could or couldn’t do to change the truth I’m too terrified to admit out loud: he’s not the one that I want.
“Can I let you know tomorrow?” I ask, praying I can buy some time to come up with a way to let him down gently. Or who knows … maybe I’ll get a wild hair and change my mind between now and then?
“Yeah. Sure. Tomorrow would be fine,” he says, his disappointment evident in the way he pauses between words.
“Perfect. I’ll call you then.”
By the time I get back to my apartment, I trim the stems of my peonies and place them in a vase of water on my kitchen island. The dark pink stands out against all the silver and white, bringing its unapologetic vivacity into a space that was formerly lifeless.
When I’m finished, I grab my phone to text Tierney because I promised her I’d stop by today to see the baby. But before I have a chance to compose a message, there’s a knock at my door.
Freezing in place, I listen again, wondering if maybe it was the door across the hall—Jude’s old place. I saw that a young couple moved in last weekend. They might have visitors?
Returning my attention to my phone, I begin to tap out a text, only the knocks return—louder now and unmistakably coming from my door. Placing my phone on the counter, I shuffle to the door, palms hot and splayed on the door as I rise on my toes to peer through the peephole.
It only takes a second for me to realize exactly who’s standing on the other side of my door. A warmth blooms in my cheeks and my heart flutters. I try to tell my body to calm down, but it won’t listen.
Pulling the door open a second later, I wipe all signs of emotion from my expression and lock eyes on his.
“Yes?” I ask.
“You came to my door yesterday, demanding an answer to the one question that’d been eating you up inside,” he says, “and now it’s my turn.”
Last night when I was trying to leave, when I felt a wave of tears beginning to crest and threaten to crash over me, I bolted out of there. I’d yet to cry over him and I refused to let the first time be right there, standing in his living room after I’d managed to keep a brave front until then.
Pulling in a sharp breath, I explore his dusty green irises, feeling the swell in my chest and the twist in my stomach all at once.
“Fine,” I say. I don’t invite him in.
Jude licks his full lips, his eyes capturing mine. “When you told me you loved me that day … did you mean it?”
I hesitate, and when I try to answer, the right words escape me.
“Did you mean it, Love?” he asks again, chin slightly tucked and words spoken quickly, as if to lend a sense of urgency to his question.
I didn’t mean it at the time.
But after some time had passed, after my heart had been tugged in every which direction, I realized there was a part of me that was beginning to fall in love with him before it all fell apart.
My chest rises and falls, and I swallow the lump in my throat before answering him.
“No,” I say.
Jude exhales, his shoulders straightening and the space above his jaw flexing. He studies me a moment longer, his stare intense, like this is the last time he’s ever going to see me and he wants to ingrain this into his memory.