"For what it's worth, I agree with you," I said. "Dating is…it's fucking awful. I mean, awful. Fix-ups and apps and hell, all of it."
"And you've been in a war," she added. "You've been shot."
"That's what I'm saying. Dating is still worse than war and gunshot wounds. That's why I don't do it."
Stella tossed an unconvinced glance in my direction. Her lips parted to say something but she thought better of it, shoving a forkful of rice in her mouth. Half of it didn't reach the destination and ended up raining down the front of her dress. She brushed it away with an eyeroll. Then, her hand shielding her mouth, she said, "Are you sure about that, Cal?"
I grinned, nodding. "I'm sure."
And I was sure. I wasn't dating to find the one. I'd already found her. She was sitting across the table from me, a clump of rice stuck to her sleeve.
"This is good," I remarked, tapping my knife against the plate of chile rellenos between us. "You were right. About the flavor."
"I know what's good and I know where to find it," she replied.
I murmured in agreement while she listed a handful of hot new eateries co-owned by athletes. It was part of an investment diversification strategy popularized by some wealth managers on the West Coast. Athletes with restaurants made for good press, she insisted. It was more interesting than serving as spokespeople for sports drinks or watches or laundry detergent.
But then the conversation wasn't about athletes and their income streams anymore.
Stella put her fork down, leveled me with a serious stare. "I meant what I said a few weeks ago. I'm not broken, not wounded. It's in the past. I had a bad experience when I was twenty. Twenty. I'm almost thirty-six. Soon enough, that bad experience will be more than a half a lifetime away." She shook her head. "It's not wrong for me to want things this way. Plenty of men do and for no other reason than enjoying their freedom. No one asks them if they're punishing themselves for anything."
"You're right about that," I said. "About the double standard."
She peered at me, her lips drawn tight in a line and her brows pinched. "Okay—"
"I shouldn't have brought it up again," I interrupted. "I don't mean to dredge up ancient history."
Stella reared back, holding up both hands while exaggerated shock played on her face. "Wait a second there. What—or who—are you calling ancient?"
"Stop it. You don't look a day over twenty-eight and you know it," I replied with a shake of my head.
With her fork in hand, she pointed at me, saying, "Good save." Then, "I want your ancient history."
"What?" I asked, glancing around as if I'd understand her meaning by glaring at other diners. I did not.
"You know everything about me."
Not hardly. I didn't know where she lived, I didn't know her ex-fiancé's name so that I could hate every guy with that name on principle, I didn't know what she looked like first thing in the morning, before the ponytail and leggings and lime green sneaks. I didn't know whether she watched reruns of 90s-era sitcoms before falling asleep, I didn't know whether she was a neat freak in the bathroom, and I didn't know what she wanted from this one, glorious life.
"I've shown you mine"—also untrue as there was plenty I had yet to see—"now I want you to show me yours." She motioned toward me with her fork, poking at the air as if that would spur me to speech. "You're a doctor. You're hot as fuck. Like, goddamn." I almost fell off the chair at that. "You're smart and successful, which hides the awkward real well. You're rumbly-grumbly but that only cranks up the fuck-hot factor as far as I see it. You're a catch, my friend. Why hasn't anyone caught you?"
I wasn't sure how I managed to stay seated while she spoke. I was either falling out of the chair and flopping on the floor like a fish on a line or tossing her over my shoulder and rushing toward the first enclosed space I could find. I'd make up for what I lacked in finesse with a fucking that robbed her of sight and speech for a time.
But then Stella continued, "Maybe someone did. She caught you but she didn't keep you. Or you didn't keep her." She gave me the sad-faced head tilt. "That's what happened. Isn't it?"
I stared at her for a beat or two then looked down at the dishes between us. I picked at a few, depositing a bit of this and some of that on my plate without much thought. All while I regretted the topic at hand, the one I forced.
"Ah ha," she whispered. "That is it."
"Basically," I replied, still dropping food on my plate. "I had a relationship while I was in Ranger school, down in Georgia. Ranger school ended. I deployed. She promised she'd wait for me but definitely didn't as evidenced by her moving up to North Carolina and marrying a Green Beret while I was overseas."
"I fucking hate her."
My head snapped up at Stella's sharp tone but it was her icy glare that hit me hardest. "You—what?"
"I fucking hate her," she repeated, a slight laugh edging into her words as she reached for her phone. "Give me her name. I hate her and I'm going to spend the rest of the night making snotty comments about her Instagram posts."
I couldn't fight the warm smile pulling at my lips. Stella—the woman who swore up and down she didn't do this, didn't like attachments, didn't want anything but drama-free fun—wanted to snark on my ex's Instagram.
"The name, Cal. I want it."
"It's in the past," I said lightly. If she heard me repeating her words back to her, she didn't acknowledge it. "Half a lifetime ago."
"Doesn't make me hate her any less," Stella replied.
"And now you know how I feel about that ex-fiancé of yours," I said.
She blinked at me. Her lips parted but no sound came out. I didn't think it was possible but in walking the length of this circle, I'd stunned her into silence.
"Like you said," I continued. "Not broken. Not wounded. Ancient history."
Stella stared at me for a long moment. "And you believe that?"
I nodded. "As much as you do."
17
Stella
"I don't understand what you don't understand about this," Flinn snapped.
"And I don't understand why you can't answer a question without reminding everyone you're the smartest guy in the room," Tatum replied.
"It's not my fault people are idiots," he said.
"Now you're calling me an idiot? Really?" she whisper-shrieked.
"I'm not calling you an idiot," he replied. "I'm just saying this isn't complicated stuff and capable people should be able to understand it without hand-holding."
"So, you're saying I'm incapable," she said.
I rolled my eyes at my office door. It was closed but that didn't save me from today's rendition of Tatum and Flinn Hate Each Other. It was sibling-styled hate, the kind they turned on anyone who threatened their little cabal.
"I'll walk you through it if you want," he offered. "I don't mind."
"You don't mind wasting time on idiots? How good of you," she replied.
With that, I reached for my earbuds. There was enough noise in my head without those two. I'd spent the morning shepherding McKendrick through one goodwill photo op after another and my schedule was suffering from it. Remediating his image held the keys to my promotion but he was only one of many clients on my roster and the day still maxed out at twenty-four hours. Making it work was becoming more difficult.
Another area of difficulty: Cal Hartshorn.
It wasn't so much difficulty as what the fuck should I do here? Because I didn't know. For the first time in years, I didn't know what to do with a man. I looked forward to walking with him at sunrise. I thought about him during the day. I shared meals with him—damn, that boy could eat—on most evenings. And I dreamed about him at night. Those appearances were rather spirited. He was everywhere, occupying every corner of my life.
The toughest part was realizing I liked it. Realizing, accepting, believing. I liked Cal knocking me over and dragging me away from the safe predictability of my color-coded calendar. I liked him forcing his way into my life
and telling me how it was going to be—while still giving me plenty of space to twist myself into overly complicated knots.
Over the ambient noise coming through my earbuds, I heard a thud on the other side of my door. Then a slam, another thud, and a bang. It wasn't loud enough to be an all-out brawl and I didn't have the time to investigate if I intended to leave here as scheduled. Cal and I planned to meet up for tapas—a recommendation from one of his colleagues—and I hated arriving late.
A minute passed without further commotion and I shifted my attention back to the interview copy sent over by a reporter. As I scanned my client's responses, I saw an incoming message flash on my phone's screen. The newest text was from Flinn, announcing his relocation to the other side of the floor for the remainder of the afternoon. Then I noticed another message, one I'd missed earlier in the day.
* * *
Harry: Hi there. Still alive?
Harry: Thought about you today and wanted to check in.
* * *
I groaned loud enough for Tatum to inch the door open and poke her head in, asking, "Everything okay?"
"Peachy," I replied. "Please don't kill Flinn in today's cage match."
"He's an asshole," she argued.
"He's our asshole."
"That's…that's not a statement I'm comfortable supporting," she said.
"Nobody dies today." I shot her the sternest glare in my arsenal. "I need you to finish that slide deck. Now, close the door."
* * *
Stella: Hey! Sorry! I've been swamped and just saw this now.
Harry: It's all good.
Harry: I'm free next week if you want to connect.
* * *
I frowned at his response. First, because I'd told him May was going to be crazy busy—and it really was—and second because I wasn't interested. Not at all. I didn't want to see Harry. I was annoyed—irrationally so—that he was demanding my attention when I had no interest in dividing it. That part wasn't his fault but that didn't stop me from directing some blame his way.
* * *
Stella: Eek. I'm really busy this month. This isn't a good time for me.
Harry: Cool cool no worries. Another time.
Stella: Like I said, it's not a great time. I don't want you waiting for things to change with me.
Harry: I don't mind the wait.
Stella: That's kind of you. But I don't want you waiting.
Stella: If anything changes with me, I'll reach out to you. Otherwise, I think we should do our own things.
Harry: Are you ending this?
* * *
I set my phone down, glanced up at the door. I could've used some commotion to distract me right now. Anything to get me out of answering Harry's question. It wasn't that I didn't know how I wanted to respond. I did. I did, and that response scared the shit out of me. Saying it out loud—or typing it in a text—made it real. It took it from hanging out with a dude who starred in my naughty dreams to acknowledging I had something substantial going on here. But then another message hit my inbox.
* * *
Cal: Still on for Toro at 8?
Stella: Works for me. You?
Cal: Yeah, I'm right on schedule today.
Stella: I'll meet you there.
Cal: What are you wearing? Just so I recognize you.
Stella: You know what I look like.
Cal: I do but I'll be able to spot you quicker if I know I'm looking for a blue dress or a yellow skirt or that goddamn green raincoat.
Stella: It's 72 degrees and sunny. No raincoat.
Cal: Thank god.
Stella: Don't be so quick to hate on the raincoat. I seem to recall a favorable turn of events where that raincoat was involved.
Cal: Yeah. For you.
* * *
My cheeks burned red and I couldn't force the smile from my face.
* * *
Stella: Oh, please. You enjoyed yourself.
Cal: Truth.
* * *
I didn't allow myself a minute to think better of it before holding my phone up and snapping a selfie. I fiddled with the filters for a second—a girl's true best friend—then sent it off to Cal. There was nothing amazing about this shot. I looked fine and that was it. My hair was loose around my shoulders, a bit frizzy from the rising humidity. My black and white print dress seemed to blend into the darkness of my desk chair. The window behind me was the best part, showing off the sunny day and Boston's skyline.
* * *
Stella: Here you go. Now you'll be able to locate me without extraordinary measures.
Cal: Black and white today.
Stella: Correct.
Cal: I'm getting some green raincoat vibes there.
Stella: In what way?
Cal: In the wanting to get underneath it way.
* * *
I didn't know what to do with Cal but I didn't want to find out what I'd do without him.
Cal didn't get under my dress that night. He might've if I hadn't left dinner early to pluck McKendrick out of a karaoke bar near Northeastern University. Even if McKendrick hadn't slipped out unnoticed and stirred up collegiate trouble last night, I wasn't sure I wanted to get physical with Cal again.
I mean, I wanted to. I really did.
But Cal wasn't like me. Hell, I wasn't like me these days. But I knew I couldn't have sex with him and continue with business as usual the next day. He wouldn't allow it. He'd want—he'd want everything. Right away. He'd want it to mean something and I didn't trust myself to not want the same thing.
That meant I dodged. Every time he looked at me like he wanted to eat me—and I knew how well he ate—I ducked the topic. If there was one thing I could manage with ease, it was spinning a conversation the way I wanted.
And that was how I found myself inviting him to a brand launch party.
"I like seeing your legs," he said, his gaze hidden behind dark sunglasses as we traveled the far side of the pond. "I liked those leggings but I like seeing your skin now that it's warm."
In a rare moment of out-loud insecurity, I replied, "My calves are thick."
To be clear, I had plenty of insecurities. A laundry list of them. But I didn't speak those insecurities. I didn't put that noise out in the world because it didn't need any validity. My mother—bless her heart—would've taken that comment about my calves and assured me I had a pretty face. That was the precise form of well-intentioned validity I didn't need. And I didn't need Cal shooing away my issues either. The opinions of others didn't factor into loving myself. I didn't allow it.
"Yeah, they are," Cal replied from a step behind. Where he was studying my calves. "They're great."
That was a surprise. "I mean, I can never find tall boots. Because of my calves." I had no idea why I was leaning in to this fight, especially when I worked hard at being kind to myself. "They're thick. And not cute."
Cal arched an eyebrow up as he appraised my legs again. "I don't know anything about boots but I'd happily die with your legs around my neck."
"Oh," I murmured, fussing with straightening the hem of my t-shirt. It was perfectly flat, not a wrinkle to be found. I kept smoothing. "Oh, okay then." I glanced over at him, careful to avoid staring at his arms for fear of liquefying here on the trail. Talk about thick. My god. And stealing glances at the tattoo hiding just under the cuff of his sleeve was my favorite trail game. I noticed something new every time I looked. "One of my clients is the new spokesmodel for an athletic wear brand. It's launching at the Newbury Street shop on Saturday. The media portion of the event starts around three and then there's a private party at six. D'you want to go?"
Cal stretched his arms over his head, making it impossible for me to hear his response over the choir of angels singing at the line of golden hair running down his abs.
"Stella?"
"Yeah what?" I replied, dragging my gaze up to his face. He laughed, running his hand down my ponytail. He twisted the strands around his fist, tugging just a tiny bit. "You're
going to have a problem on your hands when you have to spoon me off the trail."
He shook his head with a laugh. "I don't know what that means."
"Nothing, nothing," I said, quick to shift gears. "You know, you don't have to do this. You prefer running."
"I prefer walking with you," he replied. "If I find myself in need of a run, there are plenty of stairs at the hospital."
"But you used to run," I argued. "This must be boring for you."
What I really wanted was a little more of his sugar. Another sweet word, another casual touch, another request for more than walks and meals and sex-with-your-pants-on hugs. I held him at a distance because I didn't know how to do anything else, but fuck, did I want him.
"I promise you, Stel, it's not boring." He glanced at me, his eyebrows lifting over the rim of his sunglasses. "Am I boring you?"
"What? No," I said, swatting him with the back of my hand.
"What did you do before?" he asked, pointing at the phone secured in my armband. "You listened to—what? Podcasts?"
I snorted out a laugh. "More like The Backstreet Boys." I reached for the phone, called up my music streaming app. "Here. That's what I listened to."
Cal took my phone, scrolled through the playlist. "Stella's Best Boy Band Jams, Summer 2012," he read. "This is—it's something. And slightly out of date."
"I stick to what I know and like," I replied.
"And that's the truth of it."
"It kept me moving," I said. "Until you came around."
"Yeah. Well. About that party. It sounds great," he said. "But the neurosurgeon I work with—"
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