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I hear her, but the words don’t compute. Since the night of the opening, I’ve grown more and more certain the journal belongs to her. There are some things that don’t add up or coincide with how I pictured her, but that’s not a bad thing. I’m just as captivated by this complex version of my journal girl.
I memorized some things, so I recite a line for her, one of the many that spoke to me during
my past few nights of reading. “‘Hot like ice, you melt me down into clean, razor-sharp need.’”
“What?”
“You’re telling me you didn’t write that?”
She’s white as a sheet.
“Because I’ve been wanting to tell you—I know that feeling. Holding an ice cube against your skin until it burns, but it also kind of numbs . . . which can be nice.” I sound like a dumbass. “Sorry. Unlike you, I’m not so great with the words—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says under her breath. “People can hear you, you know.”
“So?” I continue to push. “If you can be melted, does that mean you’re the ice?”
She stands quickly, nearly upending her coffee. “This isn’t me. That. That isn’t me. It’s not my journal or whatever it is you found. I need to go.”
And I need to let her. She’s spoken for. She’s not the girl I thought I’d find, but she wrote those words, I feel it in my gut. She’s hurting somewhere, somehow, damaged. Any sane person would walk away. I’ve done damaged. It didn’t work out well. But for fuck’s sake, I’ve never been so baffled by someone I feel might understand me.
She rummages through her bag and pulls out a fiver. “This is for the coffee.”
“I told you, it’s on me.”
Her hand trembles. “Take it.”
I shake my head. “Halston—”
She sets the bill on the windowsill and hurries for the exit. She’s gone with even less fanfare than she appeared, my hand grazing the weighty leather binding of her concealed thoughts and desires.
I fight the urge to go after her the only way I can, by remembering the look on Sadie’s face when she told me she’d chosen him, not me. But the sting isn’t as fresh as it was a week ago.
I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.
5
I’ve tracked Halston down twice now.
I can’t do it a third time.
Fate may have brought her to me, but at some point, I have to admit it might’ve actually been fate’s asshole cousin coincidence. My instincts have been off before—more severely than I’d like to admit. If it weren’t for the boyfriend, I’d do it. I’d go after her like the persistent fuck I am when I want something badly enough.
Why does there have to be a boyfriend? How is that I’m torn up thinking about another man’s girl, again?
I’m on the sunny, open second level of an Upper East Side apartment shooting senior class photos for a group of girls when I get the call that changes everything. It’s been over twenty-four hours since I saw Halston in person, but I was with her all night long. As I read more, I felt her with me. I pictured her writing in her journal, fantasizing as her pen moved across the page, then acting out those desires with me.
Pry me apart
Make it slow
Forget my heart
Make it fast
Pry me apart
My thoughts, my thighs
Whatever it takes
Your truths, your lies
Lows and highs
There is no feeling
Like having you inside
When the sky falls through the ceiling—
“Mr. Cohen?”
I start. Fuck. I forgot where I was. One of the moms is holding out a coffee. It’s not from Lait Noir, but I accept it. That’s when I look around and realize I’m sporting a hard-on in a roomful of teenage girls and their moms. I’ll be lucky if they don’t arrest me. “How do you think it’s going?” I ask.
“Oh, I’m sure the photos are wonderful,” she says. “You seem to know just how to get the girls to liven up . . .”
I stop listening. I could give two shits what they think, it’s not exactly my best work, but conversation will distract from my disheveled state. The students chew on ice in a corner. When one of them asked for snacks, they were denied. Anything other than vegetables might make them bloated, and carrots or celery would leave food in their teeth. This is the sort of thing my ex, Kendra, would do—hire a private photographer when the school provides a perfectly good one.
I return my attention to the mother as she speaks. She’s not my type with pearls coiled around her neck, and styled, crispy hair. She’s also several years my senior, but I catch myself noticing the line of her collarbone, the delicate bracelet on her wrist, the resemblance of her hair color to coffee. I don’t want to take measured photos of snotty girls in uniforms. I want to make people feel the way Halston just made me feel without us even being in the same room.
Caught.
Flustered.
Hot.
Guilty.
I haven’t been able to do that since Sadie. I’ve photographed other women for my portfolio, but they might as well be inanimate objects. Sadie continues to fuck me over a year later, stealing not only my future and my family from me, but my art too, the only thing I’ve ever really wanted to do with my life. Now that Halston’s reminded me how it feels to be feverish and consumed by someone, I want to turn my lens on her.
My back pocket vibrates, and I get out my phone. It’s an unknown number, which could be new business. “Excuse me,” I interrupt the mom, handing her back the coffee. “I have to take this.”
Crossing the room for some privacy, I answer the call. “Finn Cohen.”
There’s silence on the other end. Fucking telemarketers. It always takes them a few seconds to pick up.
“Hi.”
I freeze. One word, and I know it’s Halston. All the things I want to say come bubbling to the surface. I’m not sure please don’t hang up is the right choice, so I go with the obvious response. “Hi.”
“I’m sorry, I still had your card. I shouldn’t have run out on you yesterday. It was a nice thing you did, but I freaked out.” She releases a long breath. “This is Halston, by the way. From Lait Noir? Or from the art gallery, I guess.”
Even though I believed the journal was hers all along, I’m relieved. I don’t know if I can take getting fucked over by fate again. I don’t want to convince myself she’s the one. I want to feel it in my gut, and my gut is telling me not to blow this. “I know who you are.”
“Right. I’m sorry I ran out, except . . . I’m not sure I’m the one who should apologize. You kind of stalked me, showing up at the gallery that way.”
“Yeah . . . about that.” I glance around to make sure none of the moms are nearby. Between untimely boners and tracking women, I could rack up some serious charges if I’m not careful. I step into the hallway. “The journal seemed valuable. I wanted you to have it back, that’s all.”
“It is. Valuable. I’ve tried to stop, but I can’t. I’ve even tried to get rid of them. When I lost it last week, it was . . . I couldn’t believe it. I felt so helpless, naked.”
I don’t know which of the questions running through my head I should start with.
What is she trying to stop? Why get rid of it? Them? There are others?
If the journal is so important to her, why deny ownership?
Did she say naked?
“Anyway,” she says. “Thank you for going through the trouble, and I can pay you for that, but I’d like it back.”
“I don’t want your money.” I scratch the scruff on my jaw. Maybe I should’ve taken care to shave this morning. “Where are you?”
“Work. Off Fourteenth. I can meet you after.”
“I’ll send you my address. I live by the coffee shop.”
“Should we meet there instead?”
“Nah. I have better coffee at my place.” I doubt that’s what she’s worried about, but I don’t want to be in yet another crowded place with her. In public, we’re strangers meeting briefly for a benign purpose. I need more of the intimacy I got from her words, even if it can’t come close to what I really want. “I have to get back to work,” I say, afraid she’ll protest, “but I’ll text when I’m done.” I hang up.
When I get back to my job, the moms don’t seem so bad. I have something to look
forward to for the first time in a while—since Sadie. And even then, looking forward to Sadie came with a certain sickness in my gut. I never knew when I’d see her. If her husband would appear at my door instead. If the next words out of her mouth would intoxicate or crush. The affair had been exhilarating. Exciting. Stimulating. Everything my marriage wasn’t. At the time, I would never have described it as exhausting, but looking back, it almost seems to be the most appropriate of words.
Maybe, just maybe, it was all meant to lead me to Halston. If my instinct is right this time, if she’s the one I’ve been looking for, then the heartbreak, the struggle, the loss—it would be worth it.
6
Not much sends my heart racing like a knock at my door. It’s a conditioned response to last November, when the person at the door could’ve been my mistress, her husband, or my wife.
Kendra packed up our house in Connecticut while I got our new apartment here in Gramercy Park ready for her and Marissa. Twice, she came into the city to surprise me, but it only took one fuck-up from me for her to jump to conclusions. She’d accused me of infidelity enough times over our marriage, but the difference was, when she found Sadie’s coat in the apartment, that time she was right.
When Halston knocks, I’m instantly tense, even knowing who’s on the other side of the door . . . or maybe that knowledge makes it worse. She’s early, but I’m ready for her.
She stands on my doorstep, holding her purse in front of her, white-knuckling it with both hands. “I’ve always loved this neighborhood,” she says.
“Don’t you live here?”
“No.” She gives me a look. “How would you know where I live?”
“Something you said.” She’d mentioned Lait Noir was convenient, but really, I’m just looking for more information. I step aside. “Come in.”
