I could mention him. I should ask Annie if she knows who he was, if Elio had a meeting this morning, if there's any reason a man in a multi-thousand-dollar suit would be leaving her house at nine in the morning. But something stops me. This is the first time I’ve seen my friend in person in well over two years, and I don’t want one of the first things we talk about to be a man, especially not some stranger. And Annie is so animated, talking about her honeymoon and about Margaret, her shouldersrelaxing and the worry lines at the corners of her eyes smoothing out. I don’t want to bring anything up that might taint it. What if the man was someone she or Elio don’t particularly like? Or what if she would just warn me away from him?
I’m never going to see him again anyway. I’m going back to New York in a few days, and I have no interest in trying something long-distance. Better to keep it as an odd, romantic moment than spoil it with reality.
"Mara? You okay?"
I blink, realizing Annie has stopped talking and is looking at me with concern. "Yeah, sorry. Just tired from the flight."
"You sure? You seem distracted."
"I'm fine," I lie, taking a bite of my croissant. "Just thinking about work. Claire called on my way here about a Monet that just became available."
Annie's eyes light up. "A Monet? That's huge."
"It could be. If the price is right and the provenance checks out." I shrug with a smile. "But enough about work. I'm here for you. What do you need? What can I do?"
We spend the next hour talking and laughing, and slowly, the strangeness of the morning fades. Annie tells me about Margaret’s latest milestones—she's walking now, getting into everything—and promises that I’ll get to meet her later.
I tell her about the gallery, about a recent show and some new, exciting clients, and a trip to Paris that was half business, halfpleasure. Annie listens with a girlish excitement as I tell her about the handsome Frenchman I met at dinner my first day in the city, that I spent every night with until I left after that.
The conversation is easy and happy and comfortable, the way it always is with Annie. She’s one of those friends who, no matter how long we go without seeing each other in person or even if we go a while without finding time to talk to each other, our friendship never feels as if it’s lessened or been chipped awayat. We complement each other well. She’s warm and open and optimistic, whereas I tend to be more reserved and guarded, and suspicious. We balance each other out, and I can't imagine my life without her in it.
"I'm so glad you're here," Annie says, reaching across the bed to squeeze my hand. "I've been going crazy stuck in this house. Elio means well, but he treats me like I'm going to break if I move too fast. And the doctor was very insistent that I stay in bed until my next appointment."
"He’s just worried, I’m sure. After all, you guys were apart for so long, and now—I’m sure he’s worried that something might happen to you.”
“You have no idea.” Annie gives a little laugh. “But you know me. I like to do things myself."
"I do know you." I smile at her. "Which is why I'm here. To keep you company and make sure you don't go completely insane."
"You're the best." She pauses, studying my face. "Are you sure you're okay? You still seem a little off."
I open my mouth to brush off her concern again, but something in her expression stops me. Annie knows me too well. She can always tell when I'm hiding something. But I can't tell her about the man—I can't explain something I don't understand myself.
"Just tired," I say finally. "And worried about you. But I'm fine. Really."
She doesn't look entirelyconvinced, but she lets it go, and we move on to talking about her pregnancy. She shows me pictures of how she wants to decorate the nursery, and I show her my new apartment in Manhattan, that I moved into recently, in a nicer part of town than I was in before.
“It’s been a good year.” I flick through the photos, showing her the 1920s accents in the apartment that I fell in love with. “I finally felt confident enough to move out of the studio I rented during grad school.”
“Finally,” Annie teases. “I thought you were going to live there forever.”
“It was rent-controlled.” I laugh. “But it was time I gave myself some more space, and I’m sure someone else will love it. Another student who needs that kind of thing more than I do now.”
Even as the morning wears on, though, and we talk for hours, I can’t completely shake the feeling that the encounter left me with. It felt as if something shifted, changed, and I’m left with a sensation that has me feeling slightly off-kilter hours after the meeting—if you can even call it that—actually took place.
I tell myself I'm being ridiculous. It was just a look. Just a moment of attraction to a handsome stranger. But I keep thinking about him—the intensity in his eyes, the way my body responded, hot and electric, drawn to him as if there was something inevitable about him.
About the way he'd looked at me like I was already his.
2
ILYA
My penthouse is silent when I return.
Thirty-nine floors above the city, insulated by steel and glass, the noise of Boston reduced to nothing more than a distant hum. I prefer it this way. Silence means I can think. There is very little peace in my life, even inside my own head, and the quiet of this one space is mine.
I don’t allow anyone to change that. More often than not, if I find someone I want to spend the evening with, I go to their apartment. I’ve seen the inside of plenty of the apartments in this city, from cheap studios to fancy high-rises. Or I get a hotel. It’s not as if I don’t have enough money.
