I’d left my bag by the door when we came in, and now he follows my alarmed gaze. He bends carefully to hook a finger under the strap, bringing it with him as he straightens.
“I know you don’t do seconds,” he says, extending the bag as I approach. “Or thirds or fourths, but you can’t say goodbye?”
I take the bag and fish out a piece of gum. “You were sleeping,” I mutter. I jump when he tucks my hair behind my ear.
“I was tired.”
I clear my throat and avoid his stare. “You should go back to bed.”
“I wanted to say goodbye.”
I meet his gaze. “Okay. goodbye.”
“I had a nice time, Denise.”
I try not to scowl. “Thanks. Me too.”
His chest moves when he laughs. “I’ll bet. Let’s do this again sometime.”
I sigh. “Look. I know I told you I don’t do seconds then came here anyway, but I meant it. This was... unusual, but that’s it. It’s over.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
He lifts a shoulder. “It doesn’t have to be sex. Let’s go to a movie. A museum. Hell, let’s just go for a walk. I’ll buy you an ice cream.”
“It’s February.”
“I know.”
I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
He’s quiet for a second, then he nods before twisting the deadbolt and pulling open the door.
I stare at the carpet in the hall as I exit, trying to remember which way we came from, but Chris leads the way to the elevator bank, barefoot, pushing the button for me.
“You don’t have to wait.”
He rests against the wall and taps his toes. “I don’t mind.”
I feel stupid and antsy and hunt around in my bag until I find my car keys.
“Fleischmann’s Park,” he says.
I freeze, the keys clutched tight in my fingers. “What?”
“Fleischmann’s Park,” he says again. “There’s an ice cream place by the pond, it’s open year-round. They have—”
“I know.” It takes everything in me not to react. Not to run down the hall and into the stairwell and all the way out to the street. Fleischmann’s Park is famous for far more than a fucking ice cream parlor. I jab the elevator button.
“How about Thursday?” he asks. “I’ve got the day off.”
Why would he suggest Fleischmann’s, out of every place in the city?
I study him, hoping my suspicion and desperation don’t show through, but he’s just examining his fingernails, frowning slightly.
The elevator dings as it arrives, the doors gliding open.
“I guess that’s a no.” His eyes crinkle at the corner when he smiles, unoffended.
Don’t do it, I tell myself as I get into the empty car. Nobody wants ice cream in February. I stare at the panel of buttons and stab the one for the second level of the parkade.
“I’ll meet you at the west entrance,” I say, when the doors start to close.
Chris looks surprised, straightening from his slouched stance to grab the doors and hold them open. “Wait.”
I push his fingers away. “Don’t try to kiss me,” I warn. If he tries any romantic bullshit, I’ll be sick.
He just laughs. “I was going to ask what time.”
I blink. Oh. “Two o’clock.”
“All right.” He steps back as the doors glide shut. “Two it is. Sweetheart.”
6
WHAT AM I DOING BACK here? My determined stride turns into a less-determined shuffle as I approach the wrought-iron gates that mark the west entrance to Fleischmann’s Park. If Holden was originally built as Manhattan’s little sister, Fleischmann’s is our version of Central Park. Smaller, and with far fewer tourists, it’s a sanctuary in the middle of the city, with the requisite pond and boats, gardens, and drug users.
Today it’s sunny but cold, my breath just visible in the air. I jam my hands in the pockets of my black parka and peer around, my standard brand of paranoia, even though I’m wearing oversized sunglasses that hide my face. When I first started venturing out in public again, I wore sunglasses everywhere, even indoors. Still, there were times I’d abandon half-full grocery carts in the middle of the dairy aisle to run back to my car and sob hysterically, certain I was having a heart attack. Now I understand that my heart is fine; it’s everything else that’s wrong.
“There you are.”
I turn to see Chris approaching. He has a blue wool hat pulled over his ears and a thick green jacket to ward against the cold. He’s wearing jeans and boots again, and three years ago I never would have noticed him. I saw suits. Cufflinks. Chauffeurs. Now I can’t look away.