Eight Goodbyes

by Christine Brae

  “What time?”

  “10 a.m. at the planetarium.”

  Adrian laughed. “As if she would take you seriously. Besides, we’re going to close down this joint, so you won’t be up until tomorrow afternoon. I bet it’s no biggie that you don’t show up. Drink up, man! I never get to just hang with my bro! First time in months I don’t have to worry about Ash and the baby!”

  “Note to self. Get rid of this old piece of junk!”

  Tessa shook her wrist in the direction of an imaginary satellite, hoping that her watch would track her speed a little bit better. She had looped around Central Park for more than four miles, but the numbers on the screen were flashing on and off and she had no idea where she was.

  She should really stop skimping on things like this. Running was a part of her life and a new watch would be put to good use. It was way past her normal running hour—in fact, it was almost 11 a.m. She had yet to see Riley, who left her at the Standard with an old friend for more drinks the night before. Martin was a TV producer and sometimes friend-with-benefits who always had a suite at the Dream.

  She’d drank a little too much, stayed a little too long and now, this late in the morning, she was paying for it. Good thing her event was hours away. She had enough time to get her exercise in and try for a quick nap to sober up.

  Tessa ran sluggishly along the path on West Drive, feet pounding on the dried-up leaves and shredding them into pieces. As she glanced up toward the Museum of Natural History, a thought jolted her out of her zone. Oh shit. She spotted the man from the plane flying down the narrow steps to catch up with her. She gasped, remembering his invitation from the night before.

  He looked frazzled, his facial hair grown out more than she’d originally noticed. He wore a red and black plaid shirt untucked and creased up at the ends. He had a full smile this time, perfect teeth flashing in the light. She couldn’t help but smile back.

  Tessa kept up her normal pace, holding one hand up to shield her eyes from the sun as he approached. Had he really thought she was going to accept his invitation and show up that morning?

  “Hi,” he said, hands in pockets.

  She slowed to a halt, gazed into his deep blue eyes and thought of Santorini. Her mom and dad had met in Santorini, and she really wanted to go there someday.

  “Hey.” She untied the jacket that was wrapped around her waist and slipped her arms into it. “Did you—”

  “Nah,” Simon piped in before she could finish. “I knew you wouldn’t show up.”

  “Then what were you doing there?” she prodded.

  “I needed the exercise,” he answered. “Right now, I’m on a restricted health regimen and walking is good for me.”

  “Oh?” she asked. They started toward the museum.

  “I was born with a hole in my heart.”

  “Oh,” she said again, not sure whether he meant it literally.

  “It’s not that bad, really. Most of the time, I can lead a normal life. Occasionally, I go overboard, and it gets cheesed off at me.”

  “Define overboard,” she quizzed, intrigued.

  “I ran a marathon a month ago, and it wasn’t too happy about that.” He nodded toward the museum steps. “Do you have time to wander around?”

  She heard the tension in his voice. He wasn’t like the overconfident schmucks she’d been dealing with lately. And so she decided she wasn’t in any hurry. She could use the company. Kill some time before she had to meet more people.

  There was something about him that felt familiar. Riley always teased her about falling in love with everyone she met. It wasn’t that, really. It was more about a sad, lifelong search for connections. She seemed to have so much trouble in that department. She’d been tired of playing third wheel to Rye and Jacob lately, and she didn’t really have many friends.

  Clarification: she had many acquaintances. Followers might have been a better definition. And that was all they were.

  “It’s too nice out to be inside a museum,” she countered. “I’m dying for a Starbucks. I think there’s one on Columbus not far from here. Wanna take a walk?”

  “Sure!” he answered a little too eagerly.

  Tessa led the way. She knew exactly where to go; the winding sidewalk that led to the main road. They walked in silence, her thoughts overtaken with questions she wasn’t willing to ask just yet. The silence between them was masked by the sounds of traffic and sirens and blaring street music.

  Tessa turned onto a concrete pathway that led to the Starbucks she had in mind. Simon followed, pausing to allow her to steer clear of the revolving door before pushing his way through. He swiped his phone at the counter even before she could place her order. So, he was one of those vanishing gallant, chivalrous males, and she liked it. The romance book world was full of those types; unfortunately, the real world wasn’t.

  With coffee in hand, Tessa pointed to a set of wooden benches across the street from the Museum of Modern Art. They sat surrounded by a group of Japanese tourists waving a selfie stick and posing for pictures with lips pursed, fingers up in peace signs.

  They sipped their drinks in silence until Tessa’s phone began to ding.

  “Sorry,” she said, pulling it out and switching it to silent. “They just don’t stop coming.”

  “Messages?”

  “Messages. Facebook comments. Tweets.”

  “I’m not on Facebook,” Simon declared. “The more my mom tells me to get on it, the more I resist. More of a rebellion, really.”

  “No way!” Tessa exclaimed. “Don’t you feel disconnected? How do you communicate with the world?”

  Simon spread his arms, gesturing at the Japanese tourists and the street behind them. “Just like this,” he said. “In real time.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Real time is just that. Social media allows you to live in someone else’s head. To walk in someone else’s shoes.”

  “By reliving their perfect lives as evidenced by their perfect pictures?”

  She frowned. “Shut up and change the subject.”

  “Okay,” he laughed. “I take it you’re here for a book signing of some sort?” He glanced at pigeons encircling their feet.

  Tessa cringed and drew her foot back. “I don’t like birds.” She stomped her foot, but they didn’t care. They smelled her fear. “My new book just came out. I’m doing a press tour.”

  “Ah. And all that beeping on your phone has to do with what?

  Tessa looked at him skeptically. “Are you sure you want to know?” she asked.

  Simon gave her a rakish grin. “Educate me.”

  She wasn’t going to lie. That sounded extremely saucy. And how his eyes drilled into hers when he said it, charming and immoral at the same time. This guy didn’t know that her mind could turn the most innocent of words into unscrupulous suggestions.

  Tessa slipped her phone out and angled it so he could see the screen. “See here?” she said. A picture of her running shoes against the pavement brought 7k likes. “I posted my run on Instagram. People are commenting.”

  “Ah. I don’t really understand how Instagram works.”

  His ignorance sounded sincere.

  “Seriously?” she laughed. She swiped through posts from the past, explaining how the app worked.

  “My agent, Revete, advises me to upload at least one picture a day,” she said. “Most book lovers use social media as their daily platform, so it’s a great way to connect with my readers. People expect it. Personalities these days need to make themselves more accessible.” She paused to allow him to comment. He said nothing. “In fact, I pay someone to post for me, in addition to what I generate myself. It’s that important as a marketing tool—hashtags, endorsements and followers.”

  “What do you keep to yourself then, if you’re all out for people to see?” he asked.

  “A lot,” she said, her tone clipped. Pictures don’t show what’s in one’s heart. Pictures don’t show
the depth, the breadth, the magnitude of your feelings. “I give them what they like to see. But there’s a lot more to me than that, buddy.” She stabbed one finger to his chest.

  “Ouch.”

  Meanwhile, the birds at their feet had multiplied. Tessa stood up abruptly.

  Simon led her away from the wooden benches and toward the sidewalk. “There’s a place to sit over at MOMA,” he said. “It’s indoors.”

  She was glad he wanted to extend their time together. “In my defense, they’ve been known to eat people, you know.”

  He turned to her and replied with a slow, articulate drawl. “And that’s why I’m here to save you. From those vicious, flesh-eating pigeons.”

  When they laughed at the same time, Simon reached out and gently grasped her fingers.

  Tessa let him lead her, aware of his touch. She had a good feeling about the rest of her day.

  He’d lied. He had stationed himself at the planetarium behind the Museum of Natural History, at 10 a.m. in the hopes of seeing her. Not that he’d expected her to show. On the contrary, he’d agreed with Adrian’s contention that she didn’t seem like the type that needed invitations to a meet up from strangers.

  “Nothing is ever coincidence,” Simon’s father always told him. Feelings, actions, even situations. They all happen for a reason. And how crazy was that? She was there! The flight, the hotel and now this. He wanted time to slow down, hoping that she would give up whatever day she had planned for him.

  What a wuss.

  His pragmatism just flew out the door. He didn’t want to overthink things just yet. He wanted to do something so unlike him—go with the flow. That day, he was going to do just that.

  Although, he still wasn’t on board with her reasoning about social media. Simon never understood how all that worked, often wondered why people felt the need to share their lives with the world. Especially because there wasn’t anything particularly interesting about an uber nerd who loved chemistry. And physics. They seemed like light years apart in personality, but because of that and because he knew nothing about her world, she intrigued him.

  They rode up the elevator, standing stiffly side by side, and flanked by a group of teenagers who were posing for pictures and yelling at the same time. There was barely room for two at a table close to the window.

  Tessa glanced around MOMA’s Café 2, taking in the view as if it was the most exotic place in the world.

  “I just love being in New York,” she said. “It’s so alive, bustling with activity.”

  She took a sip of her coffee while admiring the communal typesetting with long wooden tables facing a large clear view of cherry blossoms bursting into bloom.

  “The packs of people are a bit overwhelming,” he countered. “I like peace and quiet most of the time.”

  “Ah,” she laughed. “I can only write when there’s activity around me. I can’t stand quiet.”

  “I would’ve thought that writers enjoy solitude,” he answered.

  “To a certain extent. But writers need stories, and the people around you, all have a story to tell. You can see it in their movements, read it in their faces, imagine it through their actions.”

  As she spoke, she raised her hand, faltering in a half-wave, smiling and nodding to a young lady in the corner of the restaurant who had covertly lifted her phone in the air.

  “Is that lady taking our picture?” he said.

  Tessa shrugged. “I’m trying to get used to it.”

  Simon saw her shift in focus, her head turned to the side, eyes fixed on a group of people. “But you, you don’t need this,” she said. “I’d understand if it totally makes you uncomfortable.”

  He didn’t disagree. It wasn’t the discomfort, per se. He just wanted her full attention. And he knew he didn’t have much time.

  “Listen. I’ve got one hour before I have to do a meet and greet. Plug your number into my phone. I’ll walk out first and text you where to go.”

  She handed him her phone, and he typed his name and number into her contacts list. He sucked in a breath before congratulating himself for winning the lottery.

  She stood and walked down the aisle and out into the main hallway.

  Simon felt slightly stunned. It happened too quickly. What if she decided to ditch him? Then his phone vibrated. It was a text from a number he didn’t recognize, and he still didn’t trust it until he read her message:

  Second floor, art exhibition sign, veer to the left and find the farthest corner of the room to the right.

  He found her sitting against a sea of white, pristine, colorless walls. Eight large concrete blocks were piled on top of each other in the middle of the room. There was no one there.

  “Richard Serra,” she said, pointing at the blocks in front of them. “He believes that the virtual age has taken away our ability to feel our physical presence in relation to objects. That actually being here, feeling, seeing and touching is crucial to the way one understands art.”

  “Interesting analogy,” he answered, as he sat next to her.

  “Do you believe it?” she asked.

  “Well, in the scientific field, that’s all we know.”

  “What exactly do you do…” She glanced down at the screen of her phone where, Simon assumed, his contact info was still displayed. She giggled when she saw what he had typed in. When she stretched her legs out in front of her, he noticed a tiny tattoo of a seahorse nestled above her ankle.

  Simon didn’t care for body art. And yet, there was something enticing about the way this one called attention to her smooth, silky skin.

  “Nanotechnology. I’m in R&D.”

  She blinked once, twice. Looked away, disinterested. “Yeah, that’s what your business card says, but what does that mean exactly?”

  He paused for a moment. He rarely was asked to explain his profession in layman’s terms. Nor did he particularly have the desire to do so. But that day, perhaps not surprisingly, he wanted to.

  “I have a doctorate in molecular biology. For practical purposes, I’m in research and development for pharmaceuticals.”

  She gave him a blank look. He tried again.

  “Nanotechnology is the science of working with atoms and molecules to build devices that are very small or create substances that are used in medication. We use those tiny devices to manipulate materials in equipment and in medicine.”

  “And you were in New York to give a lecture? You must be pretty important. What’d you do, discover the cure for cancer or something?” she teased.

  Little did she know that he kind of had. He decided to tell her. He had no intention of making this their last time together.

  “Well,” he said quietly, “as a matter of fact, I was lucky enough to discover a way to polymerize cancer beating drugs into nanoparticles—” He stopped, worried that he would overwhelm her.

  “Go on.”

  “Nanoparticles that are not water soluble so that they retain their effect when they enter the bloodstream.” He gauged her reaction. He found it cute that she scrunched her brows when she processed her thoughts. “I discovered a way to break drugs into nanoparticles that can reach their target more effectively.”

  “As in chemo? Like IV drugs?”

  “Very good, Ms. Talman. You got it!” Seriously. Not many non-academics were this quick to understand.

  She nodded and smiled. “Ah. You’re some kind of a hero, Mr. Fremont. Impressive.”

  Enough about him. He wanted to suck up the air she occupied, immerse himself in who she was and why she had such an impact on him. “And you, Tessa Talman. What do you do, exactly?”

  “Definitely nothing as interesting as you.”

  “Where are you from? Do you write full time?”

  “Chicago. And, yes.”

  “Family? Originally from there?”

  “Extended family. And a brother. My parents died when I was very young.”

  “I’m sorry
to hear that.” Simon had a sudden appreciation for the large, crazy family he had back in England.

  As they continued their conversation, he couldn’t keep his eyes away from her face. She smiled, and he noticed a tiny nick above her left cheek. He wanted to brush his finger against it, feel the dent that marred her porcelain skin. When her face crumpled, he realized he had stopped listening to the words, letting the melody of her voice wash over him while he watched her every movement. He made an effort to listen to her words, but when she waved her delicate hands through the air, he was lost again.

  Her dark hair against the white walls and her tiny frame made him think of an angel sitting among the clouds. She radiated like a light in the dimly lit room.

  She asked about his family and his work, pressed him to tell her about his latest project.

  “If I tell you, I’d have to kill you,” he teased. “I’m working on a government project at the moment. The convention I’m attending has the FBI and Homeland Security suits interested in what my company can offer.”

  “It seems like we operate on the opposite ends of a spectrum. I delve into feelings and emotions, while you live among the tangible and tactical,” she declared.

  “You could say that, I guess. But as you said, we do it all for betterment. For progress, for convenience, to reach out to people who need it.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, sitting up and glancing around the empty room before leaning back against the wall. “It’s intriguing. This super-duper secret agent stuff. But don’t go all out on my account. I’ll stop being so nosy if you can’t really tell me.”

  When she smiled, and the tip of her mouth curved upward, a tiny dimple formed on her right cheek.

  Jesus. It must have been the lighting. He wasn’t this observant, normally.

  “Well, to be honest, that’s something I work very hard to do. But not today.” He smiled. “Besides, I’m trying to make you like me, so if it makes me look cool, well then…”

  She laughed. Their eyes met. And then she glanced at her watch and let out a heavy sigh.