It’s not a no, but it sure as hell isn’t any closer to a yes.
“Why? We’re chatting. We’re getting along.” I push, like I would in a business negotiation. “How could it be bad to have one drink with me?”
“Because it’s too easy with you,” she says.
“What?” I furrow my brow. “That makes no sense. What’s too easy?”
“Talking to you. Chatting. It’s all too easy.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It might be a bad thing,” she says, her tone soft.
“We were always good at talking, Delaney.”
“I know,” she says softly, but with a hint of longing I latch onto.
“We were good at a lot of things,” I say, low and husky. “Remember that time in the library?”
“Which one?” Her tone turns a little breathy, and that sound encourages me. We’re not at no after all, and I’ve got to keep trying.
“Every time,” I say, my mind awash in a deliciously dirty image of her backed up against the shelves, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted in an O, her hair wild. She bit my neck to muffle the noise as she came hard. “But especially that afternoon when you wore that little red skirt, and we got to know exactly how sturdy the books on the French Revolution were.”
A small whimper seems to escape her. But then, just as quickly, she seems to reel it in, cloaking her weak moment with a quip and a light laugh. “The barricades of books all came tumbling down.” Her voice shifts to pragmatic. “But still, I’m not sure—”
I’m not resting my case so easily. I’ve got plenty of evidence to present to her.
“How about the afternoon in the English lecture hall? The professor left, and it was just you and me in the back row. We loved being sneaky, loved those stolen moments,” I say, and a flash of images pops before my eyes. Delaney’s hand slipping inside my jeans, those wild eyes lit with desire, her mouth finding my ear, begging to do it right then and there. “We were damn good at all of that, too.”
“Tyler,” she says with a sigh. “Why are you doing this? We both know we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. That’s not up for debate. We don’t need to go tripping back in time.”
“Why am I doing this?” I repeat. “Because I know we were good together. But do you know we were good together?” I turn the question back to her, like the counselor I am.
She relents a touch. “Yes, we were good together.”
“Then have a drink with me.”
“Why? For old time’s sake?” Her tone is softer now, inviting. Maybe I’ve knocked a brick free from her wall.
This is as much of an opening as I’m going to get, so I grab hold of it. “For old times and new times. C’mon. Say yes. You know you want to.”
She scoffs. “Are you kidding me?”
I furrow my brow, wondering what I’d said. “No. I’m deadly serious.”
“You know you want to? You are un-freaking-believable,” she says with a laugh, but not the good kind of laugh.
I groan, dropping my forehead into my palm. Just when I thought I was getting close with her. “Sure sounded like you wanted to,” I mumble.
She huffs. “Maybe I did. But then you act all cocky and pushy, saying you know what I want.”
“I’m not being cocky.”
“You were. You always were so sure of yourself. As if I can’t possibly have any other opinion than wanting to have a drink with you.”
“You are more than welcome to have another opinion. But I’m not going to apologize for wanting that opinion to be yes. I want to see you. How hard is that to understand?”
“We don’t always get what we want, Tyler. How hard is that to understand?”
“It’s not hard. And even if you’re pissed at me, I still want you to say yes.”
“Why? So you can win this one, too? Is this your latest debate with me? Do you think I’ll say yes if you remind me how good we were in bed? That you rocked my world in the sheets, and in the stacks, and in the back row of English class? Did you think you’d just strip for me and all my brain cells would evaporate when you showed me your magic cock?”
“No. But would that work?”
She laughs, and I can’t tell if it’s a “you’re ridiculous” snort, or a “just try me” chuckle. “I bet you’d like to know.” Then she’s no longer laughing. Instead, she sighs, and her words are laced with sadness. “You haven’t even said you were sorry for the way you hurt me. We had plans, Tyler. Plans. You upended all of that. Every last thing.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, desperately earnest. “I swear, I’m sorry.”
“It’s a little late, isn’t it? Maybe you should have said that eight years ago.”
“Maybe I should have. But maybe if you see me in person I can say it properly, and you’ll believe it.”
“I’m not really sure why you think saying it properly is the key.” She tosses my words back at me. “Meaning it is what matters.”
Later, I meet Simon for a drink at Speakeasy. This time, I don’t serve up the situation with my usual bravado. I simply tell him what went down. He’s smart, and he also has a reputation for being upfront and honest. He has a young daughter, and he recently fell in love with his daughter’s nanny. She’s madly in love with him, too. If anyone knows women, it’s this guy.
“Give me your advice. What do I do?”
He takes a drink of his beer then sets it down. “She’s telling you that you need a grand gesture to get back in the game.”
I nod. “Got it. I’m at the plate. I need to swing for the fences.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Sorry, man. You don’t even have a ticket to the game now. You’re wandering around the parking lot, begging scalpers, and even they won’t sell to you. You need a grand gesture just to get into the ballpark. Something to get her to notice you. Something to remind her why she once loved you.”
I flash back to the phone call from earlier. To what Delaney might want from me.
I grab my beer, knock back a thirsty gulp, and slap the glass onto the bar. “You’re right. Go big or go home.”
And in an instant, I know what to do.
5
Delaney
* * *
Nicole was right.
Trevor is a hottie.
And a smartypants.
And he’s interesting to talk to.
After work on Wednesday evening, we meet outside Central Park, grab some kabobs at a food truck called Skewered just inside the park entrance, then stroll and chat.
Trevor is a former brewmaster who now hosts a popular online video series about beer, mostly the craft kind. He travels around the country, visits different breweries, and taste tests the beer.
“Toughest part of the job?” I ask.
He takes a bite of a chicken kabab then answers. “The spitting. Honestly, I’d have to say it’s the constant spitting after the tasting.”
I laugh. “Do you have to carry a bucket with you? Or do you prefer an old-fashioned spittoon?”
He holds up a finger. “Actually, I’m quite advanced. I have a custom mug that says ‘When in doubt, spit it out.’” His smile lights up his handsome face and his light blue eyes.
I arch an eyebrow. “Do you really have a mug?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Nah. The truth is far less glamorous. I just spit into a glass.”
“Ever wish you could swallow?” I ask, then nibble on the grilled eggplant on a stick that I ordered.
He cracks up. “I can say with confidence that I do not want to swallow. Or spit. If you know what I mean,” he says, and I nod playfully, letting him know I sure do. “When the brew is delicious, I’ve been known to go into mourning over not being able to consume it. But I can’t spend every day drunk, so spitting it is.” He finishes his chicken and tosses the stick into a trashcan. “What about you, Delaney? What do you like most about your work in massage?”
He meets my eyes, and everything about Trev
or seems earnest, upfront, and truthful. I can honestly say this is one of the better dates I’ve been on in a long time. Usually, I can pick up in the first hour the warning signs that the guy will lie, sleep around, or bug the ever-loving hell out of me. Trevor seems like . . . the real deal. And he’s easy on the eyes, too, with his dark blond hair, his lean frame, and his baby blues.
Which means he’s got to be hiding one hell of a skeleton in his closet. Surely something will go wrong any second. I’ve never had a date this comfortable.
“What I like most is that I can effect change, often immediately. Someone comes into the massage room, puts their stress, or pain, or discomfort in my hands, and I’m able to help heal them.”
He nods. “I like that answer. You’re something of a fix-it woman.”
“Maybe in some ways I am,” I say as we reach the edge of the path.
Then we both stop at the same moment and bend down at the same time. We’ve got the same damn target in our crosshairs. “You want to call dibs on the plastic bag pickup or should I?”
His smile spreads across his face. “I’ll do it. You get the next one. Deal?”
“Deal,” I say, and Trevor doubles back to toss the plastic bag in the trash can.
A burst of excitement spreads inside me. Nicole called it at the café. She said we had a lot in common, and I rarely meet guys who pick up trash in the park, like I do. It’s a little thing, but it’s part of my contribution to the planet.
We wander through the paths some more, enjoying the warm summer air, chatting about work and friends, and when we leave the oasis in the middle of Manhattan, Trevor tells me he wants to see me again.
“I’d love to see you, too,” I say.
He strokes his chin. “The thing is,” he says, and I tense, figuring this is when I learn he has a secret meth lab in his apartment or an estranged wife who’s hunting him down. “I have to go out of town for a week. I’m leaving Sunday.”
And the answer is none of the above. Which means Trevor might live a skeleton-free existence.
I shrug happily. “Just let me know when you want to get together again. Text me when you return?” I’m all about no pressure at this stage of the game.
He taps his finger to his lips. “I’d love to see you before I go. I have a business dinner on Friday. Any chance you’re free tomorrow or Saturday?”
Well, we’ve got an eager beaver here. “I work late on Thursday, and Saturday night is Girls’ Night Out.”
“Girls’ Night Out is a holy day,” he says, and I smile since he totally gets it.
“It’s sacred. It’s protected in the Constitutional Girl Code.” I don’t miss Girls’ Night Out for anyone. My friends are my rock, my family away from home.
“Then let’s get together when I return from the beer festival. I’m the emcee and a judge.”
“Sounds like fun. Just don’t make the contestants cry with your withering commentary,” I tease.
“I promise to be the non-dickhead judge.” He returns to the issue of scheduling. “How about the Monday night after I return next Sunday?”
Wow. This guy is raring to go. What a nice treat. “Sounds perfect, Trevor.”
He pumps a fist happily. “Excellent. I had such a great time with you, Delaney.” His smile grows big and wide. “I truly can’t wait to see you again. Can I give you a good-bye kiss?” he asks with a cute quirk of his lips.
And he’s polite, too, as well as adorable, even though he’s more gung-ho than I’m used to. But it’s a welcome change not to play games.
“Sure,” I say, pressing my lips together in anticipation. I hope he’s a good kisser. I hope he gives me one of those trip-the-light-fantastic kisses. The kind that’s barely there, just a promise of what’s to come. The kind that sets off sparklers in your chest as you long for more.
I rise up on tiptoe the slightest bit. Ready for a kiss. As early evening traffic whips by on Central Park West, he lowers his face to me, and I wait.
Then he presses his lips to my forehead.
Okkkkaaaaaay.
Nothing wrong with a little forehead action, I suppose.
“Until the next time,” he whispers.
As we head our separate directions, I wait for the butterflies to take flight.
My belly is pretty much butterfly-free, but I’m sure that’s because it was a forehead kiss.
Besides, you can’t really tell about chemistry on the first date.
Surely sizzles and sparks are a second or third date phenomenon.
As I walk home, I send myself a note. Ask Nicole and Penny when butterflies make their damn appearance.
That’ll be a good topic for our night out.
As I get ready for bed, I crank up the music on my phone, blasting my favorite band, Guns N’ Roses. As Axl croons about eyes of the bluest sky, I replay parts of my date. Scrubbing off my makeup, I flash back to the ease of the conversation, to Trevor’s interest in my work, to that little moment with the plastic bag.
I weigh what those might mean and if they harbor any insight into what the next date will be like.
But as I sink into bed, the day washed off, I spot an email and my mind switches to a whole new topic. In a split second, I turn off the music. I can’t listen to the hair bands I love while I read this note. I straighten, my nerves snapping tight as I slide open the message in silence.
* * *
Dear Ms. Stewart,
* * *
Hope you’re having a good week. I expect to have some information for you soon on the whereabouts of your father. Hang tight.
* * *
Best,
* * *
Joe Thomas, PI
* * *
My stomach roils as I read the note. It’s been more than eight years since I’ve talked to my father—courtesy of that pivotal “congratulations on law school” phone call—and sixteen years since I’ve seen him. The last time I set eyes on the man was the afternoon he shut the door behind him.
He kept in touch—if you can even call it that—with emails on holidays and birthdays. So thoughtful, I know. But that contact dwindled after college. The last I heard, he’d moved to Oregon and shacked up with a new woman. Then he married her and didn’t invite us to his wedding. I would have been the worst flower girl anyway, considering I’m no fan of the groom, so that wasn’t a huge loss in the scheme of things.
The loss, though, was the end of contact with my father.
I don’t know if he’s in Oregon, or if he and his new bride decided to, say, set sail across the seven seas. Move to Peru to build homes. Escape to Canada.
I’ve no clue.
But since I’m turning thirty in a few more weeks, I decided now was as good a time as any to find out what had become of the man who gave me his last name. Watching someone who’s supposed to love you to the moon and back slam the door on his family can give you a warped sense of, well, of everything. My recent dating woes surely cast their lines back to the day that I heard the screech of his tires backing out of the driveway.
I don’t wonder if he’s dead or alive. If he’d died, news would have traveled back to me.
That’s not why I’m on the hunt.
I’m searching now because I want to know what happened to the man who left. Maybe then I can better understand what to make of the moment with the plastic bag and Trevor.
Not to mention the salad and the lilacs from Tyler.
6
Tyler
* * *
Details are my friends.
Loopholes are my bedfellows.
And detours are often the way I get where I want to go.
I’ve mastered all three for work. While my cousin has often said I charge out of the gate when it comes to work, he’s also acknowledged that I’m in love with details, and they counterbalance my relentless pursuit of unconventional deals.
All those tools are in my arsenal on Thursday morning.
I dress for work. Charcoal gray slacks. A black leathe
r belt. A crisp white shirt. And a forest green tie. It’s too warm to wear a jacket, and who needs one these days anyway?
I grab my phone and wallet and leave my apartment, sliding on my sunglasses, since the big yellow orb in the sky is shining brightly. I take that as a good sign as I walk across town, passing the usual neighborhood haunts—the bodega on the corner, the dry cleaners, the organic café.
All around me, New Yorkers are talking, walking, moving. I was born and raised in Los Angeles, but this city energizes me like no place else as I put one foot after the other on the pavement. I’m not a car person; I’m a man who gets around by foot, quickly and with purpose.
Today’s goal is singular.
Some might call it a Hail Mary.
Some might say it’s a leap off a cliff.
I say it’s a strategic bid for a second chance. The past week on the phone with Delaney—however brief—has only cemented this desire. I loved her like crazy in college, and when we talk now, I can still hear the parts of her that I fell for. The way we connect pulses with its own energy.
The chemistry is still there. I just need her to know I’m sorry.
So it’s time to say it like I mean it.
When I reach my destination, I yank open the door and walk inside. Nirvana Spa is the opposite of the crisp, quick, do-it-now-ness that pervades my law offices, and that makes it perfect for a spa. It’s soothing from the second I enter. Lotions and potions perch on shelves. Lavender eye pillows flank them, along with yoga mats, a tray of jewelry made from recycled glass and metal—there’s a sign that says so—and greeting cards featuring photos of faraway island enclaves, snow-capped mountains, or sandy beaches.
I check in at the front desk. The receptionist peers at the screen, her nose-piercing shining in the morning light that filters through the windows. She looks up and smiles. “Mr. Pollock,” she says. That’s the first detail—the name I gave when I booked my appointment. “Welcome to Nirvana. Delaney is finishing with someone else right now, but she should be with you shortly.”
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