I would recognize that body anywhere.
I go to the corner and look both ways, then walk across Ascan Avenue. I’m soaked. The rain is torrential. I walk up to him, and he stands when he sees me approach.
“Beckett?” I ask. I’m kind of shouting, because the rain and traffic on Queens Boulevard is so loud around us. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry,” he replies, also in a louder-than-usual voice. “I just—”
“Why didn’t you come inside?” I wonder. “How long have you been sitting here?”
“I’ve been here since seven. I saw you go in. I panicked. I didn’t know what to do.”
“Youpanicked? I just ate dinner alone! I thought you were standing me up!”
“Mel,” he says. The sound of my name is a stick of butter in an open flame. “I could never stand you up.”
“You literally just did!” I point to the restaurant behind me.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I was afraid to go in there. Afraid to see you.”
“Why?”
“Because!”
“That’s not a reason!” I grow increasingly confused and frustrated by this conversation.
“Melody”—he tries again—“I told you this on the phone the otherday.” He stops to wipe the water from his eyes. “You broke my heart after Aruba. I was so in love with you and youcrushedme. And I’ve done a whole lot of work to build up walls around my heart so that doesn’t happen again. But here you come through like a fucking bulldozer, just taking them down without so much as a breath.”
“What are you talking about, Beckett?”
“I didn’t want to go in there because I was afraid you would wreck me all over again. That I’d forget everything I’ve done to move on from you and just fall right back into where I was two and half years ago. Jesus, Mel! I wrote awhole fucking bookfor you in the world’s most pathetic attempt to get you back!”
I wipe my eyes, certain that I’ve just smeared mascara everywhere.
“And it didn’t evenwork! You only paid attention to it when the reviews started comparing our stories! How could that be, Mel? How could you justignorethe book I wrote about you?” He puffs up his chest, and then it visibly deflates. “Do you know that I read every single word ofHoliday Islandthe day it came out? I pored over that book, trying to find myself in it. Trying to see what you saw. You gave it a happy ending—they just casually missed each other at the airport and then found each other back in New York. Like it was just that easy!”
“Beckett, I—”
“No! Don’t. Please,” he says.
This is it. This is the scene. The great heartthrob author Beckett Nash stands before me in the pouring rain, limp and defeated. “At least spare me my dignity,” he asks.
I’m dumbfounded, rendered silent by his outburst.
I wipe my face again, shaking the makeup residue off my hands and onto the ground, trying to center myself so that I can respond.
“I’m still in love with you, Mel,” he says. “I never stopped loving you.”
“But you’re engaged.”
He nods. “I know.”
“To a famous rock star.”
Beckett Nash steps toward me with a look in his eyes that is part pain, part hope, and part fear. “Who isn’t you,” he replies with a shrug.
He places his wet hands on my shoulders, and I know what comes next.
I brace myself, and he leans in.
