When we arrived, it crossed my mind that maybe I’d been set up. The lights were too low, and the piped music playing in the background didn’t give a sense that we were in Italy but more of a themed tourist trap. We got the opportunity to discuss the new schedules, but other than that, the only thing that redeemed the night was the gallery next door.
We’ve become friends over the past two years . . . Well, not friends who hang out, but it’s pleasant to see her at work when our paths cross. Though last night was probably a mistake. It will probably be best if we keep our meals relegated to the break room or cafeteria downstairs.
“I appreciate you going after my date canceled.”
New information. “No worries. I have to eat.”
“Me, too.” She laughs but catches herself, the wave of her hand and small shake is giving me different vibes than usual. I’m getting the distinct impression she’s suggesting we make a move toward an after-hours relationship. Leaning in, she whispers, “If I’m way off base, Cooper, please tell me.”
Lowering the medical chart, I’m at a loss for words, which is something I’m not used to. I’ve had a few relations, but the ship portion of that sailed with Story a long time ago.
It’s not you, it’s me feels too cliché, even if it fits the situation. “I’m not in a place to date.” Maybe too blunt, but these days, I have no room for much else. When she starts fidgeting with the stethoscope, guilt comes over me.
I don’t owe her an explanation or details of why I don’t put myself out there anymore, how I watched the woman I love walk away in the middle of a spring storm, or that I spent years fighting my parents in court. That food has no flavor because I miss eating ramen in bed with Story, or how I never minded driving the extra three miles in Atterton to get her favorite chicken sandwich because I selfishly liked the additional time with her.
I don’t share my sins of setting Troy Hogan up to take a fall just so I could shoot my shot with his girl. Or the worst of them all, driving fifty in a thirty and slamming into the back of a pickup truck that would set off a chain of events leading to the murder of Story’s mother.
No, I’ll keep that inside, not buried but right on the surface of any joy I might find. She thought her picker was broken before we met, but I’m the bad guy Story Salenger never saw coming. I’m not fit to be with anyone else, not wanting to inflict that pain on another.
As colleagues, I respect Heather enough to say, “I know it’s hard to put yourself out there, and I do appreciate you taking the temperature of where things stand between us. I’ve not dated in a long time, not since . . .” I won’t say her name for fear of jinxing it. “To be completely up front, Heather, I wasn’t honest before. I’m actually meeting someone for coffeee who I’m interested in, so I don’t think that would be fair to either of you if I accepted your offer.”
Empathy shapes her smile. “I think that’s the nicest no I’ve ever received. Thank you for your honesty, Dr. Haywood.” She takes the chart from the hook next door, and says, “And for the record, I’m rooting for you.”
So am I. I open the door and see the worried mom pacing and her daughter standing on the exam table. Giving the little girl a helping hand, I ask, “Who’s this little punkin?”
It feels stalkerish to stare at Story without her knowledge.
I do it anyway.
Expecting to see a girl in flannel pajamas or workout pants that were never used for working out and an Atterton sweatshirt, it takes my mind a second to replace the image with the woman before me. A fitted white shirt with big sleeves that end above her elbows, fitted dark jeans that don’t hit her crossed ankles, and red shoes with no heel.
Other than at my parents’ parties, I’ve never seen her that dressed up.
Her hair is similar to how I remember—on the darker brown side with highlights from the sun with fewer flyaways and long lashes that draw your eyes to hers. She looks younger than her years and probably still gets carded. It’s those lips, the natural color that I loved turning pink and then a deep rose color from kissing, that have my heart aching in my chest.
She’s not mine, but I’m starting to wonder if she ever was. Maybe I was just lucky enough to have her touch my life for a short time. Maybe the universe always intended her to find love elsewhere. It wouldn’t surprise me. There’s no wiping my slate clean.
I can’t help but think I need to drink her in, the sight of her the anti-venom I need to get used to seeing her again and in proximity. Running into her . . . if that’s what we can call it since I was standing in the middle of her exhibit on Thursday night, was a shock to my system, a volt of energy reviving parts of me that I thought had died along with our relationship.
I’ll be sitting across from her for as long as a cup of coffee takes to drink. I swear to fucking God, this is about to be the slowest cup of coffee in history.
I move in, making sure she sees me. The effort is not needed since her eyes find me the moment I come around the large topiary in the garden seating of the restaurant she chose. “And here I showed up early so I wouldn’t keep you waiting.”
She stands, her hands grabbing onto my arms to lean in and greet me before I think she realizes it. Holding her, I flex my fingers around her forearms. Story laughs. “Sorry,” she says, starting to pull away. “I’m used to New York greetings.”
“Yeah, me too.” Her skin is soft under my fingertips, that jolt sending a shock to my heart again. I don’t want to let go. Please don’t let go, Story. “We still can.”
“I don’t think that’s wise.” She’s probably right. Her hands release me, and she sits down.
I’m about to scoot her chair in, but she does it first. The gentleman is not a role I often play these days since I don’t date. But she’s setting her boundaries before we’ve taken the first sip.
Sitting across from her, I notice that her cup is already half-empty. Fuck. That gives me four, maybe five sips before she’s going to be leaving me. A server comes with menus and a smile. She and Story have spent time together, judging by the relaxed smiles they exchanged. “May I get you something to drink, sir?” the server asks when she turns to me.
“What’s the largest coffee you have?”
“We have ten, twelve, or sixteen.”
“Sixteen, please.”
“We also have a special on mimosas and Bloody Marys for brunch.”
Story says, “A spicy Bloody Mary and another top off on the water, please.” She looks at me as if we’re a tag team.
“And a glass of water.”
Tapping the menus she set on the table, the server adds, “Take a look, and I’ll be back shortly with your drink order.”
“Thank you.” I think I just scored more time with that order alone.
“I’m starved,” Story says, her eyes barely seen above the menu. I’m not upset that she wants to eat. The menu is tipped forward, and she leans in. “Remember how we used to eat a whole meal for two for under two dollars?” Her smile is radiant, the memories as she looks at me the only light shining in her eyes. Waggling the menu, she shakes her head. “Now, we can’t even get a side of toast for under four dollars.”
I confess, “I still eat cup of noodles sometimes.”
“So do I. Easy to make and just hits the spot sometimes.”
I don’t want to look away from her, from her eyes with the golden centers to the green pastures of her irises. They’re still a unique coloring. It’s the eyes in the photo titled REED that drew me into the gallery. Reed with her eye color and my hair . . . “Guess some things never change.”
“Not much,” she adds with her gaze back on the menu. She shrugs. “But I guess some things do.”
The remark feels pointed, though she doesn’t follow it up. Should I? Should I push for more details that she doesn’t owe?
The server delivers the drinks, and we place our order. I added five sides to make this brunch last for hours. As soon as we’re alone again, Story asks, “You must be starving as well?”
“Famished.”
She takes a long pull of her cocktail. “Should we get the small talk out of the way before getting down to business?”