There’s silence on the other end. Fucking telemarketers. It always takes them a few seconds to pick up.
“Hi.”
I freeze. One word, and I know it’s Halston. All the things I want to say come bubbling to the surface. I’m not sureplease don’t hang upis the right choice, so I go with the obvious response. “Hi.”
“I’m sorry, I still had your card. I shouldn’t have run out on you yesterday. It was a nice thing you did, but I freaked out.” She releases a long breath. “This is Halston, by the way. From Lait Noir? Or from the art gallery, I guess.”
Even though I believed the journal was hers all along, I’m relieved. I don’t know if I can take getting fucked over by fate again. I don’t want to convince myself she’s the one. I want to feel it in my gut, and my gut is telling me not to blow this. “I know who you are.”
“Right. I’m sorry I ran out, except . . . I’m not sure I’m the one who should apologize. You kind of stalked me, showing up at the gallery that way.”
“Yeah . . . about that.” I glance around to make sure none of the moms are nearby. Between untimely boners and tracking women, I could rack up some serious charges if I’m not careful. I step into the hallway. “The journal seemed valuable. I wanted you to have it back, that’s all.”
“It is. Valuable. I’ve tried to stop, but I can’t. I’ve even tried to get rid of them. When I lost it last week, it was . . . I couldn’t believe it. I felt so helpless, naked.”
I don’t know which of the questions running through my head I should start with.
What is she trying to stop? Why get rid of it?Them? There are others?
If the journal is so important to her, why deny ownership?
Did she saynaked?
“Anyway,” she says. “Thank you for going through the trouble, and I can pay you for that, but I’d like it back.”
“I don’t want your money.” I scratch the scruff on my jaw. Maybe I should’ve taken care to shave this morning. “Where are you?”
“Work. Off Fourteenth. I can meet you after.”
“I’ll send you my address. I live by the coffee shop.”
“Should we meet there instead?”
“Nah. I have better coffee at my place.” I doubt that’s what she’s worried about, but I don’t want to be in yet another crowded place with her. In public, we’re strangers meeting briefly for a benign purpose. I need more of the intimacy I got from her words, even if it can’t come close to what I really want. “I have to get back to work,” I say, afraid she’ll protest, “but I’ll text when I’m done.” I hang up.
When I get back to my job, the moms don’t seem so bad. I have something to look forward to for the first time in a while—since Sadie. And even then, looking forward to Sadie came with a certain sickness in my gut. I never knew when I’d see her. If her husband would appear at my door instead. If the next words out of her mouth would intoxicate or crush. The affair had been exhilarating. Exciting. Stimulating. Everything my marriage wasn’t. At the time, I would never have described it as exhausting, but looking back, it almost seems to be the most appropriate of words.
Maybe, just maybe, it was all meant to lead me to Halston. If my instinct is right this time, if she’s the one I’ve been looking for, then the heartbreak, the struggle, the loss—it would be worth it.
6
Not much sends my heart racing like a knock at my door. It’s a conditioned response to last November, when the person at the door could’ve been my mistress, her husband, or my wife.
Kendra packed up our house in Connecticut while I got our new apartment here in Gramercy Park ready for her and Marissa. Twice, she came into the city to surprise me, but it only took one fuck-up from me for her to jump to conclusions. She’d accused me of infidelity enough times over our marriage, but the difference was, when she found Sadie’s coat in the apartment, that time she was right.
When Halston knocks, I’m instantly tense, even knowing who’s on the other side of the door . . . or maybe that knowledge makes it worse. She’s early, but I’m ready for her.
She stands on my doorstep, holding her purse in front of her, white-knuckling it with both hands. “I’ve always loved this neighborhood,” she says.
“Don’t you live here?”
“No.” She gives me a look. “How would you know where I live?”
“Something you said.” She’d mentioned Lait Noir was convenient, but really, I’m just looking for more information. I step aside. “Come in.”
She cranes her neck, looking around. There isn’t anything to see in the enclosed entryway. “Is that coffee I smell?” she asks.
“I just put on a pot.”
