Now I’m left with choosing the next best thing for myself.
Right now, that’s to go to kickboxing and sweat out all of my sadness and all of my anger at myself. Then I’ll do it again in two nights from now, and again next week, and so on until, months from now, I begin to feel better.
Maybe.
Hopefully.
I grab my gym back from my office’s tiny closet, lock the door, and set off for class, tears in my eyes at the knowledge that the one person I want to be there more than anyone else in the world won’t.
As I’m walking down the hallway to the elevator, a young woman whirls up the emergency staircase and around the corner, barreling straight toward me.
“Hi,” she says, breathless from her climb up to the sixth floor, “is it too late? Is everybody closed?” She gestures at all the office doors.
I frown. “Who are you looking for?”
She pulls a thick envelope from her bag and looks at it. “Uh, Emilia Romano. Do you know her?”
I hold out a palm. “That’s me.”
“Wow, seriously?” The young woman’s eyebrows shoot straight up. “That was lucky. If I could just see some I.D. . . .”
Refraining from cursing the poor thing out, I dig around in my bag and emerge with my driver’s license. I glance at my phone while she examines it. Whatever’s in this envelope, it better make being late for kickboxing worth it.
“Thanks,” she says, offering me a crooked grin. “I know that’s a pain. Have a great day!”
I mutter something incoherent as she skips back down the stairs. Finishing the journey to the elevator, I press the button and wait, not wanting to take the six flights of stairs down.
While I wait, I turn the envelope over in my hands. It has my name scrawled in ornate lettering on the front but is otherwise blank. I get lots of mail delivered to my office — mostly bills, and certainly nothing like this.
The elevator doors slide open and I step inside, eyes still on the envelope. As I sway at the elevator’s descent, I debate whether I should open the envelope now or wait until later.
I decide to save it and slide it into my bag.
It takes me the rest of the elevator ride down to the parking garage and the journey to my car to change my mind.
Buckled into the driver’s seat of my little red sedan, I snatch the envelope and tear it open before I can change my mind.
Inside is a single flat piece of cardstock covered with masculine script. I read:
Emmy,
I am sorry. I know that I’ve done something to hurt you. Please forgive me.
I understand that you owe me nothing. If you read this letter and want nothing more to do with me, I will respect that.
However, if there is a chance that I can repair the damage I’ve done, I want to seize it.
You are a hell of a woman, Emilia Romano, and it would be my honor to have you in my life in any way that you choose.
With gratitude,
Oliver
Beneath his signature, Oliver’s included his phone number.
Oxygen feels suddenly hard to come by.
Because Oliver has found me.
And he thinks that he’s done something wrong when the reality is very much the opposite.
My brain skims over the fact that he is somehow still willing to put himself in my path and instead homes in on his phone number.
Quickly, I enter it into my phone and hit save. I need to text him, to set things straight. He’s done nothing wrong. Quite the opposite, in fact.
But first, in true therapist style, I need time to process this new development. So, checking the dashboard clock to see that I still have just enough time to make it to kickboxing, I put my car in reverse and head for the gym.
Five minutes later, I can’t deal with my own distraction for one second longer, so I pull my car over to the side of the road. I whip my cell out again, pull up Oliver’s number, and type a quick text:
Thank you for your letter. Please know that you did nothing wrong — I was the one making all the mistakes. I’m so sorry for my behavior. If you can look past that, I’d love to see you again.
xo, Em
I send the message off before I can think about it too much and carefully steer my car away from the curb. But a second later my phone beeps, announcing the arrival of a text.
Veering back off the road, this time I put my car into park.
My heart hammers against my ribs when I see that it’s Oliver, already replying to my message.
You just made me so happy, I read. Can I try to return the favor?
I scowl at the phone, confused. Oliver wants to make me happy, when I was the one who up and left him without a word?
Are you serious? Do you really want to? :/
My text instantly registers as read, followed by the three dots indicating Oliver is typing.
More serious than a deposition in favor of the party I’m prosecuting. ;) his message says,
In spite of myself, my lips twitch into a smile at his lawyer joke. I wonder if he’s guessed how much I like nerdy puns.
But I’m the guilty party here, I type, fingers flying. Shouldn’t you want to see me behind metaphorical bars for my crimes against you?
His reply is swift: The only place I care to see you is in my arms.
I suck in a breath so deep that it makes my lungs protest, then hold it. My thighs press together of their own will at his words and I can feel myself growing wet.
When was the last time a man was able to make me drip with a few texts?
Not for the first time, I acknowledge that Oliver is not like other men. But this time, the truth of this rings through me like a bell, reverberating in my bones and making my nerve endings tingle with the knowledge that if there is anyone in this world meant for me, he’s the one.
And I can’t let him get away.
Another message chimes through: May I see you this evening, if you’re available?
I snort. If I’m available? The only nighttime events that occupy me either involve my friends or a thick book on any number of complex psychological topics. And right now, Amelia, Kate, and Hattie are all very much engaged with what’s going on in their own lives — new babies on the way, law school, blending families, and more. So all I’ve got on my schedule is a nightly book binge.
Yes, please. I’m all yours, I reply.
I find myself smiling at Oliver’s quick reply: Look what you’ve done — you’ve made me even happier than you did a moment ago. I’m a lucky man. Thank you for being willing to see me. I’ll pick you up after kickboxing. p.s. You’re late for class. ;)
Kickboxing? Suddenly the idea of going to my regular class after our text conversation seems unthinkable and horribly mundane. I’d rather skip right to seeing him.
But if he’s not free until later, then I might as well go to class, even if my heart’s not in it and my mind is wholly preoccupied with Oliver.
And he’s right. I glance at the clock and see that I am indeed going to be late. Only about ten minutes if traffic works in my favor, but still — late.
I put the car into gear and peel away from the sidewalk, pushing the speed limit the entire way to the gym.
When I get there, I park and throw myself out of the car, swiping my membership card inside the fitness center’s front doors and hurrying past the front desk.
Well, I try to hurry. But the blonde staff member who looks like she’s barely sixteen stops me.