He seems invigorated by the thought. I wonder what this new project is about. I push that thought aside. I have enough going on in my own life to take care of.
“See you at the next poker game.” He disconnects.
I put my phone down and wander around the apartment. Malice seems to have fallen asleep in her cat cave. So, it’s just me.
I survey my untouched glass of wine. I’m too restless to stay home and drink.
I’m better off getting out of here, maybe driving around the city. I could take my Jeep Wrangler out for a spin.
I don’t use it much anymore; not since I started The Edge. I often get a car service to pick me up, or I end up driving my Jaguar.
But my Jeep Wrangler and I are old friends. Yes, that feels right.
It’s a testament to how much I’ve changed that I let my feelings guide me.
Force of habit has me heading for the South Bank. En route, I see the ice cream parlor where I took Harper the evening we met. Overcome by nostalgia, I park by the curb, and head inside. Instead of ordering my bitter chocolate in a cup, I order what she had—strawberry and mango in a cone with sprinkles and chocolate sauce.
I stare at it. The thing is absurdly vibrant, pink, and unapologetic, exactly like her. A small smile curves my lips.
I take a bite. Tart hits first, then sweet, then the grit of sprinkles, and a back-note of dark chocolate I didn't expect. I wince.
Not a convert.
I take another bite and swallow. The flavors seem more friendly. There's a logic to it, once you stop resisting. Sweet and sharp in the same mouthful. The kind of surprise that keeps you guessing.
Like her.
I think I’ve mapped her, and then she shifts, and I’m left trying to foresee her next move. Which I admit, I mostly can’t.
It’s why I’m entranced by her. She keeps me on my feet. Even though she loves to please me and do as I ask of her, there’s always an underlying current of challenge to her stance that keeps things engaging.
A warmth fills my being. Whenever I think of her, it’s with a mix of emotions which never cease to surprise me. I feel good when I think of her. I feel alive. I feel like I’m hers. And she’s mine. Only mine.
I drop the rest of the cone into the trash and head back to my Jeep. It strikes me that the reason I took the Jeep out is because I drove her home in this that night. After showing her my favorite sights of the city.
I glance at the passenger seat when I stop for the next traffic light. I can imagine her sitting there in the glittery pink dress she wore that night. I was unable to take my eyes off of her. I felt the connection right away. I spent five years trying to control what I felt for her when, really… My feeling are too big, too complex, to be contained.
Retracing our route from that night, I head to the bar I took her for a night cap. Instead of my usual whiskey, I order the frozen strawberry daiquiri she had that night. Also pink. Also sweet. I take a sip and set it aside. Nope, definitely not to my taste. I run my finger over the rim of theglass, remembering the man who bothered her. I was pissed off, my protective instincts aroused. I knocked him out in one blow. I still feel a certain level of satisfaction at that.
A bar fight erupted, and we ran out.
I head for Primrose Hill, park, and walk up the grassy slopes. It’s dark and deserted. The wind ruffles the leaves.
The scent of flowers and of the night air embraces me.
I reach the top and remember how she loved the view of the city at night. Then, like now, the city glittered. A witness to the feelings gripping me as I watched her.
My heart stutters in recollection. My pulse rate speeds up. I almost kissed her here, but we were interrupted. We strived to lighten the conversation after.
I didn’t want the night to end. So, I took her to my favorite Italian joint. I head back to the car and turn the Jeep toward it.
This was where we bonded over our shared love for cooking. We were different in so many ways. Yet, we had so much in common, too.
Something unfurls inside of me. I feel like I’m on the verge of stumbling across some truth. Something important. It’s there for a flash, then gone. I shake my head. I’m sure the thought… No, the feeling, will come back.
I head inside and get a portion of the pasta we ordered that night. I’m not hungry, but I force myself to take a few bites.
It feels important to recreate that night again. To go through the same motions I did with her. Perhaps, it will help me find the answers I’m looking for. Perhaps, it will help me understand what I need to do next.
