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As soon as I enter my apartment, I think more about what Gil said.
“One day, I’ll be gone, and I need to know that you’re living the life you were meant to. Whether that is with someone or alone, I want it to be your choice. Not made from fear but from love.”
Where would I be if he wasn’t in my life? I’m sure I would have felt even more alone growing up. Is that what I’m doing? Making a choice from fear to be alone? Is it my choice, or am I hiding?
Is Gil disappointed in me for not being honest with Andrew? I can’t have that. I send a text: I was thinking I could come over.
I sit down, gnawing on my lower lip, and wait for a response. Come on, don’t leave me hanging.
A message pops up: Apartment 17 B.
I scramble to get ready—a casual dress, makeup, perfume—and burn some time since he’s not expecting me to show up in two minutes. I wait around for ten and then sneak through the stairwell until I reach his floor. I’ve lived here long enough to know seventeen is one of the most expensive real estate in the building. There are only two apartments, and I’m standing in front of one of them.
Andrew opens the door and leans his head against the edge. “What brings you by?”
“We need to talk.”
17
Andrew
The timing couldn’t be better.
I’ve not been home long, but my mind is already wrapped up, wondering what Juni is doing and if she’d want to go on another adventure tonight. After being locked away in meetings all day, I’m tired, but I’d make an exception for her.
I pour a drink, get more comfortable in sweatpants and a T-shirt, and sit by the window. La bohéme plays softly in the background as I sip and listen. The music builds, crescendos, and falls again, reflecting my life in more ways than I care to admit.
The whiskey doesn’t soothe me, and the view is dull.
Even the soft material of my clothes doesn’t have me feeling more at home in my skin than spending time with her does. But none of that makes sense. She doesn’t fit into my plan, and I’m still not sure she didn’t weasel her way into it from the beginning.
Does it matter now?
I take another long sip and then stare at my phone. With the message box open, I think about what I’m doing and why. Why? It’s the one question I can’t seem to answer. I finish my drink and then let my wants take the lead: I was thinking we could hang out tonight?
With my thumb poised over the send button, I pause, not sure why I’m holding back. She’s different from the other women I’ve dated. Dalen is a Hollywood bombshell. She’s intelligent, comes from money, and has become a sweetheart over the years. That’s why we reconnected. It took a long time to get over her cheating on me.
The girls I dated in college were sweet but not driven in the same direction in life, one even telling me she couldn’t wait to introduce me to her parents back in Kansas. We’d just fucked for the first time (and last, I’ll add), and she was already making wedding plans.
I’ve dated women who had more ambition than I did—from sports agents to damage control PR reps for the latest scandals in LA to a restaurateur in the Bay Area. I saw potential for something more long-term with one of the Top 30 under 30 tech entrepreneurs in Seattle after our first couple of dates. The third time we went out, I learned she would never leave Washington State. That city is too rainy, too cold, too not LA. It was also only a pit stop in my journey.
Although I haven’t been here long, it’s long enough to know that I need to get out there. Maybe not like my mom would like or how Jackson dates—a man on a mission—but make a real effort to find more balance. That’s something I’ve not been good with. Now’s a great time to get it rectified. I delete the text and type a new one instead: Would you like to go out with me on Saturday night?
Before I press send, I rifle through my past, wondering how someone with a heart of gold like Juni fits into my future. Do I really have time to dedicate to someone else, or will she get hurt? I’d hate myself for doing that to her, but I’m not sure I have the control to make that decision.
Christiansen Wealth Management is priority number one. I delete the text just as one comes through: I was thinking I could come over.
I stare at the screen, trying to calculate the chances of her thinking the same thing as I was.
