Ugh. Now my stomach hurt. “You don’t know that.”
“No, I don’t. But I’ve been through heartbreak, more than once, and it sucks. You’ve been through an epic heartbreak too. Think of what happened with Will. If I can protect you from that, from the destruction of another unrequited love with a hot guy, I will.” She sighed, sounding tired. “So before you plant the letter and slip the key under his door, think about this. REALLY think about it. You two are best friends. Best friends for fifteen years.”
“Yes. I know. And you know I love him.”
“Yes. He also clearly loves you too. As. A. Friend.”
“Or he just needs a little push?” I asked hopefully.
“Or he’s an almost-forty, hot professor in his prime who travels all over the world and isn’t ever going to be ready to settle down, even with you. And you’re fucking amazing! It’s not you. It’s him.”
“Jac—”
“Hasn’t he told you over and over that he doesn’t do relationships? Now you’re going to ask him to try with you? No, girl. No. Don’t you believe if Milo had feelings for you—any romantic feelings whatsoever—he would’ve brought them up by now?”
“Ugh, that’s another good point.” My stomach filled with dread. Great. Now I have a doom stomachache.
“And what about all the times he’s tried to set you up with his friends since your divorce?”
I grimaced, the hand holding my stomach moving to my forehead. “He hasn’t tried to set me up, he’s—” I didn’t know what to call it.
Milo had never suggested I date any of his friends. Not exactly. More like, he’d say, “Are you open to dating someone yet?” and I’d say, “I don’t think so.” And he’d say, “Promise me you’ll let me know if you’re ever interested, I’ll set you up.”
I would always feel a little squicky afterward, off-balance, confused. And sad. Really sad. I think Milo assumed I wasn’t yet ready to get back out there after the divorce. Little did he know I’d never wanted to “get back out there” because I was head over heels for him.
My stomach twisted, and a rising something burned my esophagus. “I—I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Don’t do it.”
“I’ll try not to throw up, but Jackie—”
“Tear up the letter.”
“I can’t—”
“Go out with that PhD candidate from the literature department who keeps hinting about taking you to a concert. He might not be Will or Milo hot, but he has gorgeous eyes. What’s his—”
“No. Jackie! I—I already shut the door!”
“Uh, what?”
“The door. I shut it. I shut the door.” I didn’t know what to do. Did I go back to his apartment and try to fish the key out from under the door?
“Well, open the door!”
“I can’t. I left the key inside.”
“Oh no.”
“It’s inside. And I’m outside!” I lifted my hand toward the landing above me. The distance between me and that letter might as well have been Mount Everest.
“What are you going to do?” The question was breathless.
“I’ll—I’ll ask the super to let me in.” Where is the super? I’d met her once. She was nice. She had a cat, and it liked me.
“Alice.”
My feet were already flying down the stairs. I was pretty sure she lived on the first floor. “I’m sure she’ll—”
“Let you into one of her tenants’ apartments? Sure.”
“What else can I do?” I gripped the railing to keep from slipping as I took a stair too fast.
Jackie was silent for a long time. A long, long time.
So long I asked, “Jackie? Did you hang up?”
“I’m here.”
“I can’t hack into an apartment.” I groaned.
“No. You can’t.”
“What can I do?”
“Pray.”
Part Two
*Milo*
I typically flew standby on international flights. If I was lucky—a phenomena closely correlated to the airline ticket agent’s level of flirt-susceptibility—I’d be assigned an aisle or a window. If I was really lucky, I’d be given a spot next to an empty seat. Once every five trips or so, I’d be upgraded to first or business class. In these cases, I would also end up with the ticket agent’s phone number. Always unsolicited, but a nice boost to the ego, nevertheless.
This time my ticket agent had been Tori from Bristol, or so her name tag informed me. She hadn’t looked old enough to be a ticket agent, so I hadn’t attempted to flirt with her.
Sandwiched between a husband and wife who weren’t willing to compromise on giving up his aisle seat or her window—i.e., they’d booked travel with a seat between them—the pair seemed irritated that the spot had been given to me, a tall dude of unspecified origin in dirty traveling clothes. They’d both assumed I didn’t speak English for the first hour of the trip. The woman thought I was Egyptian and the man contended that I was clearly Pakistani.
By hour two, tired of their debate, I announced with a smile, “Hi. I’m Milo, first-generation Italian American. My parents are from Italy, but I was born in Iowa. I teach physics at a university in New York. What’s your name?”
Mercifully, after quick introductions, they were quiet, if not a little put out that I’d neglected to announce my ancestry while we were taxiing at Heathrow. The flight wasn’t the worst I’d ever experienced, nor the best.
But it will all be worth it.
Thoughts of Alice, of seeing her after so many weeks away, kept me up on the plane instead of sleeping. She wouldn’t come by tonight; she rarely did on my first day back, insisting I rest. But I could count on seeing her tomorrow, most likely in the morning for breakfast and coffee. Every once in a while, she’d wait until lunch, but I’d definitely see her for dinner at the very, very latest. She would want to give me a tour of the houseplants, tell me about their progress as though they were pets or employees instead of greenery.
I loved it, and I couldn’t wait. She’d always end up laughing, enduring my teasing with a good-natured acceptance, and Alice’s laugh was contagious. Then we’d make plans for the weekend and we’d settle into our normal rhythm: breakfast on campus every day, lunch when she had time, and dinner Thursday through Sunday.
Finally, the plane landed, and I immediately checked my phone, smiling when I spotted her text.
Alice: Did you land yet?
I quickly typed a response.
Milo: Just landed. Will I see you for breakfast tomorrow?
Alice: Hopefully before that.
My grin widened at her reply, hoping that meant she’d be coming over tonight after my nap. Before I could respond, I became aware that both the husband and wife on either side of me were reading over my shoulder.
“Wife?” the woman asked.
I forced a polite smile, a non-answer. People on planes were always trying to set me up with their sister or daughter or niece’s roommate’s yoga instructor. This was the excuse I used for keeping a picture of Alice as my lock screen and another of the two of us as my background. Turning my phone slightly, I showed Alice’s picture to the woman.