"Like you're still in Boston thinking about this guy." She comes into the room, pulling up a chair. "So who is he? What's his name?"
"Alexander Volkov. At least, that's what he told me." I set down the painting, carefully, and turn to face her. "He said he was a businessman. A museum donor. But I don't know if any of that's true."
Claire raises her eyebrows. "Why wouldn't it be true?"
"Because..." I trail off, not sure how to explain. "When I tried to find out more about him, there was nothing. No social media, no online presence. Nothing. And… I don’t know. There’s something very intense about him. It feels a little odd."
"Maybe he's just private."
"Maybe." I run my hands through my hair. "Or maybe he's married. In Witness Protection or something. There could be plenty of reasons, I’m sure. Like you said, maybe he just doesn’t want to be online."
Claire is quiet for a moment, studying me. "Did you give him your number?"
I shake my head. "No."
"Did he ask for it?"
“He wanted to take me to dinner.” I shrug. “He didn’t say anything about getting my number, but I could have offered it.”
"So you're never going to see him again."
The way she says it, so matter of fact, hits me harder than it should. I feel a pang of disappointment in my chest and try to push it away. "Probably not."
"And that's why you keep checking your phone even though he doesn't have your number?"
I feel my face flush. "I haven't been?—"
"You absolutely have been." But she's smiling, not unkindly. "Mara, this isgood. I’ve been worried about you. It’s good for you to be interested in someone.”
“I’m not… it would be long distance. There’s no point.”
“Maybe.” She shrugs and stands up, smirking a little. “Or maybe, if he left this much of an impression on you, you should try to find him. See if there really is something there. Putting so many restrictions on your happiness isn’t good for you, Mara.”
"Or maybe it was just a fleeting connection,” I point out. “Something that felt significant in the moment but doesn't actually mean anything."
"Maybe." Claire lifts one shoulder and lets it drop. "But you won't know unless you try."
She walks out, and I sit there with my pile of documents and a rapidly growing headache, trying not to think about a man who should have stayed in Boston, rather than following me here in my fantasies.
—
In an effort toforget about him, I finally let Claire set me up with Drew. We make a date for Wednesday night and I meet him at a nice Italian place in Little Italy, taking a cab there instead of having him pick me up. The fact that he owns a car in Manhattan is, in my opinion, already a point against him—there’s absolutely no reason to have one and it seems extravagantly stupid to me.
He’s waiting for me just inside when I walk in, wearing a grey peacoat and a plaid scarf over chinos and a sweater. He's attractive in a conventional way—sandy hair, blue eyes, a smile that's probably charmed plenty of women. But every time his blue gaze catches mine as we talk about work and personal interests and all the usual first-date things, I keep thinking that his eyes aren’t as piercing or as intense as Alexander’s. They’re nice enough, but I don’tfeelanything when he looks at me, beyond a pleasant sense of companionship.
I’m sure if we dated we’d get along fine, butfinehas never been enough for me, and it certainly isn’t now. I can tell he’s interested—he keeps the dinner going all the way through a dessert course that I’m pretty sure we’re both too full to really eat—but I don’t feel any spark. No flutters of butterflies or feeling of desire.
When he walks me out to my cab after dinner—after I’ve already declined drinks somewhere else, citing that it’s a work night—he leans in for a kiss. I turn my head so he catches my cheek instead.
"I'm sorry.” I genuinely mean it—he’s a decent enough guy, and I feel bad that I have no desire to see him again. "You're great, but I don't think this is going to work."
He takes it well, like I knew he would. "No worries. Worth a shot, right?"
I nod as I slide into the cab. "Right."
I stare out of the window on the drive back to my apartment, feeling like the worst kind of person. Drew is exactly the type of man I should be interested in—stable, successful, normal. The kind of man who wouldn't make you feel like the ground is shifting beneath your feet, or make you look away because his gaze is so intense. He’s steady and reliable. He might even be faithful, he seemed like the type.
But I can't stop comparing him to Alexander, with his piercing, icy eyes and that voice that made me shiver.
