Eight Months Later
Ihalf sat, half leaned at the bar waiting for her. It was an overpriced, cliché hole-in-the-wall in Manhattan she’d suggested.Best burgers in New York, she’d written in her e-mail. She’d assumed I’d want something big and heavy to eat, overselling the place to me and avoiding the fat fucking elephant in the room.
Which was me, so I didn’t take the burger suggestion as a slight. I deserved that one. Especially after the sushi debacle.
But I wasn’t one bit hungry for burgers—not tonight. To be honest, I was famished for her. I was so fucking starving for this woman, I’d gone without an apology, showed up like a good little puppy without even as much as an apologetic whisper. Nosorryor a single freaking misgiving about what had happened the last time we saw each other. Zip.
Now I sat in the bar area like one of those big whales at Sea World, waiting in line for a dead fish. It was dingy and dimly lit, but the Yelpers loved this joint. Of course I’d googled it, making sure I was hip enough to show my face in the establishment.
Impatient, I swirled the Scotch in my tumbler, the ice clinking against the glass. Out of habit, I pulled my shirt down at the waist, making sure it covered my waistband. It was a habit I still couldn’t quite shake. I’d worn a waffle-knit shirt and khakis, the new trendy kind, elastic at the ankle and a drawstring at the waist—all the bells and whistles.
I wasn’t sure why I felt like I had to forgo my usual look. The only other times we’d met up, I’d been wearing a music tee and jeans. Except for the premiere, but tonight was different from the other times ... I hoped. That assumption was probably false and premature on my part.
As I took a sip of my drink, the liquid burned the back of my throat and warmed me all the way going down, heightening my arousal and calming my nerves at the same time.
Tiny bells chimed above the door, signaling it was opening—a touch that was out of place for New York City, but I assumed it was part of the charm of this joint.
She stepped over the threshold, shaking the snow off her now longer hair before swiping her gloved hand down the front of her coat. I saw a hint of red peeking out from underneath her black coat, reminding me it was just past Valentine’s Day, making me wish I’d come earlier in the month. She could have beenmine.
She still hadn’t seen me, so I indulged in a second or ten, allowing my gaze to roam her small frame all the way down to the fur-lined ankle boots ... with a heel ... on her feet.
Unable to get up or move toward her for fear she’d reject me all over again, I turned back toward the bar and caught the score of a basketball game on TV while tossing back the remainder of my Scotch. I felt her presence singe the back of my neck before she laid eyes on me.
Willing myself not to turn and seek her out, I ran a hand through my hair and mentally chastised myself.
You pussy.Just look at the woman.
My hair was styled the same, so she should recognize me from the back. At least, that’s the sorry excuse I gave myself.
I didn’t look, just forced myself to remain focused on the game. It was close, 82–75. Who was I rooting for?
Who the fuck was I kidding? I didn’t even watch basketball. The last game I remember watching was the NBA playoffs the night she didn’t show all those months ago ...
When the clock had struck eight, I’d pretty much known Charli wasn’t coming. I’d extended my stay in New York, moved my return flight to the next day, and bought an actual button-down shirt on Fifth Avenue. But the whole day, a hint of her reticence when she’d agreed to tonight gnawed at me.
She wasn’t going to come—I knew it. My heart knew it. I felt it in my fucking bones. But I still bought the shirt like a chump, cleaned up my stubble, and shoved my feet in my Chucks like a man in love.
I’d found a quiet corner of the rooftop bar, where the corners of the glass met each other in a seamless line so as not to obstruct the view. I asked for a Scotch and then changed my mind to a beer, and seconds later changed it back again ... to a Black Label and soda. My finger traced the flawless seam while my eyes roamed the New York skyline, but I saw nothing other than my reflection. Chubby cheeks, messy hair, and a shirt that was too tight.
My legs ached from yet another long walk in the park. I’d scrubbed the BO off in the shower, but my heart still beat too fast. Whether it was from the anxiety of waiting or my lack of fitness, I didn’t freaking know.
What I did know was Charli wasn’t showing.
And she didn’t. She didn’t even send an e-mail or a text to explain her absence until two months later. There hadn’t been an accident or a situation at work. She just couldn’t bring herself to come.
On the television, someone in white and orange ran down the court and slam-dunked the ball, and a commotion broke out in the bar. I squinted and looked closer. It was the Knicks playing. Made sense. I continued to ignore the tingling at my back, the heat seeping up my neck, singeing my hairline. She was there, looking for me, and I was being a dick.
I set my tumbler on the bar, left my jacket on the back of my chair, and stood, turning to face her. She was standing at the back of the bar, her coat now thrown over her arm, and her hair longer and spread down her red sweater. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and her lips a glossy red. She was pristine and perfect, everything I wasn’t.
“Charli,” I called out, annoyed at the frog in my throat.
She looked up and caught my eye, and her brow furrowed. “Layton?” She stepped closer, her boots eating up the floor.
“It’s me.”
We stood facing each other, the bar stool a deserted island behind me. I wanted to slip back onto it, disappear from her inspection.
“Are you okay?” Her eyes took me in with concern, not hunger or need.
