flowy and ethereal, but when she opened her suitcase, she found she hadn’t packed appropriately, so it was this, her workout clothes, or an athleisure hoodie that she wanted to save for the plane.
As she rode the elevator down to the lobby, she tried to think if she’d ever added Matty to her list of regrets. She wished that she’d reread the 233 items more carefully. He was probably on there somewhere. Nothing sweeping like: Shouldn’t have dumped Matty because he was the love of my life but something smaller like: Should have appreciated his generosity. Though, she pondered as the elevator door dinged open, that’s not such a small thing after all.
She saw him before he saw her, which was the benefit of arriving second. Sometimes, when she was entering a tough negotiation with her colleagues in one of her Senate committees, she (and they) employed this tactic. Arrive last. It made you appear less eager, less ready to compromise. Of course, sometimes you wanted to arrive first, just to let them know that you were a baller. (Being a senator was sometimes confusing. You’d never hear anyone admit to it, but it was true.)
She held her breath, blew it out, then strode through the restaurant to the bar, which was surprisingly crowded on a Sunday night at eight p.m., but Seattle was cool, so maybe no one worked on Monday. She didn’t know.
Cleo tapped him on the shoulder, and he spun around on his stool, startled, like he wasn’t sitting there waiting for her, nursing his beer. Even in the dimmed light, Cleo could see that he looked exactly like he used to, only a little craggier, which served him well. His blond hair was still thick; his stubble hadn’t grayed. He stood to hug her, and he hadn’t shrunk. (Why he would, Cleo didn’t know, but still, she thought it.)
“Clee!” he said with nothing but delight. “I’m so happy to see you. Thanks for reaching out.”
She pulled back from his hug, because Cleo was always the one leaving hugs first, and plunked onto the stool next to him.
“I didn’t know what to order you,” Matty said, an apology. “I couldn’t remember what you would drink.” So still just as nice as ever.
“I didn’t really drink in high school, so you wouldn’t have known.”
“Well, then, that explains it!”
The bartender swooped over, and Cleo ordered a martini.
“I’m glad I didn’t get you something,” Matty said. “I would have guessed wine.”
“In Washington, you need a stiff drink more often than you realize.”
Matty laughed at this, and Cleo relaxed just a little bit. She didn’t even know quite why she was so on edge. Maybe too many ghosts from the past in one weekend. Gaby had thrown her on a plane, and the next thing she knew, she was standing in front of MaryAnne Newman (and the rest of them), and then she was standing in front of her childhood home, and now she was (figuratively) standing in front of a boy whose heart she had broken (rather callously), and she hadn’t really asked for any of this. Cleo swallowed. She did not like to think of herself as a victim, even if it were just a victim of Gaby’s plans. She thought of herself as a woman in charge, in control, both hands on the steering wheel.
So of course she went and ruined whatever ease had just passed between them. “Look, I don’t mean to be a jerk, but I’m confused about you being here.”
He looked confused at her confusion. “Um, you sent me a note on Facebook?”
To which Cleo was even more confused. “I . . . I mean, I don’t really use Facebook. My son set up my account.” She stopped then and realized exactly what had happened. Lucas, her morose, grouchy teenager, was actually the sidekick in her romantic comedy. “Oh. Oh, OK, no, I see. He must have . . .” She waved her hand and wished very much that she had a martini in it.
Matty took out his phone and offered it to her, the message on display. Indeed, she had invited him for drinks at about eight p.m. So he was less of a stalker than she’d thought.
“My kid,” she explained. “He’s out on his own date . . . with MaryAnne’s daughter. And I think he probably felt sorry for me.”
“I don’t mind,” he said. “I’m just happy to see you.” (So, so nice.) “Though that must be weird.”