Reid leans down for a brief hug, just long enough that I can breathe in his scent. My heartbeat ratchets up again.
“That color’s beautiful on you,” he says, settling into his chair.
“Thank you.” Heat climbs my neck, though of course I deliberately chose this outfit: a gossamer, blue-gray top with a plunging neckline, and a pair of high-waisted flared jeans that, according to Nisha, J.Lo also owns. (One thing I love about my brilliant biochemical engineer friend: She still has a print subscription toUs Weekly.) It’s been a long time since I’ve dressed for anyone other than myself, and I’ve forgotten this particular thrill—the way the right clothes can summon exactly the words I want to hear.
The waitress comes to take Reid’s drink order—an Americano, with a splash of milk—and after she leaves, we regard each other quietly for a handful of seconds. The silence isn’t uncomfortable; there’s a giddiness to it that I recognize from long ago. A pocket of possibility opens up between us, and suddenly we’re twenty and twenty-two again, recognizing each other as a well of potential and adventure.
“This is weird, right?” I finally ask, breaking the silence.
“So fucking weird,” Reid agrees, laughing.
“Good. Now we can actually talk.”
When he smiles, I notice the tiny chip in his front tooth, the one that wasn’t there when we were young.
“Where did that come from?” I tap my own tooth.
“Ah. So you did notice it.” His cheeks redden, like he’s ashamed for having wondered. “Happened the summer I met you, actually, about a week after I got back to LA. I was skateboarding with a friend in Echo Park—”
“Hang on. You skateboarded?”
“Of course I did.” Reid gestures vaguely at himself. “Southern California kid.” His gaze scans over me. “Why? You like that?”
“Of course I do.” I wave my hand in front of my own face. “New York City kid.”
“Well, my skating days pretty much ended after that. That neighborhood has some ridiculously steep streets, just these relentless drops, and my shithead friend dared me to skate one of the really hellish ones. I’m lucky I didn’t crack my skull open.”
I cock my head, remembering how I’d needed to coax him out onto the fire escape at that party on East Fifth Street. “I thought you were afraid of heights.”
Reid tilts his head too, like he’s also remembering that moment. “I hate them, but I was feeling pretty reckless that day.” He looks at me challengingly. “Got the job but lost the girl.”
“Hm,” I say. “I can’t imagine why she would’ve let you go.”
“Maybe if she hadn’t, I’d still have the rest of my tooth.”
“But you wouldn’t look so ruggedly handsome.”
His gaze unhurriedly travels my face before dropping to my mouth, stays there a beat too long. My brain short-circuits, and I’m hit with a memory of his mouth on my skin, the way his breath alone made me needy and liquid.
From the wicked curve of his lips, I think he’s remembering the same. I came apart so easily beneath his hands.
Then I feel my phone buzz in my bag, breaking thetension between us.Please, I think,do not ring again. Let me stay in this moment, let me pretend there’s nothing else in my world to attend to.
It buzzes insistently.
“I’m sorry,” I say, reaching down to grab it. “This could be Emme.”
Reid clears his throat, a verbal bucket of cold water thrown onto himself. “No need to apologize.”
But when I check the missed call, it’s not Emme. It’s my dad.
Dread washes over me, as it always does when my parents call unexpectedly. A year ago, my father miraculously survived a widow-maker heart attack, thanks in part to James, who immediately called in a favor with his hospital’s best interventional cardiologist. He’s managed to make a full recovery physically, and emotionally too. For this, I have his immigrant’s mindset to thank: You make a survival, you move on.
But the experience left me traumatized.
“Everything OK?” Reid asks.
“I’m... actually not sure. It’s my dad. He’s not usually the type to spring a random call on me.”
