“I’m so fucking in love with you. You know that, right?”
He felt her inhale sharply. She closed her eyes, then opened them. They’d steered clear of that phrase since the night of her birthday—and even then, he’d only danced around it without saying it outright. As he said it now, it felt inadequate to describe the enormity of what he felt for her. But until the English language caught up with him, it was the best he could do.
A slow smile curled at the corners of her mouth.
“I love you, too.”
As he drew her face to his, closing the gap, he finally felt the lump of dread in his stomach dissolve like a sugar cube in water. He wasn’t going to lose her again. He’d get his shit together. He’d make it work with her.
He had to.
THE DIRTBAGS SCREENING WAS PART of a weeklong festival honoring the work of Perry McCallister, the director. Grey and Ethan had planned on arriving in Manhattan in time to attend the opening-night party, but their flight was delayed so long that by the time their cab deposited them at their hotel, they were too exhausted to do anything other than strip, shower, and pass out under soft linens and mountains of pillows.
They spent a lazy morning lounging in bed, dozing on and off. When Grey opened her eyes again, the bed was empty. Before she had time to wonder, the door to the room opened and Ethan strode in holding two milky iced coffees and a brown paper bag.
“I’ve never been more in love with you,” she groaned as she ripped open the bag to reveal two greasy, beautiful bacon, egg, and cheese bagels.
Once they felt alive enough to venture outside, they didn’t do much more than walk. It was one of those rare, perfect early summer New York days, before the fetid humidity of July and August crept in, sweat plastering clothes to every bodily crevice within seconds of going outside. Today, however, the sun warmed their faces and cool breezes swept their hair into their eyes as they wandered over to the West Village, letting themselves get lost in the serpentine streets.
She’d been skeptical of Ethan’s assertion that people generally left him alone in New York, but he was right. Aside from the occasional double take or less-than-sneaky cellphone photo, nobody approached them.
They paused in front of a picturesque townhouse stoop, where a commercial shoot was under way. Though it was still early June, the commercial was set in fall, with fake leaves dusting the steps. Grey and Ethan stood a respectful distance away and watched two sweater-clad models sip from the same Coke bottle with two straws, then give each other a sweet, corn-syrupy peck. They beat a hasty retreat when the female model spotted Ethan, her gasp ruining what was probably a perfectly good take.
They walked farther north, stopping for a late lunch in Koreatown. Ethan’s phone buzzed, and he pulled it out to silence it, pausing when he saw the name.
“Do you mind? It’s Perry.” The two of them had been playing phone tag all day, trying to coordinate a time to get together and catch up outside of the festival.
Grey shook her head. “No, go ahead.”
She focused on her hot pot as Ethan muttered into the phone, hanging up promptly.
“Did you figure out the plan?” Grey asked, maneuvering the last bit of her egg yolk onto a clump of rice. Ethan shook his head.
“The only time he’s free while we’re here is for lunch tomorrow, and that’s when we’re seeing your mom. Are you going to eat this?” he asked, hovering his chopsticks over the last piece of kimchi in the center of the table. She gestured at him to take it, frowning, and he plucked it onto his plate.
“Oh. I mean, it’s okay if you want to go see him instead. I can see my mom alone.”
“No, I want to meet her. And I want to be there if you need me.”
Grey felt her chest tighten at how casually he was ready to give this up, just so he could be there for her. “It’s okay, really. We can find some other time for you to meet her. Trust me, I would bail, too, if I could. But I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Totally. Call him back now.”
After Ethan hung up the phone again, he chased a stray grain of rice around the bottom of his cast iron bowl.
“Do you want to come see Sam’s parents with me?” he asked, as nonchalant as if they were already midconversation about that exact topic. Grey blinked, stunned.
“What?”
“I called them. Before we came.” He kept his eyes down, like he wouldn’t be able to keep going if he registered her shock. “I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t sure how I would feel once I got here. But I think…I want to see them.” He smiled ruefully. “I feel bad asking you to come after I just bailed on your mom, but…”
“Of course I’ll come. Of course,” Grey said quickly. “How did…how was it? Talking to them?”
“Good. Weird. I don’t know. I only talked to his mom. I was dreading it, but…she was so happy to hear from me.” He paused to collect himself, seemingly surprised at the way his voice cracked with emotion. Grey said nothing, just focused intently on him. “We didn’t really talk about anything important, but hearing her voice…it was a lot. Brought a lot back.”
He got that distant look in his eyes that by now she knew too well. She placed her hand over his. His eyes refocused as he smiled at her, flipping his hand over and squeezing hers.
“I can’t wait to meet them.”
* * *
—
“WHAT, HE DIDN’T want to meet me?”
Five minutes into lunch with her mother, Grey felt like her smile was already cracking at the edges.
“Something came up. He really wanted to be here, I was the one who told him not to.”
“I see. So you didn’t want him to meet me.” It was a joke, sort of, though the hard edge in her mother’s voice didn’t make Grey feel like laughing.
It had been long enough since she’d seen her mother that the experience was slightly uncanny. Their resemblance was undeniable. Her mother had been young when Grey was born; even now, she was barely in her fifties, finally out of the range for the two of them to be confused for sisters. She was smaller than Grey, thin and brittle, with a perpetually harsh expression even at rest. Sometimes looking at her gave Grey the same unpleasant jolt as when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror after she’d been thinking something uncharitable.
This wasn’t the mother she’d grown up with. When she’d remarried, it was like she’d been reborn into the role of a lifetime: suburban society doyenne. She’d studied hard, gone beyond Method. She tilted her head to give Grey the once-over, her tasteful blond highlights (which looked more expensive than Grey’s) shimmering in the sun, her ballerina-pink manicured hands clutching the supple leather strap of her purse. Grey often wondered if her mother’s distance was born of resentment toward her and her brother for being living, breathing reminders of the life she’d lived before—except when one of them did something she could brag about at the country club.
Grey craned her neck, desperately trying to locate the hostess. When they’d shown up to the café, it was packed, and she’d forgotten to call and tell them that their reservation was down to two. The frazzled hostess had nodded and darted away, and what had seemed like a simple request turned out to be more complicated than anticipated. She didn’t envy the hostess as the line of irritated patrons grew longer behind them.
“Aren’t you glad you never had to do that?” her mother asked with a conspiratorial smile once they were seated. Grey bit her tongue to stop herself from reminding her mother that the reason Grey had never needed a side job was because she’d been working since she still had baby teeth.