The part of me who sat across a table from Lachelle and took her very good advice, the part of me that made certain I confronted Reid before I slept with him, the part of me that, not even a half hour ago, told Lark about my boundaries related to my work—that part of me is saying,Stay. Stay and work it out.
But that part of me is pretty new. That part of me doesn’t have enough practice for this.
So I do the thing that feels most necessary for escaping this awful, awful hurt.
I leave.
It’s too soon.
Too soon to show up unannounced.
Too soon to cry in front of him.
Too soon to tell him the reason why.
And yet.
I left my apartment with nothing but my big, sloppy bag and my big, sloppy feelings, and I took the same walk—well, in the other direction—Reid took two weeks ago, all the way across the soaring, spectacular Brooklyn Bridge. Somewhere along the way I’d noticed, with a distant sort of awareness, all the lettering scribbled along its various beams, graffitied proclamations of protest, of identity, of love. I’d thought,That should interest you, but still I’d turned my eyes down, watching my shoes pass determinedly, rhythmically, over the worn wooden planks.
Once I’d descended into the city, it’d been firmly in the middle of rush hour—Lower Manhattan in honking, people-swarming action, a busy anonymity that’d felt unusually welcome to me. It was hard not to walk straighter amid all that focus, all that determined hustle to get home after a pressured workweek, and so maybe that’s why I’d descended the subway steps at City Hall without stopping to consider thetoo soon-nessof what I was about to do.
It isn’t until I’m outside his building that the full force of what I’ve done, where I’ve come, hits me. I hold my phone as though it’s hot to the touch, switching it back and forth between my hands, uncertain. Text him and say I’m here? Text him but don’t say I’m here? Forget texting him altogether and walk away, walk off the rising threat of a sob that’s been swelling behind my sternum since Sibby spoke to me?
Before I have time to decide, though, he’s there, striding up the street in that perfect, upright way: dark suit, the jacket folded and draped neatly over his arm. Another white shirt, fitted slim, the top button undone, the sleeves buttoned at the wrists. Blue tie, loosened, pulling to the right from the strap of the bag crossing his body.
Face, face, face.
And as soon as I see him, my own crumples.
I don’t know how he gets to me so fast, but he does, his arms coming around me, his body curving over mine, his voice low and soothing in my ear.
“Meg, honey,” he says, and I think,Too soon?But I also don’t think that. I think Reid calling mehoneyis actually exactly like honey. Slow and thick and golden.
A balm.
Ilikeit so much.
“What happened?”
“Sibby,” I manage, my face against his perfect shirt—whyam I always messing up his nice shirts?—and for a few seconds he only holds me tighter, closer.
“Let me take you inside,” he says, and I nod against his chest, probably making the makeup/tears/snot-smearing situation worse, but he doesn’t seem to care. He keeps his arm around me as he lets us into the building, his posture straightening as we enter the lobby, as if he’s daring anyone around to look at me, to judge me for loudly sniffling, for unceremoniously swiping my hands across my face.
Inside he takes my big, sloppy bag and settles me on his too-stiff couch; he shuffles around his kitchen and returns with a cup of tea, holding it in his two hands as though it is his very own heart, and that makes me cry even harder, and for long minutes afterward all he does is sit next to me, his arm around my shoulders strong and warm and soothing, the cup of tea unfurling its steaming comfort into the air from its spot on the coffee table.
And then I tell him about the fight.
He’s quiet for almost all of it, and that’s what I expect—Reid’s always been a good listener, a determined listener, and even as I’m telling it I can feel the way he hears it, the way he hears all the pauses at the hardest parts, the way he feels my breath catch with tension.
But when I tell him about the worst thing—some big “I’m not your real mom” scandal—he stiffens and leans away from me, tipping my face up to his.
“What does that mean?” he says, his brows lowered in concern, or maybe something closer to anger. I feel an unexpected, new pang of sadness, but strangely, it’s not about my parents, about the “scandal” Sibby referred to. It’s about Sibby, Sibby and Reid, about how telling him this story means something forever about how he’ll feel toward her. My very best friend and my . . .
Nope, I scold myself.You onlylikehim, remember?
But I tell him anyway.
“It means that when I was nineteen I found out my father was a serial cheater. And that . . . well. That I was the result of one of his . . . affairs, I guess? Though that’s probably too strong a word for it. I think it was one night.”
