“Come on. Stop.”
“I mean it. I adore you.”
He leaned over and kissed me. We were sailing up 8th Avenue, no sign that the cab was going to go across town. Adam must have given the driver his address. My heart sped up. This was it. We stopped at a brick building at the corner of 80th and Riverside Drive. “You have to come up for a drink, at least,” Adam said, giving me an excuse that I didn’t need. “I have a great view.”
Adam’s apartment was on the twelfth floor. He tossed our coats on an upholstered chair in the foyer and led me to the far end of the living room. Family money: there was no way he could afford this on a journalist’s salary. He steered me to the window and slipped his arms around me from behind. The Palisades looked dark and velvety across the river, and the lights of Weehawken and Hoboken sparkled in the southern distance.
“Amazing, right?” he said, brushing his lips along my neck.
“Mmm.”
“I’ve wanted you to see this for a long time.”
“It’s beautiful.”
He turned me around, sliding his arms down my back, keeping me tight against him. He kissed me, and for a second it ran through my head like a siren, the last time we’d been here—but then it disappeared. I wanted this. There was no hesitation this time.
Afterward, we lay facing each other. Naked, sweat cooling, the room dim except for the glow from the streetlamps outside. He had one arm behind his head, and with his other hand he traced a line along my waist.
“I can’t tell you how long I’ve thought about that,” he said.
“Me, too.” I moved closer and buried my face in his chest, breathing him in.
“We fit together,” Adam said. “Look at that.” And it was true. Our bodies were made to be in this very position. He kissed me on the forehead and said, “Do you want to stay over? I make a mean breakfast.”
“I think I’d better get home. What time is it?”
“A little after one.”
“Can I use the bathroom?”
“Out the door and to your left.”
I showered, my hair pulled back in a bun to keep it dry. I opened my mouth and tipped my head back, letting the hot water run in. I had to stifle a laugh. Adam McCard. It had finally happened. The steam drifted through the bathroom, and the glass door of the stall fogged over, and everything else disappeared.
*
Monday, more than two weeks later. A few days after my birthday. I went for a particularly long run that cold November morning. As I came down our block, I remember thinking it strange that there was someone sitting on our stoop. Who had time to linger at this hour? It might be one of the homeless men who sometimes slept in the alcove outside the drugstore. I dreaded having to squeeze past him on my way inside.
As I got closer, I felt a prickle on my neck. It was Evan. Sitting there, on the stoop. How had I not recognized him sooner? He was staring at his phone and jiggling his knees in a fast bounce, his duffel bag beside him. I’d forgotten that he was getting back from Las Vegas that morning. Adam and I had spent the weekend at his apartment, which was the best birthday present I could have asked for. He cooked, we listened to jazz, and I sat on the couch reading and watching the Hudson flow past. “Evan should go out of town more,” he said when I emerged from the shower wearing one of his button-downs. “Where did you say he was again?” He was in bed, shirtless, wearing his reading glasses. He looked like Clark Kent. It was a Saturday night, and we were staying in. I slid under the covers. “Some conference in Las Vegas. It’s weird. Michael wanted him to go along at the last minute. It has nothing to do with what he’s working on.” Adam nodded, his brow furrowed. Then he relaxed. “Well, it works for me.” I’d finally gone home late on Sunday night. The creaking floorboards in our dark apartment filled me with a wretched loneliness.
I stopped a dozen yards short of our door. Evan still hadn’t seen me. He stood up, picked up the duffel bag, then put it down. He tilted his head to look up at the sky. He checked his watch, then paced a few yards before reversing course. Something was off. I suddenly saw him as any stranger might: unshaved, tired, puffy, anonymous. It’s an odd trick, to consider how different someone looks when you strip away the forgiveness of familiarity. I had always known Evan up close. I encountered him all at once, and that’s what I had always liked about him: no hidden tricks or trip wires. But right then, that November morning, I had the feeling of traveling back in time. Evan was becoming a stranger in front of my eyes. This man sitting on my doorstep was someone I had never met before.
I shivered. This was how bad it had gotten: I considered turning around to do another lap in the park, waiting for Evan to leave for work. But then he finally looked up and saw me.
“Julia,” he said, springing to his feet.
“Hey. How was the trip?”