“I’m sorry I’m just leaving,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know,” I reply, and it’s the truth. I hope at least whatever small part of him was homesick will get some relief when he gets back to London.
“It’s probably for the best,” he says sadly. “You’re too good for me.”
I’m about to protest, about to try and dispel his unwarranted acceptance of his own view of himself, but he pulls me in for a kiss so deep I can barely stand anymore. And it’s sad how much it feels like a true goodbye. Not like aSee you in a few weeksgoodbye, but the kind of kissI’d imagine soldiers give to their sweethearts before saying goodbye. It’s cataloging a moment and pulling the marrow out of it for safekeeping.
It’s a kiss that turns into a hug, lingering long enough that I can’t help but nuzzle into him, breathing him in and wishing today was somehow different.
So I can’t stop myself from saying the one thing I know I shouldn’t say. “Whatever pin there is in ... whatever this is ...”—the words stumble out—“we’re still friends. You can call me or text me anytime, even if we’re far away from each other, you know?”
He pulls back and looks at me, his gaze so intense it’s almost like he’s looking through me. “I’m not sure I could ever just be your friend,” he says with the saddest version of that perfect crooked smile.
And then he squeezes my hand and walks out the door.
Chapter 27
“So the stupid fucker had to mansplain all over her instead of listening.”
“Dane, that’s an awfully judgmental way to view someone who’s confused about their feelingsandfacing an elderly parent’s health decline.”
Dane and Tom are hard to take seriously in their beach chairs, but apparently they’re having a conversation without me anyway. And somehow I’ve been conned into sitting on the roof, of all places.
After Eli left, I texted Dane to tell her what happened and then shut off my phone and crawled under the covers. The last time I cried, it was because J ( ... Eli. I have to keep reminding myself that he’s Eli) had written about how words can speak louder than actions. But today, in this instance, the actions superseded the words.
Dane was right when she said written words were more measured—my words today weren’t expressed as they should’ve been, so I let actions choose the course. And now I’m lonelier than I’ve been in a long time, because not only have I lost Eli but also there’s no way to keep talking to him under the guise of J without being dishonest.
I was letting that realization sink me deeper into my crying jag when I heard a loud knocking.
“You’re not the only one who can pound on a door, Nora Fischer!” Dane’s voice called out. “Come out, I got you every quintessential New York food carb I can think of, and I’m not going to let you drown yourself in misery alone.”
So somehow I find myself, at only ten in the morning after what’s felt like an excruciatingly long day already, sitting on the roof in a canvas chair, with a picnic blanket and a smorgasbord of food laid out in front of me. All while Dane, Tom, and Kwan debate the merits of my dilemma—because of course on a Monday morning, Dane thought two retired men would be available, and she was correct.
Meryl had joined only long enough to bring us a giant bottle of vodka (which I am absolutely, in no way touching) and give me a wet kiss on the nose. “Congrats on the sex, condolences on the abandonment,” she tutted as she scooted out the door.
So now I’m ripping off pieces of a chocolate-Nutella babka from one of my favorite bakeries, Breads, and trying to put myself in a sugar coma rather than listen to everyone debate the exact level of how sad my predicament is. But it’s not working yet.
I eye the cardamom bun from Smør Bakery and grab that one too. I’m double fisting pillowy carbs, and I’m not particularly mad about this part of my day. The sun is shining, and I’ve got fluffy, airy breads at my disposal.
So at least that’s one thing to be grateful for while a trifecta of busybodies dissects my life.
“When do you go to London?”
I snap out of my baked good trance at Tom’s words.
“Well, that’s what’s sort of nuts,” I say. “I’m going on Wednesday night. This event is on Thursday, and then I was going to stay for the weekend.”
“What’s happening to George?” Kwan asks, and Tom and Dane shoot him a look, as though he’s missing the point. “What?” he says to them. “If you’re stressed about your pet, you’re not yourself! She doesn’t need that extra layer.”
“Thank you, Kwan,” I say sincerely, tossing him a rugelach from the pile that he’s eyeing. Dane really did go all out on the carbfest. He catches it impressively with one hand, and I’m now wondering how an octogenarian’s reflexes can be better than mine. But that’s not theproblem to think about today. “He’s going to a dog daycare that also does overnight boarding. He doesn’t love it, but it’s really nice, and he’ll be okay.”
“Why didn’t you ask me?” Kwan says, incredulous. “You take Lucy all the time!”
“Oh, I just don’t want you to feel obligated,” I point out.
I’m shocked when he immediately stands up. He’s not particularly tall, so whatever authoritative effect he’s trying to have is sort of muted by his short stature and the long time it took him to get out of the low beach chair. But he’s standing and looking disappointedly at me, nonetheless.
“Nora Fischer!”
