He glanced around, taking in the tall buildings, the people, the noise. I’d learned to filter most of it out. I paused to look at the city through his eyes. It was obnoxiously busy.
“That sounds nice,” I said. Did I sound like I was angling for an invitation? Ack! “I mean if it’s good enough for Jane Austen—”
“Would you come visit me?” he asked. “After I go back in a few months, would you—?”
“Yes!” I interrupted before he could finish his sentence. I coughed. “I mean, sure, that sounds lovely. And you should come to my family’s place in Vermont. You can meet my parents and my seven siblings and their families, you know, if it’s a holiday and everyone is home.”
“Seven siblings?” Al blinked. He paused on the sidewalk, forcing the flow of pedestrians to go around us. “Seven? I can’t even imagine.”
“It’s very...loud,” I said. We resumed walking. “You don’t have any brothers or sisters?”
“No.” He shook his head, his eyes shadowed with grief. “My parents were killed in a car crash when I was fifteen.”
I felt my insides clutch. I loved my parents and my siblings and I couldn’t imagine losing any of them especially in such a tragic way. I squeezed his fingers in mine in sympathy, and he tightened his hand around mind in acknowledgment.
“What happened?” I asked as we continued walking.
“A drunk driver blacked out at the wheel, crossed into their lane, and hit them head on.” He paused to take a steadying breath and I felt my throat get tight. Fifteen. So young to lose both of his parents. My heart hurt for him.
“According to witnesses, they were killed instantly. The only person I have left is my grandfather, my father’s father.”
“Are you close?” I asked.
He smiled. “He’s my best friend.”
I took a breath and said, “Maybe both you and your grandfather could come and meet my family someday.” It was the most covert way I could tell him that I was in for the long haul.
“Do you mean that?” he asked. It sounded as if he was asking about more than the invitation.
“Yes.”
He grinned and pulled me in for a crushing embrace. “I like you, Molly Graham. I like you a lot.”
“I like you, too, Albert George,” I said.
As we gazed at each other, I was certain that I wasn’t the only one using “like” as a substitute for something much greater, something I just wasn’t ready to say...yet.
I wanted to tell him how I really felt, I did, but the moment had to be just right. I decided a few days later, when he surprised me with an invitation to see La Bohème at the Met, that I would tell him that night.
It was the perfect opportunity. We’d been together just shy of a month, so it was practically an anniversary.
Al would bust out the tuxedo again, and I planned to wear a gown, one where there would be no peekaboob involved. Al had scored some amazing seats from a friend at the university, and we were going to meet in front of the Metropolitan Opera House in the Lincoln Center right after work. I was in a fizz all day. I almost told Bri about him, but he’d be there for a few more months, he’d said, so I figured it could wait another day or two.
I couldn’t wait to tell Al my true feelings, but I was also terrified. Despite all appearances, what if he didn’t feel the same? Gah! I was a nervous wreck.
My wrap dress was deep navy with a vee neck and silver beading along the skirt’s flared hem and the cuffs of the three-quarter length sleeves. It always made me feel as if I was swathed in the dark night sky with the stars scattered across me. Quite the confidence booster.
It was another cold winter night, but I stood by the fountain out front, in my navy cashmere wrap, waiting for Al to arrive. Limousines, town cars, and cabs pulled up and dropped off waves of beautifully dressed people in front of the courtyard. As they arrived, I was pushed back to the outskirts. I scanned the crowd for the familiar head of dark hair and the rogue’s smile on the tall broad-shouldered man who was swiftly becoming my most important person. There was no sign of him.
I tugged off a leather glove and took my phone out of my clutch purse. I opened the messages but there was nothing. Had I gotten the date wrong? Feeling like an idiot, I called Al’s number. It went straight to voice mail. I didn’t leave a message. I waited and waited and waited until the cars disappeared and the crowd thinned.
I began to shake but it wasn’t from the cold. Thinking that Al might be waiting for me inside, I dashed to the entrance feeling panicked that I was so dopey I hadn’t checked earlier and nervous that I might be wrong. I glanced through the glass doors, but the show was starting, and the lobby almost empty. There was no sign of him.
“Can I help you, miss?” an usher, standing by an open door, asked.
She was an older woman with a kind face. I thought about asking if she’d seen a man who fit Al’s description, but I didn’t. Instead, I shook my head, turned, and left. The sick feeling in my gut made it very clear. There was no doubt. I’d been stood up.
I went home and dropped my dress on the floor. I didn’t bother to take off my makeup. I just slid into bed, feeling shocked and bewildered. What had happened to Al?
I slept with my phone, terrified that I’d miss a call or a text. I swung from a paralyzing fear that Al was dead to a volcanic fury that he’d just gotten bored with us and ghosted me. Back and forth and up and down. I was a hot mess. I didn’t call or text him. Pride wouldn’t let me.
The following day, I called the university where he said he’d been attending. At first, I got nowhere as they refused to give out any information on the students but when I said I was with the museum and trying to track down a doctoral candidate for a potential position, the woman who answered was more than happy to help me. One problem. There wasn’t anyone with the name Albert George in the school’s database. Albert George didn’t exist.
I felt as if I’d been shot. I sat at my desk in my office, politely thanking the woman who confirmed that the man I’d been dating had lied to me about his identity. His identity!
When I hung up the phone, I grabbed the trash can beside my desk and prepared to vomit. Nothing came up. Probably because I hadn’t eaten since yesterday. So, there was a small mercy.
I tried to tell myself there was some crazy misunderstanding and Al would reappear to explain everything. I thought about the man who had carried the little old lady across the street. He wasn’t a grifter. He couldn’t be. My stomach twisted. Or maybe the old lady was a part of it. I gasped. Maybe I’d been set up to fall for him all along. But why? I had nothing to offer a con man, so why would he waste his time with me?
I tracked my bank accounts and my credit cards, making certain no identity theft was happening. There wasn’t. I did a formal survey of my office and every item in it just to be sure that he hadn’t used me to steal some precious book from the museum. My office was intact and there’d been no thefts in the collections. Then why? Why had he swept me off my feet just to abandon me?
Perplexed, I started calling all of the hospitals in the area. Just in case. I said I was his sister. No one had an Albert George as a patient. It was maddening.
As the days rolled into weeks and the calendar flipped to the month of April, my depression began to fester. Al hadn’t felt what I’d felt. That much was clear. What was the old chestnut? He’s just not that into you. Ugh.