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Eight
BJ
I’ve thought about what I’d say to her a thousand times.
I’m nervous as shit.
Needed to tell her for too long, should have told her forever ago, probably.
It’s more for her than for me now.
I’m okay.
Talked a lot about it all with Claire, the psychologist I’ve been seeing since the ten anonymous sessions.
She thinks it’s an important part of me moving on, telling Parks, but I’m worried about it. For a bunch of reasons. Some selfish, some not.
I don’t want her to think of me differently, want to preserve what’s left of me up there on the pedestal in her mind — but I think she needs to know.
She’s standing there under our arch, leaning against the limestone.
Big tartan coat, short little white skirt under, black heels, white socks.
It rolls through my mind like a thundercloud how in another lifetime I could have just walked over to her, slipped my hand behind her head, and kissed her real good up against the wall.
But in this lifetime I just give her a little nod.
“Hey.” I temper the smile I want to give her.
She looks nervous, wringing her hands like a wet towel. “Hi.”
“Good coat,” I tell her.
“Yours too,” she says with shy eyes.
I cock an eyebrow playfully. “What is it?”
Without skipping a beat, “The Giant Damier Laces Windbreaker is Louis Vuitton — obviously.” She nods at it.
“And the jeans?”
She squints at me for a second, takes a step closer, slips her finger through a belt loop and spins me around once. “Acne Studios.”
I let out a single laugh and sidle myself up next to her.
“She’s still got it…”
She peers up at me, smiling a little.
“Oi.” I nod at her, frowning a bit. “Do you really go to Central Park at midnight?”
She drops her eyes like she knows she’s about to be in trouble. Looks out over the grounds instead. “Just sometimes.”
I breathe out through my nose. “Why?”
She shrugs. “It’s quiet.”
I give her a look. “It’s dangerous.”
