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It hurts to hear the crack in her voice. It’s been a year, but that crack sounds like fury and like pain. I don’t want her to hurt anymore, partially because I don’t want her to hurt ever, but also partially because if she’s still hurt, she’s likely not over the guy. And this guy is exactly the kind of guy I would have imagined for her that very first day: good-looking, put-together, successful. Shit.
“Would you hear me out?”
“No.”
“Gwendolyn, please. Let’s just talk.” He pouts at her like he’s not interrupting her date. Like I’m not even here.
I silently beg her to say no, but she searches my face and it’s written plainly on hers that she needs this.
“I can wait on the red steps,” I offer, but she shakes her head. “It’s frigid out here. Why don’t you head back to the hotel? I’ll be back soon.” She steps to the edge of the sidewalk to hail a cab for me.
“I’ll walk,” I say. “If you’re sure you want to stay.”
She bites the inside of her cheek. “I need to.” Then she brushes her thumb over my knuckles. “I’m trying. I promise.” She reaches up into my hair and pulls my face toward her, pressing her lips to my temple.
Tristan stands behind her, his arms crossed, his expression shifting from surprise to smug as my box and I head west, and I let the late fall air do its best to counteract the angry heat that surges through my veins.
Gwendolyn
“Would you hear me out?”
I waited for this question for so long. I prayed he would call me, apologize, offer some sort of explanation, and though I really believe I’ve moved on, the closure would be nice.
Poor Sawyer. This is not how this date was supposed to go. He offers to wait just up the block in Times Square, but I have no idea how long I’ll be out here, so I send him back to the hotel with nothing but a promise that ‘I’m trying.’
“Thank you. For giving me an opportunity to—”
“Let’s hear it, Tristan. You’re interrupting my date, so say what you need to say.”
He reaches for my hand, but I roll my shoulder back and avoid making contact. Instead, I rub my arms against the biting air.
He gestures back toward the bakery and pushes back when I balk. “Your feet must be killing you, and you’re clearly cold. Come on. Let’s sit and talk over coffee.”
One of the things that makes Tristan so good at sales is that he can read people incredibly well, and he’s just demonstrated that for me. The dress was great for the Caribbean but paper-thin and not ideal for a New York City sidewalk on a November midnight, and the shoes are as painful as they are hot.
“Fine. One coffee.”
He ushers me in, orders our coffees, and finds a private table at the back of the bakery near the restroom. “I’m so glad that girl tagged you in her post from the theater tonight, and that you were still here when I arrived.” So this is no chance encounter. This is him seeking me out, forcing this conversation. Noted. “How have you been?”
“Better,” I answer. “I’ve been better.”
His mouth twists like he’s holding back how pleased he is to hear this, and I’m torn between keeping Gram’s health a secret and letting him know that ‘better’ has nothing to do with him.
“You look phenomenal. Really. It’s different. Very sexy.” His gaze drops down to my chest, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of watching me squirm.
“So I wasn’t sexy before? Is that why you didn’t stick around?” Gram always said that when I was angry I got right to the point. That’s why she sometimes likes when I get mad: much less talking.
Tristan flinches. “You’re the one who left, as I recall.”
Is he even serious? “I was supposed to stay? After…” I wave away the vision, which is still burned in my memory. “I just need to know one thing.”
“Okay.” He shifts in his seat. “Anything.” His folded arms and jittery leg don’t jibe with his cool-as-ice persona.
“That night. We were both here, in the city. And it was a huge night for me. Why didn’t you show up?”
“I had work to do. It was important.”
“I had work to do, too. And it was one of the most important events of the year for me, and you were supposed to be there.”
