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“I appreciate you going after my date canceled.”
New information. “No worries. I have to eat.”
“Me, too.” She laughs but catches herself, the wave of her hand and small shake is giving me different vibes than usual. I’m getting the distinct impression she’s suggesting we make a move toward an after-hours relationship. Leaning in, she whispers, “If I’m way off base, Cooper, please tell me.”
Lowering the medical chart, I’m at a loss for words, which is something I’m not used to. I’ve had a few relations, but the ship portion of that sailed with Story a long time ago.
It’s not you, it’s me feels too cliché, even if it fits the situation. “I’m not in a place to date.” Maybe too blunt, but these days, I have no room for much else. When she starts fidgeting with the stethoscope, guilt comes over me.
I don’t owe her an explanation or details of why I don’t put myself out there anymore, how I watched the woman I love walk away in the middle of a spring storm, or that I spent years fighting my parents in court. That food has no flavor because I miss eating ramen in bed with Story, or how I never minded driving the extra three miles in Atterton to get her favorite chicken sandwich because I selfishly liked the additional time with her.
I don’t share my sins of setting Troy Hogan up to take a fall just so I could shoot my shot with his girl. Or the worst of them all, driving fifty in a thirty and slamming into the back of a pickup truck that would set off a chain of events leading to the murder of Story’s mother.
No, I’ll keep that inside, not buried but right on the surface of any joy I might find. She thought her picker was broken before we met, but I’m the bad guy Story Salenger never saw coming. I’m not fit to be with anyone else, not wanting to inflict that pain on another.
As colleagues, I respect Heather enough to say, “I know it’s hard to put yourself out there, and I do appreciate you taking the temperature of where things stand between us. I’ve not dated in a long time, not since . . .” I won’t say her name for fear of jinxing it. “To be completely up front, Heather, I wasn’t honest before. I’m actually meeting someone for coffeee who I’m interested in, so I don’t think that would be fair to either of you if I accepted your offer.”
Empathy shapes her smile. “I think that’s the nicest no I’ve ever received. Thank you for your honesty, Dr. Haywood.” She takes the chart from the hook next door, and says, “And for the record, I’m rooting for you.”
So am I. I open the door and see the worried mom pacing and her daughter standing on the exam table. Giving the little girl a helping hand, I ask, “Who’s this little punkin?”
It feels stalkerish to stare at Story without her knowledge.
I do it anyway.
Expecting to see a girl in flannel pajamas or workout pants that were never used for working out and an Atterton sweatshirt, it takes my mind a second to replace the image with the woman before me. A fitted white shirt with big sleeves that end above her elbows, fitted dark jeans that don’t hit her crossed ankles, and red shoes with no heel.
Other than at my parents’ parties, I’ve never seen her that dressed up.
Her hair is similar to how I remember—on the darker brown side with highlights from the sun with fewer flyaways and long lashes that draw your eyes to hers. She looks younger than her years and probably still gets carded. It’s those lips, the natural color that I loved turning pink and then a deep rose color from kissing, that have my heart aching in my chest.
She’s not mine, but I’m starting to wonder if she ever was. Maybe I was just lucky enough to have her touch my life for a short time. Maybe the universe always intended her to find love elsewhere. It wouldn’t surprise me. There’s no wiping my slate clean.
I can’t help but think I need to drink her in, the sight of her the anti-venom I need to get used to seeing her again and in proximity. Running into her . . . if that’s what we can call it since I was standing in the middle of her exhibit on Thursday night, was a shock to my system, a volt of energy reviving parts of me that I thought had died along with our relationship.
I’ll be sitting across from her for as long as a cup of coffee takes to drink. I swear to fucking God, this is about to be the slowest cup of coffee in history.
