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“Who the hell knows. You’re reading into it,” I say.
He hesitates. “Am I?”
I’m not sure if he’s asking the universe a rhetorical question …
Or if he’s asking me.
“That trip can’t come soon enough,” I tell him. “We’ve got to get her out of your system.”
The instant I speak, I know those words aren’t meant for him.
33
Brie
“The doctor says she’s dilated to a one. Been having contractions all weekend, but they’re still a ways apart. We’re thinking it’ll be any day now,” my mother says from her side of the phone Sunday afternoon as I’m leaving an adorable little uptown eatery called Cielo.
Paulina from work invited me for brunch earlier today, but it turned out all she wanted to do was vent about a couple of ladies from the marketing department. For two solid hours, I was nothing more than an earpiece, but at least I got a free meal out of it.
“You might want to pack a bag and start looking at plane tickets just in case,” she adds.
“Will do …” I take my time heading home, belly full of sugared sourdough French toast, sous vide egg bites, and Turkish coffee.
Ten minutes later, I’m less than two blocks from Cainan’s apartment.
I haven’t heard from him since yesterday, when we spent the majority of the day together before going our separate ways. Not that I should expect to hear from him …
He mentioned he was going out with some friends last night. He never got into specifics, and I tamped my intrigue into the ground as I told him I’d see him around.
I debate whether I should take an alternate route, irrationally convinced my thoughts are radiating off me like a nuclear cloud, when my phone distracts me with a text chime and I cross the intersection near his street.
CAINAN: ANY PLANS TODAY?
My heart whooshes in my ears, and a smile tugs at the corners of my lips.
ME: JUST HAD BRUNCH WITH A COLLEAGUE. WHAT’S UP?
CAINAN: THERE’S A VINTAGE BOOK FAIR IN SOHO. WAS THINKING OF HITTING IT UP. YOU INTERESTED?
My insides tangle with my somersaulting stomach.
I wasn’t even this excited when Grant proposed …
ME: WHAT TIME?
CAINAN: TWO. I’LL SWING YOUR WAY. WHAT’S YOUR ADDRESS?
I text him the address to Maya’s apartment and float home on a cloud, ignoring the voice in the back of my mind warning me not to play with fire, not to knot my heart around a man who can never be mine.
I want this—if only for today.
Maybe we can never be together, but I like the way I feel when we’re together; a tranquil warmth melts me from the inside out.
It’s much like going home.
Or being completely at peace and in the moment.
There’s no noise when I’m with him. No dithering confusion.
I’ve never had that with anyone else.
And who knows if I ever will again.
34
Cainan
“I’m flying home tomorrow,” she tells me as we head toward a little book market on Canal. “My sister, Alana, is about to have her baby.”
I didn’t intend to invite her along. Usually I hit these things alone, opting to browse in silence, a coffee in hand and the rest of the world leaving me the hell alone until it’s time to check out.
But then I found myself texting her.
And when she wrote back right away, I wasn’t turned off or annoyed as I would’ve been with anyone else.
“How long will you be there?” I ask.
“A few days.”
My question is multi-pronged. I’d like to know for my own information—but also because I want to know how much of that time is going to be spent in the same city as Grant. She’s made it clear she doesn’t want to marry him, but people change their minds every day.
I can’t count how many clients have backed out of divorces at the last minute, suddenly realizing they can’t live without one another for some asinine, unforeseen reason.
The fear of being alone is powerful.
That said, I don’t get the desperate-and-lonely vibes from Brie. She’s present without being clingy. She listens without being over-the-top laser-focused. She doesn’t try to impress me. Nor does she try to paint herself as perfect, the way some people do when they’re trying to come across as the ideal match for someone they’re into.
I shouldn’t waste my time worrying.
She was Grant’s first.
And she can never be mine.
But in this small moment, in these quiet afternoon hours with the city half-empty and the sunshine painting the tops of our heads as we stroll the city blocks … she is mine.
If I can’t touch her, if I can’t want her, at least I have this.
“How much you want to bet Grant will show up at the hospital with flowers?” she asks with a chuckle.
I slide my hands in my front pockets, a feeble move to quell the ache of not being able to slip my arm around her lithe shoulders or rest my palm on the small of her back.
