Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
“No doubt you can. But I’m still going with you, carrying the wine, and walking you home.”
“I can get myself home. I do it, like, gosh, every night,” she says, sarcastic.
And that pisses me off more. “But tonight, you’re not alone.”
“Guess what? Tomorrow I will be,” she spits out.
I grit my teeth, holding in my irritation as I drive down the road. But a few minutes later, turning on my block, I’m still a pot, bubbling over.
Trouble is, that’s not the kind of man I want to be. I can’t let this anger win. When I reach my building, I cut the engine in front of it and turn to Layla. “Just let me,” I say tightly.
Her eyes are icy. “You can’t protect me. You can’t save me from the city. You just can’t.”
“But I still want to,” I say, a new head of steam building inside me. “Why won’t you just let me? Why are you acting like this? Why are you so fucking…”
“What, Nick? Why am I so fucking what?” she challenges.
My god, this woman is older than her years. Tougher than her age. She’s not afraid of anything.
“Cold,” I spit out. “You’re so cold and so…cordial. And so Upper East Side.”
She rolls her eyes. “Is that the issue? That I’m Upper East Side tonight?”
“Yes,” I answer, matchstick. Except, it’s not. I shove a hand through my hair, trying to rewind the night, to sort out my feelings, to fix this mess. “No,” I correct. “The issue is,” I say, then take a breath to collect myself, and when I do, the frustration steps back, and the hurt I’m feeling strides forward. “Why are you shutting me out?”
“You shut me out,” she counters.
“I had to,” I answer.
“I know!” she explodes, then immediately covers her face with her hands, shaking her head, muttering, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Her voice stutters, filling with tears.
In no time, I reach for her, wrap my arms around her. “Baby, I’m sorry too,” I whisper. “I don’t want to fight with you.”
“I don’t want to fight with you either,” she chokes out.
I gather her closer, stroke her hair. She ropes her arms around my neck, tucks her face against my chest. “I was a bitch,” she whimpers.
“No, you weren’t. I was angry,” I admit.
“I was too,” she says. “It’s just so hard with you. Being with you. And not being with you.”
My heart squeezes painfully like someone’s grabbed it, twisted it in a fist. “Same for me.”
“I was just trying to make it through tonight,” she says.
“Me too,” I admit, pulling her impossibly closer.
She snuggles up against me as if she’s seeking the comfort I have to give, the shared apology in our touch.
“I just want…” She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t have to.
I feel the same. “I know. I want that too.”
We stay like that for a few more seconds, letting the heated moment fade some more and turn into something softer, something tender. When I separate from her, she looks up at me, regret in her beautiful blue eyes. “If you still want to, you can walk me home.”
I run the back of my knuckles against her soft cheek. “Yes. I do. At least for tonight.” Then, since I don’t always follow the rules, I offer her a smile and add, “Why don’t we get a bite to eat at Hugo’s while we’re there?”
Her eyes flicker with secret happiness. “Let’s do it.”
29
I AM MY PAST
Layla
We’re finally having our dinner at Hugo’s.
When we walked in to pick up the wine, Nick noticed there was only one table left—a quiet one in the corner, accented with a red-brick wall.
He asked the owner if he could seat us there, and since a reservation had canceled, the table is ours.
It’s perfect for us—friends who are lovers who don’t want to be seen. The lights are low and candles flicker on the table.
It’s a make up dinner in every sense of the word. Making up for the fight and making up for the date we never had when he arrived in the city.
This date won’t end with the promise of another night. In fact, it’ll end far too soon since we’ve just finished a sumptuous meal—a risotto for me and a seared salmon for him, but the best part was a fantastic conversation about trends in customer experiences with apps, the disruptive business models he hunts for, the collaborations I’m doing with Mia. Over a sauvignon blanc with tangerine notes, we didn’t once discuss us or the big obstacle that makes another night like this an impossibility.
That we can’t be a thing.
This is so much better than cold shouldering him. I can’t believe the ice age lasted as long as it did in the car. That was a feat of sheer will on my part. A necessary one though at the time. I lift my glass, swirling the last of the wine. Old standards play softly overhead. Ella Fitzgerald is crooning right now, and the tune gives me a wistful, achy feeling in my heart, especially when she sings about lipstick’s traces. “They’re playing your songs,” I say then take a sip, savoring the taste.