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Luckily (though for whom I’m not sure), the light turns green and the cab speeds away before I can do anything too stupid.
Unable to start a fight with the cabbie, I settle for shaking my fist down the street at him. It’s not enough to cool me off.
I’m too late and it’s this stupid, over-crowded city’s fault. I chuck my jacket at a nearby garbage can in frustration. Frustration at this city, at my job, at myself for letting things get this far out of hand.
I’m vaguely aware that I’m unraveling a bit. People are starting to give me a wide berth.
A young woman done up to the nines shoots a judgmental look my way. She looks like she’s just out of college, probably mere weeks into her exciting new finance job, first paycheck already spent on those expensive designer shoes.
The sight of her fills me with anger. That’s exactly what I looked like when I started on Wall Street. And now look at me. I’m losing it on the sidewalk like the sweaty Ghost of Christmas Future.
“What the fuck are you looking at?!” I yell after her. She puts a step into her walk and disappears into a high rise, no doubt about to inform security that there’s a crazy lady outside.
Good sense tells me I need to get out of here. At least I have a bit of it left.
I abandon my ruined jacket and start to walk, but before I can take more than a single step, something catches my eye.
A helmeted man on a motorcycle is going way too fast down the center lane. He’s igniting the ire of the other drivers, and they honk their horns as the guy jumps ahead of the traffic.
That’s exactly what I need. I can’t get a motorcycle, but maybe if I get a Citi Bike… The image of me peddling after Bill’s limo, barefoot, hair in shambles, makeup running, is frightening. But if it gets me to Bill in time then it’s worth it.
I cast a longing look at the motorcyclist. Would it be crazy to flag him down and offer him money?
The thought has barely entered my head when the bike cuts between a Prius and a (off-duty) cab, jumps the curb, and drives on the sidewalk directly at me.
I’m too stunned to jump out of the way and I’ve just accepted that I’m apparently destined to die on Wall Street when the bike screeches to a halt feet from me.
Then the man pulls off his helmet, and I think I’m going to die for other reasons.
Namely, shock.
“Need a ride?” Rhett asks like it hasn’t been six months since I last saw him, like he’s not blocking half the sidewalk with his bike. He’s looking at me like I just saw him yesterday. And like we’re the only two people left in the world.
I’m too stunned to do more than gape at him. How is he here? At this moment?
Blue eyes sparkle at me. That flopping hair is perfectly mussed from the helmet. His smile is tentative and teasing and utterly heart-stopping.
Maybe the universe is on my side after all.
Although, if it is, why did our reunion have to happen when I’m covered in sweat and shouting at strangers?
I wish I could come up with a witty one-liner, but words fail me. All I can do is ask: “What are you doing here?”
“I heard the Alencars were going through with their divorce today,” Rhett says.
Oh. So is Rhett not here for me? Confusion and confliction wrestle within me, but ultimately I decide to put the question (and disappointment) aside for now. His words have pulled me out of my stupor and reminded me of my — our — mission.
“That’s why I’m—” I stop. What am I doing? Rhett’s eyes ask the same question, though he’s wise enough not to voice it. “—trying to get a cab,” I finish lamely.
“Any luck?” He can’t seem to help teasing me, even now.
“I got you to stop,” I shoot back immediately.
We stare at each other and for a moment it feels like we’ve never been apart. But there are so many things that have to be said, so much to make up for. It’s hard to imagine where to even begin.
Rhett jerks out of our mutual standstill first.
“So does that mean they’ve already left?” he asks.
