The moment I stepped into my room—a nice suite with a balcony that overlooked Manhattan—I pulled out my smartphone and took note of all the emails and phone calls I’d ignored on the long flight from Oregon. I started to answer a few, but then decided it could wait. My life was a succession of meetings and emails and phone calls. Surely it could all wait for a few hours, for once.
I changed into jeans and a t-shirt, feeling halfway human for the first time all day, and slipped out of the hotel through a side door. A taxi deposited me in Brooklyn, not far from the rat infested motel where my friends and I stayed that long-gone summer. My stomach growling, I ducked into a little hole in the wall restaurant that served the best shrimp scampi I’d ever had. The ma?tre d’ recognized me, his face breaking into a huge smile as he charged through a group of people waiting impatiently for a table to greet me.
“Mr. Philips! How lovely to see you again.”
I smiled. “Thank you, Jack.”
“Let me show you to a table.”
Those words set off a few grumbles in the people around us, but I didn’t really pay much attention to it. I was used to this sort of attention. It used to bother me, but maybe I’ve gotten a little too comfortable in the world of privilege I’d shunned as a young man. There were few perks to the job that was thrust on me eleven years ago. Shame on me for enjoying the few that did exist.
I took a seat and ordered a nice bottle of wine, enjoying a glass as I waited for my salad to be delivered. My table was in the center of the room, so I sat back and watched the other diners. I like to watch people, imagining what their story might be. Like the young couple sitting to my right. They were clearly arguing, even though they were trying hard to keep their voices down and their gestures to a minimum, it was hard to ignore the intensity in their expressions. I imagined they were fighting over another woman—or perhaps a man—who was coming between them. Or maybe it was something to do with the in-laws. There was another couple behind them who were displaying such sickly sweet affection for one another that it almost made me sick to my stomach. I watched as the man’s hand moved slowly over his woman’s wrist and tried to remember the last time I’d touched a woman like that. It was kind of pathetic that I couldn’t remember with any certainty.
My salad arrived and I tucked into it, enjoying the acidic burn the dressing offered. I sat back to pour myself another glass of wine when I caught sight of a familiar face. I had to look twice, not sure I was seeing what I thought I was, or if my eyes were playing tricks on me. I’d just been thinking about her, this woman I met during that trip to the city so long ago, so maybe…but, no. It was really her.
Her hair was shorter, a slightly different shade of blonde than it had been sixteen years ago. The shape of her face was a little rounder, her jaw softer. But her eyes were still that incredible pale blue I dreamt of for years after that long ago summer. My first love. She wasn’t my first affair, but she was the first girl who broke my heart.
I crossed the room without thinking about it, leaning against the arch that separated the lobby from the dining room with a casualness I was definitely not feeling.
“Julia?”
She looked up at the sound of her name, a smile exploding in her eyes when she saw me.
“Harry!”
She laughed as she threw herself into my arms. I slid my arms around her waist, my mind noting the few differences in her body even as my heart noted the familiarity.
“I can’t believe it’s you! It’s been so long!” She stepped back and stared up at me, her fingers brushing my jaw. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
“It’s been a long time.”
“Too long.”
“Are you meeting someone? I mean…” I stepped back and gestured toward my table, “I’d be happy for you to join me.”
“I was actually just going to make an order to go. But I have nowhere to be. I’d be happy to join you.”
I immediately slid my hand over the small of her back and led her to my table, acting the gentleman by pulling out her chair and helping her settle in. Then I gestured to the waiter, arranging for another wine glass and putting in her food order.
When we were settled across from each other, I found myself staring at her, my eyes moving slowly over her familiar face. We’d only spent two months together, but it felt like a lifetime, as those young affairs often do. I remember waiting for weeks after I went back to college, jumping each time someone called, hoping it would be her. But it never was.
“You look great,” she said, her eyes doing the same as mine, taking in every subtle change in my face.
“You, too.”
She shrugged, but the blush on her cheeks told me how much she appreciated the compliment. “I take care of myself.”
“It shows.”
She reached over and touched my arm, her fingers cool as she flipped my wrist and touched the tattoo—an infinity symbol—that she’d seen emblazoned there.
“You still have it.”