Third Life - Noelle Adams Page 0,29

I’m rambling on like this. Maybe just because Richard seems to really hear me. See me. “But I guess no matter what happens to us in our lives, we’re still always just... us.”

I used to think the thing that would finally change me would be having sex at last, but I was wrong about that. I’m glad I’ve had these weekends with Richard and that I did something I wanted to do, but I’m not any different now. Not really. Not in a way that really counts.

I’m still me. Gillian. Just a Gillian who has had sex.

“Yes,” Richard responds in no more than a murmur. “No matter how we try to be someone else, we’ll always be who we are.”

I look up at him quickly, realizing he’s talking about himself now. He’s changed his name. He’s changed his whole life. He’s lived as someone completely different for who knows how long.

And evidently he still feels like the man he used to be.

Maybe it’s true of everyone.

I let out a long breath and lean my head toward his shoulder, briefly seeking comfort before I remember what we are to each other. I quickly straighten up. “I guess we better get going.”

“Yes. I think it’s time.”

His words sound final to me. I wonder if they are.

FOR A COUPLE OF WEEKS after I get home from Paris, I soak in the lingering pleasure of the trip and remind myself that this might be all I ever get from Richard.

It wouldn’t be a bad thing.

It would probably be safer for my emotional well-being to just leave it at the two weekends we’ve had. I’m generally a self-aware person, and I can feel how easy it would be for me to get attached to him. To start to place hopes on the relationship that could never be realized.

Even knowing better, I could do it. It would be so easy for me to start dreaming. And then what’s been fun and thrilling and incredibly satisfying would end up breaking my heart.

I’m not going to let it happen.

So whenever I feel my thoughts drifting in that direction, I bring them to a forceful halt.

This is probably the end. I had felt Richard’s hesitance in our last hour together in Paris, and I remember the finality in his tone when he’d said it was time. It wasn’t accidental. Nothing Richard says or does is ever accidental, and one thing was very clear from our last conversation. He didn’t want me to ask for more than we have.

I’m never going to do that. I’m not going to be that woman. And not because I don’t want to do it to him. I don’t want to do it to myself.

So as I’m coming home on a Friday evening three weeks after my return from Paris, I’m thinking about the job I just completed. About the huge check I received for some really good work. About the date I had last week. I decided to try another dating app, and I made a connection with a local accountant. He’s nice. Decent-looking. Smart and with a sense of humor.

He’s not Richard, but no one is Richard. I’m certainly not going to be stupid enough to start comparing the guys in my real life with him.

The date went pretty well. He gave me a hug and a brief kiss at the end of it, looking like he felt a little awkward. I understand feeling awkward, so I fully sympathized. I wouldn’t mind going out with him again. I’m wondering if he’ll ask me.

I’m not thinking about Richard at all when I stop to check my post office box down the block from my apartment. I freeze when I see the box.

It’s the same size as the other one Richard sent.

I’m shaking and holding my breath as I reach in to take it. I don’t open it right there, even though I’m tempted. I’m a jittery mess as I walk the few minutes back to my place and head up to the third floor. I unlock my apartment door. Drop my stuff on the table in the entryway.

Then I grab the box and rip it open.

Inside is another champagne flute. This one is from the Paris hotel. One of those we used to drink the champagne on the Saturday evening of our weekend there.

It’s packed just as beautifully and delicately as the previous one he sent me. I lift out the packaging to discover another hotel brochure. This one is in San Diego.

I find