Could this be me? Here with this guy? Then I saw his dimple and the stubble and the way sincere worry transformed his face, and I thought…yes, it could, but I didn’t know if I wanted it.
“I have to go,” I repeated. “I just need to collect my thoughts.”
“Okay,” Layton said, but he didn’t move.
“I’m going to catch a cab downstairs.”
Please e-mail me.
Please don’t hate me.
Keeping those thoughts to myself, I stood and grabbed my tote, noting my half-full glass of wine on the table. Is my glass half-full or half-empty? I was starting to believe I was a half-empty kind of gal.
“Do you want me to walk you down?”
I shook my head. “Thank you, but no.” I headed toward the door.
“Why don’t I stay an extra night?” he suggested. “We could do drinks here, on the rooftop of the hotel. I hear it’s pretty outrageous at night. We can just relax, have a couple of drinks, and end this on the right note. Not like now.”
“Okay.”
I might have agreed but I knew I wouldn’t show up. My inner bitch was winning out, and I hated her. I deserved a lifetime of being alone. I had to get out of there.
“Seven again?” he asked.
God, he was still trying. He was so nice. “Sure.”
I gave Layton a quick peck on the cheek and ran right the hell out of there—my lips furious at me for rushing them away from his perfectly stubbled cheek.
Part Two
Chapter Twenty-Two
Layton
Eight Months Later
I half sat, half leaned at the bar waiting for her. It was an overpriced, cliché hole-in-the-wall in Manhattan she’d suggested. Best burgers in New York, she’d written in her e-mail. She’d assumed I’d want something big and heavy to eat, overselling the place to me and avoiding the fat fucking elephant in the room.
Which was me, so I didn’t take the burger suggestion as a slight. I deserved that one. Especially after the sushi debacle.
But I wasn’t one bit hungry for burgers—not tonight. To be honest, I was famished for her. I was so fucking starving for this woman, I’d gone without an apology, showed up like a good little puppy without even as much as an apologetic whisper. No sorry or a single freaking misgiving about what had happened the last time we saw each other. Zip.
Now I sat in the bar area like one of those big whales at Sea World, waiting in line for a dead fish. It was dingy and dimly lit, but the Yelpers loved this joint. Of course I’d googled it, making sure I was hip enough to show my face in the establishment.
Impatient, I swirled the Scotch in my tumbler, the ice clinking against the glass. Out of habit, I pulled my shirt down at the waist, making sure it covered my waistband. It was a habit I still couldn’t quite shake. I’d worn a waffle-knit shirt and khakis, the new trendy kind, elastic at the ankle and a drawstring at the waist—all the bells and whistles.
I wasn’t sure why I felt like I had to forgo my usual look. The only other times we’d met up, I’d been wearing a music tee and jeans. Except for the premiere, but tonight was different from the other times…I hoped. That assumption was probably false and premature on my part.
As I took a sip of my drink, the liquid burned the back of my throat and warmed me all the way going down, heightening my arousal and calming my nerves at the same time.
Tiny bells chimed above the door, signaling it was opening—a touch that was out of place for New York City, but I assumed it was part of the charm of this joint.
She stepped over the threshold, shaking the snow off her now longer hair before swiping her gloved hand down the front of her coat. I saw a hint of red peeking out from underneath her black coat, reminding me it was just past Valentine’s Day, making me wish I’d come earlier in the month. She could have been mine.
She still hadn’t seen me, so I indulged in a second or ten, allowing my gaze to roam her small frame all the way down to the fur-lined ankle boots…with a heel…on her feet.
Unable to get up or move toward her for fear she’d reject me all over again, I turned back toward the bar and caught the score of a basketball game on TV while tossing back the remainder of my Scotch. I felt her presence singe the back of my neck before she laid eyes on me.
Willing myself not to turn and seek her out, I ran a hand through my hair and mentally chastised myself.
You pussy. Just look at the woman.
My hair was styled the same, so she should recognize me from the back. At least, that’s the sorry excuse I gave myself.
I didn’t look, just forced myself to remain focused on the game. It was close, 82–75. Who was I rooting for?
Who the fuck was I kidding? I didn’t even watch basketball. The last game I remember watching was the NBA playoffs the night she didn’t show all those months ago…
* * *
When the clock had struck eight, I’d pretty much known Charli wasn’t coming. I’d extended my stay in New York, moved my return flight to the next day, and bought an actual button-down shirt on Fifth Avenue. But the whole day, a hint of her reticence when she’d agreed to tonight gnawed at me.
She wasn’t going to come—I knew it. My heart knew it. I felt it in my fucking bones. But I still bought the shirt like a chump, cleaned up my stubble, and shoved my feet in my Chucks like a man in love.
I’d found a quiet corner of the rooftop bar, where the corners of the glass met each other in a seamless line so as not to obstruct the view. I asked for a Scotch and then changed my mind to a beer, and seconds later changed it back again…to a Black Label and soda. My finger traced the flawless seam while my eyes roamed the New York skyline, but I saw nothing other than my reflection. Chubby cheeks, messy hair, and a shirt that was too tight.
My legs ached from yet another long walk in the park. I’d scrubbed the BO off in the shower, but my heart still beat too fast. Whether it was from the anxiety of waiting or my lack of fitness, I didn’t freaking know.
What I did know was Charli wasn’t showing.
And she didn’t. She didn’t even send an e-mail or a text to explain her absence until two months later. There hadn’t been an accident or a situation at work. She just couldn’t bring herself to come.
* * *
On the television, someone in white and orange ran down the court and slam-dunked the ball, and a commotion broke out in the bar. I squinted and looked closer. It was the Knicks playing. Made sense. I continued to ignore the tingling at my back, the heat seeping up my neck, singeing my hairline. She was there, looking for me, and I was being a dick.
I set my tumbler on the bar, left my jacket on the back of my chair, and stood, turning to face her. She was standing at the back of the bar, her coat now thrown over her arm, and her hair longer and spread down her red sweater. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and her lips a glossy red. She was pristine and perfect, everything I wasn’t.
“Charli,” I called out, annoyed at the frog in my throat.
She looked up and caught my eye, and her brow furrowed. “Layton?” She stepped closer, her boots eating up the floor.
“It’s me.”
We stood facing each other, the bar stool a deserted island behind me. I wanted to slip back onto it, disappear from her inspection.
“Are you okay?” Her eyes took me in with concern, not hunger or need.
I wanted to look at the floor, but I was stronger than that. I kept my gaze on her and remained firm and collected.
“I’m fine. Actually, more than fine.”
“You look so different. I mean, you look great, but I thought that maybe you were…sick.” She stumbled over her words, pausing to collect herself like an amateur, not a professional wordsmith.
“Healthy as a horse.” In fact, I felt like a stallion in certain places. Namely my dick.
“Wow,” she whispered as she averted her gaze, unable to meet my eyes.
“Want to sit?”
“Sure. Sounds good.” This ti
me she was the one with a frog in her throat. Perhaps a couple of frogs, judging by the scratchiness in her voice.
I pulled out the stool and she slid onto it, and I took the empty one next to it.
“What would you like? Wine?”
“Honestly, I may need something stronger.”
She pushed her hair behind her ear, revealing a large hoop earring. That was new. In fact, as I took a closer look, I realized she definitely looked more casual, carefree even. Chunky bracelets lined her arm, rather than the understated chic jewelry she normally wore, and the bright lip gloss was definitely new.
“Charli, I’m okay. I don’t know what is upsetting you. I lost weight. A lot of it, actually, but I’m good. Seriously. It’s a good thing.” Words ran out of my mouth like surfers into the ocean back home.
“You look good. Really good. I don’t know, I guess I was expecting funny and humorous Layton. The version I hoped would forgive me for what I did, but now I’m sitting here shocked and I’ve totally forgotten what I wanted to say.”
The bartender interrupted our moment. “What can I get you? Another Scotch?”
“Cosmo, please,” Charli said.
“Beer this time. Amstel Light?”
“You need a glass?” he asked, and I shook my head.
“I’m still the same Layton,” I told Charli, consoling her rather than welcoming the apology I so badly wanted from her but didn’t get.
My hand wavered until it settled on top of hers. Her fingernails were painted a delicate pink, gentle like her heart. She might have bruised me, but it was only an attempt to protect her own weakness. I’d figured that out while soul-searching during one of my many jogs. She was only putting a wall up around her ego, not strong and self-assured like you’d think, but stunted and fragile.
The bartender set down her drink and she took a healthy gulp. “Um, you’re definitely not the same Layton.”
I took a pull of my beer and set it down so I could study her. “I was kind of hoping that’d be a good thing.”
This wasn’t going the way I had anticipated. We were having a stilted conversation, avoiding the new reality. I was now good-looking Layton, and she was expecting desperate Layton. Did she think I wouldn’t forgive her? That I had moved on?
Well, guess what? I was still just as desperate to forgive her…taste her…have her.
She smiled and leaned forward to whisper, “You’re really sort of hot.”
As she leaned close, her scent filled my nostrils. It hinted at vanilla, reminding me of cupcakes and flavored coffee creamer, and nearly drove me crazy.
I squeezed my hand at my side, desperately needing to get a hold of myself.
“Is that bad?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“So, what’s the big deal?” I took another sip of my beer.
“I liked you the way you were before.” She gulped down the martini and met my eyes. “I was just afraid to admit it. It’s not that you were ugly or horrible. The opposite of that. You were so nice and warm, like a teddy bear. But we were so different, and I felt like I held too many cards or something. The big job, the looks or whatever, and I didn’t want you to feel like…less of a man.” A fiery blush flared over her skin at her admission. “I don’t mean that in a bad way or a condescending way—”
She broke off, seeming flustered. “God, I don’t even know what I mean. But if anything, you made me feel inadequate. Because I was.”
What? Was she crazy? Charli would have the upper hand no matter what. She was a desirable, smart, and sexy woman. After all, it had been eight months since our last contact, and she dived right in for the kill. No small talk, zip.
Wasn’t that what I craved?
“You’re too analytical, Charli. Life isn’t like an editing job where all the t’s have to be crossed or the i’s dotted. It’s like a mix tape, a compilation of all the best hits, some slow and others fast. Some songs aren’t your favorite, but mixed with the others they make a great album. It’s all in the placement.”
Charli sighed and gave me an earnest look. “I wanted you to know that I wanted you for you. But I couldn’t express it in a way that wouldn’t come out awful or rude. And now you’ve gone and changed yourself, and I can’t ever make peace with that. I can’t let you know how I felt and how I agonized over not showing up. Not without it sounding like a lie.”
She shoved her hair behind her ear, and I noticed something else new.
Right below her earlobe, on the smooth slope of her neck, sat a small tattoo. A symbol. I couldn’t concentrate on that thought because for the first time in months, I allowed myself to breathe. One word—agonized—and I was breathing easy.
She agonized over me, and while that should make me uneasy or ashamed, it didn’t. Some twisted sense of pride washed over me at the mere fact she’d been thinking of me.
“Hearing that makes me feel better, seriously. So much better that you considered me.” I couldn’t let her hang all the guilt on her own shoulders, though. “But this whole thing wasn’t entirely about you. I needed to feel good about myself and so I changed my appearance, but not who I am. I’m still happy Layton. Happier and healthier, that’s true, but the same.”
Charli focused on her glass. “Well, I was in a bad place, not liking my job, obsessing over appearances. Now I’m in a happier space too,” she said slowly, and then raised her eyes to mine. “A lot of it has to do with you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I went home after running out of the hotel and spent two days in bed. No running or spinning. No drinking with friends. Just working from bed and thinking. I’d turned into a shell of a person, a drone on a path of self-destruction. I hated who I was, and I decided to make changes.”
She took the last sip of her drink and I swallowed the dregs of my beer.
“Want to get a table,” I asked, “so you don’t have to rush in telling me everything?”
“Um, do you still eat burgers?” Her cheeks were as red as her cashmere sweater.
“You betcha. I’m dying for one.” I pinched her cheek. “I’m not a waif.”
We stood and asked for a table. The hostess looked me up and down, hungry in a way I wished Charli was. Being dismissed was not one of the things I missed about being fat.
We were shown to a corner table in front of a large picture window. The table had a graceful lily in a bud vase, and Sinatra played softly in the background. A runner brought sparkling water and slices of lemons and limes. I poured us each a glass and sipped mine, allowing the bubbles to clear my throat. It was clogged with a mixture of frustration and hope.
“So, tell me more,” I said. “I haven’t seen you since last summer. I want to hear it all. Your days in bed and how you’re not a drone, because you look fucking fabulous. Not that you looked bad before, but whatever you’re doing now, it looks great on you.” I let it all hang out there.
Charli took a deep breath and met my eyes. “Well, I didn’t like running from you, but it was too heavy, too much for me to handle. I left home at sixteen and a half for school. I always knew I didn’t want to trade everything in like my mom, but I also wanted passion, heat. Crap, I didn’t know what I wanted. Back in your hotel room, I realized I wanted you, but I was so far away from what I wanted for me. My career wasn’t what I wanted, and well, you weren’t the type of person I ever imagined myself being with.”
Her hair had grown out. Layers still framed her face, but it was longer, more feminine. For the briefest of moments, she looked fragile.
“Sounds like you did a lot of soul-searching,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. “I don’t know if I’ve ever done that much.”
She laughed and her giggle filled the restaurant, overshadowing Sinatra, which was close to impossible.
“Yeah, well, about that. I had some savings, plus some money I had from my dad’s insurance when he died, and I quit my job. It probably sounds pretty spoiled, but I think he would’ve wanted me happy. At least, I picture him
wanting that. And so I spent the summer and fall sitting in coffee shops, writing…and thinking.”
“Sounds pretty awesome—”
I got cut off by the server who rattled off a few specials, touting the burger of the night—Wagyu beef with fried onions and wasabi mayo on an onion brioche.
“I’ll give you a few minutes, but drinks? A refresher?”
“Another cosmo?” I asked Charli, wanting this asshole to go away. When she nodded, I said, “Cosmo and an Amstel Light.”
I wasn’t driving and I was being bad with a burger, so why not drink a bit?
“That’s why I didn’t e-mail or anything for a few months. I had to get my life together. And then by the time I did, the words escaped me in what to say. I figured you’d moved on.”
Her blue-green eyes shone brightly in the soft lighting. I wanted to skinny-dip in them, and I’d never considered baring myself to someone in that way. Body and soul.
“Well, I guess that explains your lukewarm apology.”
“I didn’t want to be too assuming…I never imagined you’d wait for me. I wasn’t that important or whatever. When you reached out, I said yes right away.”
I’d e-mailed her on a whim. A funny thing had happened on the set—there was a dog and he was doing a trick but ended up barfing—and I couldn’t stop laughing. The actor was so disgusted. Without thinking, I attached a video clip to an e-mail and asked to see her, asked for a chance to make her laugh in person.
She’d agreed, and I booked a flight. It was a bit risky, but I had to know if she liked the new version of me.
Apparently, she liked the old one.
I spent several beats staring at her, drinking her in. She was better than beer or Black Label. Way better than the most expensive bottle of champagne.
“Okay, here you go.” The server set our drinks on the table and asked, “You ready?”
“Well, the burger of the night feels like the way to go, but the onions? I guess they only work if we both eat them?”
It was a veiled question, a wimp’s way of asking what I wanted to know. Did she like the new me in that way?
Modern Fairy Tale: Twelve Books of Breathtaking Romance Page 191