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.
“Elise,” he says softly. “What’s wrong?”
I separate from him, inhale deeply, and fix on a cheery grin. I wave a hand in front of my face. “Oh, nothing. Long flight. How are you?”
We take our seats, and he narrows his brown eyes. He tilts his head to the side. “You’re crying over a long flight? It’s eight hours, and you only ever fly first class.”
“Not true,” I say, straightening my shoulders. “I flew coach to Copenhagen.”
My tears crawl up my throat once more. But I catch them before they spill and shove them back down.
“What is going on?”
I tell him everything. “And then I fell in love with him,” I say, plastering on a fake grin. “Wasn’t that a fantastic idea?”
He laughs lightly and pats my hand. “It’s not as if falling in love is the worst idea in the world.”
“Ugh. It is. Love is euphoria and misery cooked into a stew. It’s the worst thing ever invented.”
He arches a brow over his glasses. “Is it?”
The waiter arrives and asks if we’ve had a chance to look at the menu. Ian shakes his head, but when I say I’ll have a house salad, he opts for a chicken sandwich.
Once the man leaves, Ian peers at my neck. “You found it.”
I touch the necklace. “I’m so glad to have it back. It’s my little piece of New York.”
“You can take the girl out of New York, but you can’t take New York out of the girl.”
“Do I seem very New York to you?”
“You’re tough as nails, so I’d say yes.”
“Oh, please. I’ve cried more times in the last twelve hours than I have in a year.”
He smirks. “That’s my point. You’re so tough, so strong. You’re working so hard to protect yourself from getting hurt again. But what if this guy wound up in the same boat as you?”
“What do you mean?”
Ian leans forward, a conspiratorial tone to his voice. “I mean that, at face value, everything you said to him and he said to you leads reasonably to the conclusions you’ve drawn. But do people really say what they mean?”
