“Not enough to cancel my weekend plans.”
Richie looked at me in a way that could have melted the polar ice caps. “As your weekend plans, I’d like to show my appreciation.”
We kissed. We kissed some more. Things progressed. And then, when we were catching our breath for the second time, Richie asked the million-dollar question.
“Sunny,” he said. “Where do we go from here?”
I gazed deep into his eyes and gave him a blinding cop-out of a smile. “How about out to dinner?”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Richie said. He lookedrelieved. Or maybe I was just projecting. Another question for my therapist, I supposed.
—
After we were dressed and outside and he’d locked the door behind us, Richie slipped his arm around my waist. “You know what?” he said.
“What?”
“I wouldn’t mind having you nearby for more than just a weekend.”
“You say that now, but I only just got here.”
“I know.”
“You could be really annoyed with me in forty-eight hours.”
“I’m willing to take that risk.”
I rested my head on his shoulder, the palm of my hand against the back of his coat. It felt terrifyingly comfortable. “I’ll think about it,” I said.
Richie kissed my forehead. He pulled me closer. “That’s good enough for me.”
Two
I spent an extra day down the shore. It meant I had to leave on Monday before dawn to get home, shower, change, and go back to my office at a reasonable hour, but it was worth it. I loved Asbury Park in December—the windswept beach, the absolute quietness of it, the Christmas tree Richie and I passed every day during our long walks by the water—a scraggly pine bedecked with painted seashells. I loved the cold, the way it made us huddle together, and the fact that the Jersey Shore’s population thinned by more than half during the offseason, making it possible to get a table at any restaurant we wanted, no matter the time.
And the sunsets. Always, the sunsets.
By the time Rosie and I got back to my apartment, I wasalready deeply homesick for New Jersey. I listened to Springsteen on Spotify as I got ready for work—changing out of my comfy sweats and into a Brunello Cucinelli sweater dress—replaying scenes from the weekend in my mind. I thought about everything Richie and I had said to each other—and everything we didn’t say. Beyond that brief exchange outside his apartment, we’d never gotten around to answering the dreaded “Where do we go from here?” question. But maybe that was for the best. When it came to relationships, I’d never done well with road maps. It was better to take things one day at a time. And on this particular day, at this particular time, anything felt possible—even moving away from Boston.
Once I was dressed and Rosie was fed, I stretched a canvas. After work, I planned to paint the view from Richie’s bedroom.
“What do you think, Rosie?” I said as I eyed the blank white cloth. “Winters on the Jersey Shore? Summers? The whole year?”
Rosie barked.
“You’re right,” I said. “It might be difficult to move in with Richie right away with his son there every other week. I mean…Richard Junior is great, but am I ready to be a stepmom?”
Rosie barked again.
“Find a place of my own down there? That could be very expensive, Rosie. Especially if I want to keep this loft.”
She followed me into the kitchen. I tossed her a treat and thanked her for listening.
My phone dinged. It was a reminder that, at five p.m., I had an appointment with Susan Silverman. It couldn’t have come at a better time.
—
When I arrived at work at ten a.m., my new-ish receptionist, Blake James, was sitting at his desk, taking a selfie. Once an influencer with hundreds of thousands of followers, Blake had deleted his Instagram account four months ago following a family tragedy. But in his case, apparently, old habits died hard.
