“I have a pretty good idea,” I say in a blasé tone of voice, because I do—I’ve heard it all before. “That there are other fish in the sea, and that girls like Lizzie are a dime a dozen and I should just play the field. That about right?”
“You’re not even in the ballpark, if you’ll pardon my pun.” He points one bony finger at my chest, his gold wedding ring glinting in the light. How have I never noticed before that he still wears it?
“You go to that girl, and you tell her that you love her—because despite your weak denials, it’s obvious that you do. You go get Lizzie, and some hot dogs with mustard on them—or a goddamn Triumph—and you show her that you mean business. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop being a fool and do whatever it takes to get that girl back.”
I stare at him, surprised. Is this early-onset dementia talking? “I thought you didn’t believe in true love—or soulmates for that matter.”
“Then you haven’t been paying attention all of these years.” Hank gives me a look. “Betty—your grandmother—was the best thing that ever happened to me. That woman gave me the happiest thirty years of my life—and I realized it just a little too late. Finding a partner, a real partner, is more important than your stupid pride.”
“But . . . you never go on a second date!” I protest.
“Because I know I’ll never find a love like the one I had with your grandmother again—no one’s that lucky twice—and I’m not even going to try. But you? You haven’t even tried! And if you let that girl get away, Jake, then you’re an even bigger fool than I thought.” Hank glares at me.
I sit in my chair, trying to process his weirdly monogamous pep talk.
“So what if you’re right?” I ask, still feeling that stubborn streak. “What if Lizzie is supposed to be with me?”
The last time I saw her, I basically called her a cheap slut and left her in the middle of a dance floor. I know Lizzie, and even if I can get past the fact she fucked Todd I know there’s no coming back from that, not after everything she’s been through.
“Give the lady what she wants,” Hank says, like it should be obvious. “In my experience, it works every time.”
“But what if I don’t know what that is?” I ask.
“You’ll figure it out,” Hank says. “Now, are you going to let an old man enjoy the game without that moping look on your face?”
He turns back to focus on the game, but I can’t think about anything but Lizzie. Shit, just remembering her stricken expression at the gala fills me with guilt and shame. She was right, I don’t have any claim over her, and she was free to sleep with whoever she wanted. Even Todd.
As much as it makes me want to hire a contract killer to dispose of his body after a slow and painful death.
Fuck. She was worried I only cared about sex—and I basically confirmed it by blowing up at her like that. I’ve basically dug my own grave here, so what the hell do I do now to convince her I really care?
I may not have any idea what she really wants, but I do know one thing for sure—this calls for the big gesture, something straight out of the movies she loves so much. I need to come up with something that will sweep her off her feet, show her how much she really means to me—and make her forget the fact that she probably hates my guts right now.
I just hope it’s not too late.
33
Lizzie
“You still love me, don’t you, kitty?”
The cat just blinks his sultry green eyes at me, then yawns, walking to the far end of the fire escape and sitting down in a puddle of silky white fur. He settles in to calmly lick his paws, looking past me like I’m not even there.
Great. Even animals think I’m awful right now.
“I screwed up,” I whisper to the cat, sitting on the windowsill. “I pushed away the best guy I’ve ever known, so I deserve what I get, right?”
The cat just blinks at me again, purring so loudly that you can probably hear him six stories down on the street. I pull my bathrobe around me and sigh, taking a sip of the now-cold mug of jasmine tea I made a half hour ago and then promptly forgot about. I can hear the sound of people walking by, the shouts and laughter from groups and couples on the street, out having a good time, and it just makes me feel even sorrier for myself than I already am. It’s been a week since the gala, and that inconvenient jagged raw gaping wound in my chest isn’t going anywhere. If anything, it hurts even more now that I’ve had time to think about what happened—and just how much I’ve lost.
Stop wallowing, I tell myself sternly. After all, you were doing just fine before Jake Weston came along. Right?
“I still have my career, my apartment,” I count off, as the cat opens his eyes again, examining me dubiously. “The exhibit is a hit! Even Morgan respects me now. And it’s not like things were so bad the way they were before,” I say, trying to convince myself—not to mention the cat, the random dude across the way currently murdering a saxophone, even the spring night that’s getting chillier by the second. But the way my voice wavers let’s me know that I’m not fooling anybody.
Nothing was better before—because before means without Jake.
Sure. I’ll just go back to Tinder now, and bad dates . . . and men who don’t make my heart skip a beat just by walking into the room . . . or melt my panties with a single gaze . . . or make me come my brains out, with just his very skilled fingers and tongue.
I’m filled with a wave of regret, giving in again to the sadness that’s been following me around, tapping me on the shoulder every time I manage to forget for five minutes that I’ve ruined everything.
If only I’d trusted him.
If only I hadn’t jumped to conclusions.
Maybe I would be with him right now, naked, instead of settling in for another night alone and lonely.
Suddenly, a clatter comes from out in the alleyway. “Kitty?” I call, leaning out to check the poor cat hasn’t just plunged to its death.
At first, I can’t see anything in the dark. Then a pair of headlights light up, dazzling me. There’s someone down there, too.
“Hello?”
“Lizzie, it’s me!”
I nearly fall out of the window in shock.
It’s Jake. In my alleyway, holding . . . “Is that a boombox?” I call down.
He grins, illuminated in the headlights. “I know the eighties are too modern for you, but I figured it was the way to go.” He hits a button, and “In Your Eyes” starts to play, just like in Say Anything.
A laugh bubbles up in my chest, full of gladness and pure relief.
He’s here.
He came back.
I haven’t lost him. Have I?
“What are you doing here?” I call down.
“Just hear me out!” he yells up, then before I can stop him, he puts the boombox down and launches himself up the fire escape ladder.
“Jake!” I cry, my heart leaping in fear. “That thing’s like a hundred years old.”
“It’s fine,” he insists, hoisting up rung by rung until he can pull himself onto the platform outside my window. “See? All good.”
The platform makes an ominous buckling noise, and I grab Jake and yank him inside before we can both plunge to our doom.
Inside, I catch my breath. I can’t believe that he’s here—and that he serenaded me at my window.