I place Pippa’s coffee down in front of her and take a seat beside her, sipping on my own drink.
“Were you hungover this morning?” I ask. “I felt like death.”
She snorts. “Morning my ass, Aiden. I didn’t leave until after noon and you were still passed out. That’s what we get for drinking until the wee hours. You’re the lucky one though, right? You don’t have half a day of traveling ahead of you.”
I half-smile and nod, but in my head, I’m immediately trying to figure out if she means a literal half day—and if so, which cities are a twelve-hour trip from here, if you account for the drive to the airport, the security checks, the travel on the other side. As I’m trying to work out whether she’s the type to check in two hours early or right at the last second, she waves her hand in front of my face.
“What?” I say, noting her expectant look.
“I asked what you have planned for tonight,” she says, her head slightly tilted. “Still a little hungover?”
“A little,” I say, nodding and taking another sip of coffee. “I’ll probably just find something to watch and stay in. I’m too old for all these late nights, now.”
She laughs. “You’re twenty-eight,” she says. “Get a grip.”
We laugh together, and for a while, it breaks through the unspoken tension that’s been lingering between us since she walked in. We manage to talk a couple of hours away, sharing opinions about TV shows and movies. She is aghast that I’ve never watched Titanic, and I can’t believe she’s never seen The Shawshank Redemption.
“It’s the best movie of all time, for Christ’s sake!” I say, exasperated. Our laughter is interrupted by a loud honking from outside. We both turn and look out the window to see a cab sitting there, its engine running. The driver gets out and walks carefully around to open the trunk.
“Well, that’s me,” says Pippa. She pushes her long-cold cup away from the edge of the table and gets up, and I follow.
My heart sinks. I have to fight harder than I’d like to against the nagging feeling that this is the part in the movie where the guy declares his undying love for the girl and pulls some huge gesture out of nowhere to make her stay. But this isn’t a movie, and I’m not that guy. This is real life, and sometimes it just sucks.
“I had a great time,” she says. She looks almost awkward.
“Pippa?” the cab driver calls, poking his head through the door. She waves to him.
“Me, too,” I say, for want of far more fitting words. A great time doesn’t even begin to cover it.
“These yours, darlin’?” the cabbie asks, gesturing to her bags. She nods, and he starts to drag them out to the car.
My heart is beating faster now that the moment is here. She looks uncertain of what to do, so I make the decision for her.
“The time of my life,” I tell her, stepping closer. I push a stray strand of hair out of her face and she looks up. Her huge, blue eyes look almost watery, but it’s probably just wishful thinking on my part.
I lean down and kiss her, gently at first, pressing my lips to hers and enjoying the softness as I sink into it. I snake my arm around her waist and pull her closer, kiss her deeper. She opens for me just as she has so many times over the last week, and leans into me, as though she trusts me with her very life. It’s perfect. A perfect moment to end a perfect week with a perfect girl.
The trunk of the cab slams closed just as we break reluctantly apart.
“Better go,” she says, her voice slightly shaky.
I nod, against my better judgment. “Better go,” I agree, and give her one last kiss on her forehead.
She takes a deep breath and straightens her shoulders like she’s steeling herself, then steps back.
“Right,” she says. “Bye, Aiden. Stay awesome.”
“Bye, Pip,” I say, and like a prime asshole, I stand there and watch her walk out of the door. I have a view of her profile as she smiles at the cab driver and gets in without glancing back. The door of the cab closes, a clump of pure white snow falls from the side mirror into the dirty, slushy puddle below, and the car pulls away. And just like that, she’s gone.
Forever.
Pippa
December 10, 2018
I run my hands one last time down the sides of the sculpture, over what will eventually be the waist of a mermaid. I’ve been commissioned to make this statue for a children’s hospital on the other side of the city. I’ve taken to working with mixed materials over the last couple of years, and the results are strewn all around me here in my studio, but they wanted this one done entirely in clay. It’s nice to get back to basics.
My thumbs drag inward, molding as they go. I release the pressure slowly, making sure I have just the right curve to lead into the huge tail that will be the focus of the piece. At least for anyone who knows anything about sculpture. The kids will love the open, smiling face the most—at least, that’s my hope.
“Knock, knock.”
The voice makes me jump, but I recognize it almost immediately.
“Val!” I say, delighted. I remove my hands from my work and pick up my cloth to wipe away the clay. “I didn’t know you were coming by this evening. Did you get off early?”
It’s 5:30 pm, so hardly early, but by Valerie’s standards it’s practically a half-day.
“Nah,” she says, shaking her head. “I was at a meeting just a couple of blocks away, so I figured I’d call in and see my BFF before I head back to the office.”
“Ah,” I say, a little disappointed that she’s not staying. “Good meeting?”
“Yeah,” she says. “It’s a new client. One that came over with the merger.”
“The new big-shot partner?” I ask.
“Equity partner, yeah. He’s starting in the office tomorrow. It’s a whole load of work. Everything’s crazy right now.”
“You think he’s going to be a taskmaster, then?” I ask, looking at her with concern. She works quite enough already. She’s barely ever at home in our shared apartment, other than to sleep.
She shrugs and shakes her head. “Not according to Alex. You remember him from college? He was in my class. I think he came to our Halloween party in senior year.”
“The tall guy with the glasses? Red hair?”
“That’s him. He’s been working for this guy down in Chicago. Apparently, he’s pretty chilled out as long as things get done. Relaxed management style but great at what he does. I guess he’d have to be. He’s starting on 5 mill a year, before PPP.”
“Five million dollars?” I splutter, wide-eyed. “What’s PPP?”
“Profits per partner. He gets a share of whatever the company makes. He’s only twenty-nine, too.”
“Shit, ask him if he needs any sculptures!” I laugh.
Valerie laughs too, and eyes the piece I’ve been working on. “This is looking great, Pips,” she says, nodding to it. “It’s the one for the kids’ hospital, right? It’s really taking shape now.”
I move a couple of steps to stand beside her so I have the same vantage point she does. I’ve been deep into it for a few hours, sculpting the general shapes and curves, and this is the first time I’m getting a proper look at it.
“Yeah, it’s not actually that bad,” I say, nodding.
“High praise,” says Valerie, deadpan. “But it’s nice to see you getting into it again.”
It’s true that I haven’t really been able to find my mojo. Not since the ski trip back in March. I came back and wallowed at home for a couple of weeks, triggering an intervention from Valerie. I quit drinking alcohol, got back into the gym, and cleaned up my diet. I’m even meditating every day. I’ve lost a little weight, even if the last few pounds hanging around my tummy are the most stubborn thing in the world. Despite practically living the Eat, Pray, Love lifestyle ever since, I still haven’t really found myself able to come up with ideas for original pieces. Thoughts of Aiden have been too invasive and too frequent. I feel a little embarrassed to still be thinkin
g about a week-long vacation fling, all this time later.
I did go on a few dates back in August, after much nagging from Valerie, but they were all complete disasters. Despite my best intentions, I ended up judging every guy against the standard Aiden set, and they all ended up looking like shadows by comparison.
“I’m going to make a lasagne when I get home,” I say, feeling a sudden need to change the subject. “I’ll leave a plate in the microwave.”
“You’re the best,” says Val, checking the phone that just buzzed in her purse. “And alas, I have to get back.” She leans in to kiss me on the cheek, and I give her a quick squeeze.
“See you later.”
“Be good,” she says, and heads back out, calling “Don’t work too late!” without even a hint of irony.
After she’s gone, I take one last look at the piece I’ve been working on and decide that Valerie is right. It’s a good place to stop. I’ll come back tomorrow and start working on the details. Cutting and applying a gazillion clay scales by hand isn’t a job to start on a Monday evening. I wash my hands, tidy up my tools, and lock up the studio.
I usually get a bus home or call a cab, but the air outside is crisp and wintry, and with Christmas only a couple of weeks away I decide to walk, thinking it might help get me into the holiday spirit. Besides, my feet have been swelling a little lately when I stand still for too long in the studio, so I could probably do with getting some more exercise. It’ll take an hour, and I’ll have to walk by the swanky out-of-town bars and restaurants that all popped up a few years ago when some hipsters from the city decided that this area was “quaint”, but I’m sure they’ll all be too busy with their own thing to pay much attention to the scruffy, clay-smeared combat pants I have on.
It’s rather pleasant, actually. There’s a coffee stand just down the street from the studio, so I stop by and get a cup to warm my hands as I walk. Fingerless gloves are great for wearing in the studio when it’s cold, but terrible for actually keeping your fingers warm.
The streets are all decorated with twinkling lights, and the pre-Christmas party season is in full swing. Office workers still in their suits spill out of bars and into the street to light up cigarettes, with festive music floating out behind them. I glance through all the windows, noting the differences between the bars. Some are rowdy and full of wait staff in casual gear, and some are much more upmarket, with waiters in dress pants and shirts. In one place, they even wear cummerbunds as part of their uniform.
It’s a glance into one of the more expensive-looking places that stops me dead in my tracks. My brows rise in surprise before my mind has had time to catch up, and I look again. My breath hitches. I blink, hard, and feel cold on my fingertips before I even realize I’ve touched the window.
Him.
There, sitting at a table across from a woman with beautiful blonde hair swept up into an elegant twist, is Aiden. My Aiden, I think, before I can catch myself.
It was a week-long fling, and it was months ago. And I asked him, again and again, to let it be no more than that. And he’s gorgeous. Of course he’s having dinner with some elegant supermodel-type in some swanky restaurant. Maybe he’s been with her since before March. It’s not like I asked. And yet, despite knowing how crazy and inappropriate it is, I feel a knot of jealousy tie itself into my gut.
I’m transfixed, watching him chat and sip wine. There’s a smoker standing beside me, puffing fumes in my direction. It stinks, and he’s staring at me, but I’m too wrapped up in this sudden vision of Aiden to be bothered by it.
The smoke clears from in front of me and I can see him again, laughing, and then the laugh freezes on his face. He’s looking right at me, and I can tell in an instant that he’s recognized me.
“Shit,” I hiss, feeling my throat constrict suddenly. My heart is fluttering in my chest like a captive bird, and I quickly pull back from the window. I’m not over him. Not even a little bit. As much as I’ve tried to kid myself these last few months, it took only a split second of seeing him for me to realize what a lie that was. And I really don’t want him to introduce me to the blonde supermodel as an “old friend”, or whatever other cliche he might come up with.
I tuck my chin to my chest, barge past the smoker with a muttered apology, and walk away from the restaurant as quickly as my aching feet will carry me.
Aiden
“Cheers, Lexi,” I say, holding up my wineglass to toast the woman sitting opposite me, for the third time tonight. She looks stunning in her tailored suit, with her hair swept up high on her head. But then, she always looks stunning.
“Cheers,” she replies, beaming at me. “I still can’t believe you’re finally here!”
“I can,” I say, with a wry smile. “I wrote my first rent check yesterday, and it sure as hell reminded me that I’ve arrived in New York.”
“It’s a lovely place, though. The bed is so comfortable. I could barely drag myself out of it this morning. Do yo—”
She’s interrupted by the arrival of the waiter at the table, who’s come to bring us the wine Lexi chose from the menu. I should have known one bottle wouldn’t be enough for the two of us. The waiter turns the bottle around so the label is facing us, and for a moment I’m thrown off balance. I recognize it from the lodge. It’s the very same wine, from the same year, as the bottle I shared with Pippa on that last night in the cabin.
The memory is sudden and evocative. I can smell the burning fire, hear the sound of her laugh, taste the slight saltiness of the skin just below her navel.
“AIDEN!”
Lexi’s voice startles me out of my daydream and I look over to her. “Huh?”
“I asked if you wanted to try it.”
“Oh,” I say, looking up at the waiter with a short shake of my head. “No, thanks. Go ahead.”
“Do you think you’ll buy somewhere in the city?” Lexi asks as the waiter pours into two fresh glasses.
“Mmm,” I say, still half distracted. I force myself out of my memories, determined to give Lexi my full attention. She is here and Pippa is not, and I have no desire to be rude. “Maybe. Depends how the new job goes. I’ve taken a big risk.”
“For a big reward,” Lexi interjects.
She’s always been an ambitious go-getter. You don’t co-found one of the most successful women’s magazines in the country by being a content little wallflower. Lexi always looks amazing, always has designer this or on-trend that, but it’s mostly because she has to keep up appearances for her job. Deep down, she’s a sweetheart.
“How’s work?” I ask, changing the subject, and she’s off.
All the way through the appetizer and halfway through the entrée, she regales me with tales about her magazine, the shenanigans of the staff and the latest celebrity gossip. I gasp and laugh in all the right places, as I gradually forget about Pippa and start to enjoy being in the moment with Lexi again. She tells me one story about a famous power couple who ended up having the cops called on them when they had a huge fight in front of their very large mansion on their very upmarket Beverly Hills street, and—just as I’m thinking she won’t be able to top that—another one about a well-known actor who ended up in the ER with a deodorant canister stuck up his rear.
I’m still laughing when my eye happens to catch a face looking through the window. For a moment, as my mind tries to make sense of what it’s seeing, time seems to stand still. I can feel the smile fall from my lips as a shock wave washes over me. It can’t be her. It can’t be. The odds of her actually being at that window are so astronomical that it’s seriously more likely that I’ve just gone mad. I blink, half-expecting her face to vanish in that instant, but when I open my eyes, she’s still there. Those beautiful blue eyes are wide and locked with mine, and every sinew of my body is suddenly coiled like a spring.
“Aiden?” Lexi says, but her voice comes to me like it’s traveling through a thick fog.
I blink again and Pippa is gone, but I see the tail end of her scarf
as it disappears from view. Without another thought, I jump to my feet. I hear the clonk of a wine glass toppling, and Lexi gasps.
“No,” I say, low and determined. There’s a shattering sound and a murmuring around us. A fussing waiter appears, dabbing at my wine-covered pants. My blood is running hot and my mind is filled with nothing but the desire to catch her. This must be how a predator feels when their prey spots them and bolts. And now she has a head start.
“Not again,” I hear myself growl. I shove past the waiter and stalk across the restaurant, past the staring diners and out into the bitterly cold night.
Pippa
“Excuse me,” I hiss as I round the corner, trying to squeeze myself through the crowd.
I don’t know where I’m going, but I know I have to go. My heart is hammering after seeing him, but the sight of the beautiful woman sitting opposite him, looking so natural and so comfortable with him, has left a deep sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Better not to have seen him. Better if I scrub this from my memory and pretend it never happened.
“Hey, watch it!” says a woman in a stunning black dress as I pass. I shoot her an apologetic smile, but she looks me up and down, notes the clay stains all over my baggy pants, and gives me a withering look.
“Here,” says a man as I turn around. I look up at him, note the expression of pity on his face, and before I can say anything he’s dropped a few coins into my coffee cup.
Mortifying. But there’s no time to stop and tell him I’m an artist—not a homeless person—because even this won’t be as mortifying as if Aiden catches me. Even as I press on, squeezing here and ducking there, drawing scornful protests and contemptuous looks from those I barrel past, I’m angry at myself for even thinking that he would leave the cozy little restaurant with that stunning blonde to come after me.
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