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If anything, my explanation left him looking more puzzled. The fact that we were in the midst of our second conversation and he showed no sign of recognizing me, didn’t come as a surprise. I looked nothing like I had that night.
Gone were the sophisticated clothes I’d purchased for my first-ever international policy conference in London and then never wore again. In their place, I had on a sensible, wrinkle-resistant black pantsuit, a short-sleeve white blouse, and comfortable black pumps with a one-inch heel. Instead of the contacts I’d had in when I last saw this man, I was wearing my round, tortoise-shell glasses that caused less eyestrain when I spent hours upon hours reading. And, like most days, my hair was bone straight instead of falling down my back in soft waves as it had that night.
The other thing—while the man in front of me had been my sole indiscretion, the only one-night stand I’d had in my life, there was no doubt that I was one of countless for him.
A car pulled up at the curb beside us. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?”
Could I sit in such close proximity to him when he had no recollection of how he’d rocked my world one night three years ago? “No, I’ll just wait for the next bus, but thank you.”
He studied me as though that response confused him as much as my referring to his eyes as the color of a plant. “Where are you going?”
“MIT.” I pointed down Mass Ave. “You know, in Cambridge.”
“I do know. I’m going there myself.”
“Really?”
“I’d hardly lie about it.”
I looked at the time on my phone again. It was speeding by, and I was going to be late if I didn’t accept his offer of a ride, and that would be even if I called for my own car service.
“If you’re sure it wouldn’t be an imposition.”
“It wouldn’t.”
His voice, the one that had played over and over again in my head in the months that followed our sexcapades, didn’t sound anything like what I remembered. Instead of being suave and sexy, he was clipped and curt. I remembered him being cocky, not rude.
He opened the door and picked up all three of my bags, motioning for me to get in. Before I could scoot to the far side of the back-passenger seat, he closed the door and walked around to the other side.
“Sir,” the man behind the wheel said when my Mister One-Nighter got in. Before my backseat companion could tell him where we were going, the driver sped off.
On the best of days, like Sundays at four in the morning, it took me seven minutes to get from my apartment to my office. Today I’d be there in under five at the rate the man otherwise employed as a Nascar driver was going. The last time I’d felt this carsick was on Mister Toad’s Wild Ride at Disneyland.
“You can drop me at this corner,” I said when the driver pulled up at the intersection of Memorial and Wadsworth. “Thank you for the ride.” I realized then that he hadn’t introduced himself, and neither had I. However, I had been preoccupied with me remembering him and him not remembering me—along with not hurling my breakfast on the floor of the car.
I turned to shake his hand and thank him properly, but he’d already climbed out the other side of the car and was holding my three bags.
“I’m Emme,” I said when he opened my door and I got out of the car.
“Lennox,” he answered.
Hmm. Lennox? Not Lynx as he’d introduced himself that night?Interesting.
“Shall we?” he asked so abruptly that it pushed my annoyance over the edge.
“It was nice to meet you, although you look very familiar to me. Like maybe we’ve met before.” I gave him time to acknowledge having the same recollection I had. When he didn’t, I prompted him further. “Do I look at all familiar to you?”
Still no response. Wait. What was he doing? When I turned around, I caught him looking at himself in the window of my building. How could he possibly remember me when he was so busy admiring his own reflection?
God, what did I expect? Hadn’t I just reminded myself that I was probably only one on a miles-and-miles-long list of one-night conquests for the man I’d met in a hotel bar? I should be happy he didn’t recognize me.
When I walked away, he followed, reminding me he still had my bags. “This is my building.” I held out my hands, which he ignored.
“Mine as well.”
“Oh…um…which department?”
“International Policy. I have a meeting with Dr. Charles.”
