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Look for the sad man in all black with the yellow ski cap, he texted back immediately. And then he added, You always know how to find me. With a heart emoji.
I knew then the gravity of what I was about to do. Toying with people is not my forte. As Greg says, just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.
Finally, I spot him in the cap, wearing a smile and flashing a wave. By the swings, just as he’d promised.
“Amy Sellers.”
“It’s Amy Stone now,” I say, correcting him, knowing that he knows. Not only does he have my business card, he’s aware of Greg’s last name.
“Pity,” he replies. He gives me the once-over. “Sellers—could’ve really helped your real estate career.”
“Ha. Ha.”
“How is Greg, by the way?”
“Greg is really good.” I smile. “He’s—”
“I haven’t seen him around.” He cuts me off. “Not since college I don’t think. Though, I don’t suppose he’d care that much about seeing me anyhow.”
“Greg harbors no hard feelings. You know how he is—”
“I know, all right.” He grips the back of his neck and squeezes. “Speaking of—you must do really well.”
My head cocks to one side and then the other as I expect him to say more. He doesn’t elaborate. “What do you mean?”
“Seeing how long it’s taken you to get back with me. You know how many houses I could have bought by now?”
I wince. He had me waiting for his punchline, but he’s right. As desperate as I am to hit gold status, I was a fool not to return his call. “I’m sorry.”
“What’s wrong?”
Leaning forward, I clutch my side, slightly panting. “Runner’s cramp.”
“Here.” He takes my arm, and the feel of his hand gripping my wrist is pure electricity. He pulls it over my head and to the side. “Breathe deep,” he says, stretching me out.
After several deep inhalations, he releases my wrist and motions toward the swing. He holds it in place as I take the seat. He smiles, but it’s not attached in a proper and typical way. I feel bulldozed.
I tilt my head back as he pushes me off, and, upside down, I get the chance to see a different side of him. It makes me angry with myself, angry for not reaching out after his accident, angry for not keeping up with things, angry for not knowing. Maybe there’s a part of me that expects him to be angry, too. Unfortunately, that’s not at all what I see staring back at me.
I know he keeps up with me on Facebook. He likes everything I post, and on occasion, he comments on my photos. That’s Alex for you, though. He’s always been supportive of my endeavors. I rarely, if ever, reciprocate. A few years ago I ran into his brother at a gas station. He peeked his head around the pump and said: “I thought that was you.” After a bit of small talk, he’d told me Alex still talks about me all the time. I told him that was nice, and I threw in that I’m happily married, not wanting the conversation to veer any other way. He’s painfully aware, his brother had said. Then he said I should block him. That way he could move on.
I guess he had. But now?
Head thrown back, staring at the upside-down version of him now, I can wholeheartedly see the full picture. “I was sorry to hear about your wife and child.”
“Girlfriend and child.” He corrects me in a way that says he doesn’t want to talk about it.
> “I just heard. I’m sorry I haven’t kept up with things very well. If I’d known, I would have reached out.”
He pushes harder. I fly higher. “It’s probably better you didn’t. I wasn’t myself.”
I drag my feet, slowing myself down, eventually coming to a full stop. “Who would be?”
He walks around and leans against the pole. Then he shrugs. “So, I checked out your guy like you asked,” he tells me in his usual nonchalant way. It’s strange, even with all the time that has passed, it’s as though nothing has changed at all. And yet, I have a powerful urge to get up and actually do what I said I was coming to do. Run.
“Thank you. I really appreciate—”
“It’s nothing. Not a big deal.”
