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“No, I went there myself. It should have been the first warning flag, really.”
“Warning flag?”
“That I was falling for you,” I say. “Instead, I told myself it was a good use of an afternoon, standing there, imagining a woman I’d just met in cocktail dresses.”
She laughs. “Oh, Anthony, if only I’d known.”
“Perhaps it was better that you didn’t. You weren’t interested in me at the time.”
“I don’t know about that,” she says. “I was intrigued by you from day one.”
“Intrigued, huh?”
“Yes. I just had to figure you out.”
“And have you?”
“I’m getting there,” she murmurs. “But I think I’ll need to spend a lot more time with you in order to do that.”
“Then I’d better make sure you never figure me out,” I say.
When we hang up, I’m tempted to call it a day. To go to bed with the memory of her words and voice in my ear. To let it soothe me like it has so many times before.
But there’s one more thing to do.
I don’t let myself consider what I’m doing as I make the call. The woman’s voice is surprised on the other side.
“Anthony Winter?” Layla asks.
“Yes, it’s me. Hello,” I say. “I understand if you’re surprised to hear from me.”
“I am,” she admits. “Not to mention curious. Something tells me you’re not calling about our date from two months ago.”
“No, I’m actually calling about something you said. Something you… well.” I clear my throat. “Do you have the time to take on a new patient?”
Her silence is stunned. But then a professional note bleeds through her voice. “You want to see me as a therapist.”
“I do, yes. If you’d be comfortable with that.”
“I would,” she says. “I have space.”
The last thing I do that night surprises even myself. But as I dig out the discarded notepad and find a pen, I sit down by my kitchen table and think of Summer. Of her words and her view on life, on the infectious optimism that colors her world. I stare at the blank piece of paper and let it all wash over me.
And then I write the heading.
Bucket list.
28
Summer
My mind is absolutely blank, and beneath my blouse, cold sweat coats my skin. It’s a wonder if I’ll remember any of the lyrics.
Posie leans against my shoulder. “He’s really good,” she whispers.
He is, I think, though I haven’t paid much attention to the singer on the makeshift stage. He’s playing an acoustic guitar, and while his voice sounds like he’s had four whiskeys too many, it gives more gravitas to his words. The entire bar is rocking along.
“Your voices would sound great together,” Posie murmurs.
