One of them hops up on the bench. “You’re a bold little bastard.”
He stabs his beak against the bag.
“Demanding, aren’t you?”
I grab another chunk and chuck it across the pavement. He flies off and returns a second later.
I make my way through the bread as I stare at the boats cruising along the river and cyclists whizzing by on the path.
When it comes to signals from Elise, the signs seemed bright and clear today. Now that I’m finally away from the bankers, I review them, talking to the daring pigeon, who waits determinedly at my feet.
“First, she didn’t mention she was seeing the other wife last night. That’s kind of a sign, right? That maybe she doesn’t want to tell me things that matter.”
The pigeon stares at me.
“Then she said we were free to end things. She wants to be happy. Ending this makes her happy. Obviously, right?”
The pigeon doesn’t answer.
“And to top it off, Elise has made her intentions apparent from day one.” I heave a sigh. It’s stupid for me to linger on why we ended. We were only ever an arrangement.
I stand, brush my hand over my trousers, and toss the final chunk of bread to the pigeon. He wolfs it down then flies away.
Figures.
He got what he wanted.
I walk in the other direction, away from the fading sun, but as I meander, a clucking sound echoes nearby. I glance up at the branches of a tree. It’s the pigeon. At least, I think it’s the same one. He’s following me.
“I don’t have any more. I told you,” I tell him.
He’s undeterred. He flaps behind me as I walk, stopping in branches along the way.
“It’s a lost cause, mate,” I mutter.
But it’s not lost to him, because he’s stuck to me, it seems.
He’s persistent.
And as I keep going, and he does too, my brain starts to clear, like clouds are parting. My mind moves aside the terms and the words that demanded all its real estate today. It makes way for new ideas to take root.
Ideas about persistence.
Determination.
Because I can’t shake the thought that I was wrong in my conversation with Mr. Pigeon.
Maybe that’s just hope talking.
Maybe that’s simply a fool’s wish.
Or maybe it’s determination to see this all the way through.
I call Erik and tell him he needs to meet me straightaway. I’ve helped him sort out his mess for the last few months. Time for him to help sort out mine.
In the meantime, I send Elise a message.
37ELISE
On the way to a late lunch with my brother, I reread the texts Christian and I sent this afternoon, trying to find any hidden meaning in them.
Christian: Hi. How was your flight? Is Manhattan everything you wanted it to be?
No. You’re not here, I wanted to shout.
Elise: It’s fabulous! Always good to be home.
Nothing is fabulous when you have to fake your emotions.
Christian: Great! Glad to hear. When do you return? Can I take you out to dinner when you’re back?
Why? Why? Why? To tell me you want to keep fucking me every Friday night? That you vastly preferred things when we were part-time lovers only, and why not return to those glory days?
Elise: Sure. Dinner sounds great. I’ll be back on Friday.
Friday. Why do I have to return on a Friday?
Christian: Can I see you then?
Elise: Or Saturday. I might be exhausted when I return.
And I don’t want to look overeager.
Christian: Fine, but if you find yourself un-exhausted, let me know. I’d love to see you.
My pants. You’d love to see my pants.
I shove my phone to the bottom of my purse as the cabby swerves to The Lucky Spot in Midtown. It’s a popular bar, my brother told me, and it recently began serving lunch.
I pay the driver and head inside, grateful I already dropped my bags at my hotel.
My bespectacled brother, Ian, waits at a table, and as soon as he sees me, he stands and waves. My heart lights up with relief. Family. I need family right now.
I rush over to him and throw my arms around his shoulders, clasping tight. “So good to see you.”
“Well, I didn’t expect this kind of greeting.”
I don’t let go. I hug him tighter, my chin on his shoulder. It’s only when I realize his shirt is wet where my cheek rests that it occurs to me I’m crying.
