“I know.” A huge smile claimed her features and she shook her head like she couldn’t believe it. “I know. We’re married. I’m married. To a baker in Germany.”
“Holy cow. What are you going to do? Are you moving to Germany?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Is he moving here?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. We’re just . . .” she shrugged, laughing, “we’re going to make it work.”
Camille and I traded awestruck smiles, with me finally breaking the silence. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Thank you,” she said on a rush, grabbing my hand. “Thank you for saying that. My family thinks I’m crazy. I think I’m crazy. But I love him. I feel like I’ve found my soulmate. I couldn’t just walk away.”
I nodded, my eyes stinging, my throat tight as I rasped. “I get that.”
“Oh, sweet Marie,” she pulled me into a sitting hug over the arms of the chairs, “your guy is out there. Believe me, he is. He might be in Germany baking bread, or South America making music, or Ethiopia acting as a tour guide, but he’s somewhere.”
Or in Chicago, building robots.
I smiled against the onslaught of threatening tears; God, how I hated it when people said those words to me. Saying, your guy is out there to someone without his or her person is like telling an X-Files fan that you have proof of aliens, but you can’t share it.
Thanks for nothing.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“No,” she pulled away, ensnaring my gaze with hers, “he is. I promise. And when you find him, be open to it. Don’t use obstacles as a reason to walk the other way. Open that door when he knocks. Be brave.”
I sniffled, pressing my lips together and shaking my head. “What if it isn’t bravery? What if it’s recklessness? How will I know the difference?”
Her mouth hitched to the side and she laughed lightly. “When you figure out the answer to that, let me know.”
I was working from home Friday afternoon, submerged in a research rabbit hole, when I glanced absentmindedly at my phone. I did a double take.
Matt had texted me.
Matt: Dinner tonight? Kerry and Marcus are here.
I stared at the text, reading it over and over. Finding no hidden message, no secret confession of longing.
My heart deflated.
Whomp, whomp.
Nevertheless, I responded.
Marie: Sure, sounds good. What time? And where?
Matt: 7:30, Alinea, Lincoln Park
Fancy.
Alinea was quite the swanky destination restaurant and even boasted a celebrity chef. Reservations were notoriously difficult to come by.
Glancing down at my leggings and tunic, I knew I’d have to change. And probably shower. And wear a bra.
I stared at his last text for a full minute, debating whether or not I should return his message. I also thought about typing crazy things like, I miss you.
But I wouldn’t, and I didn’t.
Instead, I closed my laptop and went to take a shower. My track record being what it was, I knew it would take me several hours of trying on clothes before I finally gave up and settled on the least of all evils.
It turned out the least of all evils was a dress I’d completely forgotten about. I’d bought it for $50—a Donna Karan originally worth over $500—at a rack sale, but it was one size too small at the time. Slipping it on, I discovered I’d lost weight. I guess a few weeks of chaotic feelings and grief can do that.
The dress was sky-blue silk, sleeveless with a scoop neck. It had a round, flowy skirt that ended mid-thigh and was slightly longer in the back than in the front. Typically, I’d never wear anything this short for no other reason than I usually didn’t like short skirts on myself. However, when I paired it with red silk heels, I really liked how I looked in it.
I left my hair wavy around my shoulders and makeup-ed the hell out of my face. I loved makeup. I’d always loved makeup. But I rarely took the time to really do it right. Tonight was one of those nights. Full-on mask: lip stain, eyeliner, doing everything but false eyelashes. I even painted my nails red to match my shoes and lips.
The late summer evening was warm enough that I didn’t think I’d need a sweater, so I didn’t bring one. Grabbing my clutch, I left my apartment ten minutes late and decided to take a taxi instead of the L to make up the time.
The closer the cab got to the restaurant the more tension gathered in my stomach. By the time I pulled up and paid the driver, I was feeling markedly jittery. So when the car door opened without me opening it, I sucked in a startled breath as my eyes shot to the person standing on the curb.
Matt bent and peeked his head inside, his eyes ensnaring mine, sending spiky, prickly hot sensations all through my body. His hair was—as usual—askew, so I knew he’d been shoving his fingers into it all day.
He also wore a suit and a small, happy smile.
He was so handsome.
I held my breath because I was afraid my feelings were going to fall out of me, tumble all over the inside of the cab, and make a mess of my makeup.
“Valkyrie,” he said, his smile spreading as he offered me his hand.
“Professor,” I said on an exhale, lost in his warm gaze. I took his hand, and a spark raced up my arm at the contact.
“Thank you for coming.” Helping me out of the cab, he closed the door behind me but didn’t release my hand.
“Thanks for inviting me.”
“You’re always invited. To everything,” came Matt’s quick reply, said with his trademark sincerity, the kind that made my heart flip.
Unfair.
So unfair.
His gaze made no detour from mine as he led me to the restaurant. “I was waiting for you. They’re inside already and ordered drinks, but I didn’t know if you’d want a margarita or a lemon drop so they ordered you both.”
“Oh,” I said, suddenly nervous at the thought of meeting his ex. I hadn’t been nervous about it until just that moment, given my focus had been on seeing Matt again. “Am I dressed okay? I’ve never been here before.”
Matt blinked, tearing his gaze from mine for the first time since I arrived, as though not yet having noticed what I was wearing. Then he blinked again and his lips parted as his gaze traveled over me.
“Yes,” he finally said, turning his attention to the approaching ma?tre d'. “You look fine.”
“Fine?” I asked, glancing down at myself, doubting the dress for the first time since slipping it on earlier.
“You see,” the muscle at his jaw ticked, “I’m not allowed to say you look delicious, or hot, or enticing, or sexy, or fucking gorgeous, or any of the other thoughts I’m currently having. So, yes. You look fine.”
Well.
That stunned me speechless, as if I wasn’t already contending with a riot of feelings.
Gaping at his profile as he placed my hand into the crook of his elbow, I allowed him to lead me through the restaurant, following the ma?tre d'. My heart was racing and I was having . . . too many thoughts.
Some of my thoughts were about his suit. It was a damn fine suit. Damn. Fine.