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I look up at him. “Anthony.”
“Summer,” he says.
I run a hand over the back of my neck, where tendrils of hair stick to my damp skin. “Let’s play around with a hypothetical.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Okay.”
“Hypothetically, if you weren’t my boss, and we weren’t just friends, do you think we’d ever…? Well?”
Something swirls in his eyes before they drop to my lips. They linger there for so long I feel lightheaded with anticipation. “Don’t go there,” he murmurs.
“Why not?”
“Because we’re friends. Because I’m not a romantic, Summer. You know I don’t believe in love or relationships. I’m not… like you. And I don’t want to hurt you.”
The soft denial feels rote, and so completely at odds with the way his body curves toward me. Like it knows what it wants despite his words.
“Okay,” I whisper. Not a surrender, but a strategic withdrawal.
“Okay?”
“Yeah, okay.”
Our eyes hold for an eternity-long second. A strand of dark hair has fallen over his square brow, like it believes in his stoic facade just as little as I do.
“Summer,” he says.
I sway closer. “Yes?”
He bends down and my eyes flutter closed as he presses the briefest of kisses to my cheek. The soft scratch of his beard against my skin sends goose bumps racing along my arms.
“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it,” he murmurs.
“Oh,” I breathe.
When I open my eyes again he’s smiling to himself. He gives me a nod and walks away, hands in his pockets. I watch him until he disappears into the New York crowd, a man amongst many, before I finally open the front door to my building.
It takes my heart far longer than that to calm down.
13
Anthony
I don’t meet my own gaze in the mirror as I give my suit one last look. Tug the collar into place. Ignore the reason I’m really going out today.
I could ask my assistant to drop off the papers to Opate. I could post them. I could even wait until the meeting in two weeks with the app developers, when Vivienne Davis will be there too.
But the sky outside my windows is a vivid blue, and perhaps a walk wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
Neither would seeing Summer again.
I don’t call my driver or hail a taxi. The streets beckon and the city’s pulse feels in tune with my own. The sweet smell of candied almonds mingles with exhaust and subway wafting up from the grates beneath my feet. A cabbie yells to a pedestrian across the street.
It’s a testament to everything I will one day lose.
New York, the city I love down to my bones, will become a deadly obstacle course for me when I can no longer see. It will evict me, brutally and with force, if I don’t leave it first.
And all the fucking things the doctor pesters me about won’t do a thing to help me, even if I’d consider them.Have you looked into learning Braille? A guide dog? A cane?
