Last Girl Ghosted(9)

Does he know? Jax asked when I confessed how much I liked you.

No, I told her.

When will you tell him?

Now, I think. This is the moment. Tell now or it becomes a lie, something I’ve hidden. So, in the warmth of your embrace, in the dark of the hours after midnight, I tell you something I’ve never told anyone else.



four


“Can I see you tonight?”

You always ask this, nearly every morning, as if it’s not a foregone conclusion.

“Of course,” I always answer.

You’re already dressed in fresh clothes from your overnight bag. When I woke just a little while ago, I heard the shower running. Glancing at the clock, I saw that you were running late and that I had slept in. It was a long night with us talking and talking, until finally I must have drifted off. The memories, the things I’ve told you, they cling. I regret it in the light of the day. The night made me feel safe. In the morning glow I feel exposed. Shame, it tingles all over my skin.

“I want to ask you something tonight,” you say, fastening your belt at your trim waist.

“Ask me now.”

You shake your head, smile wanly. “Impatient thing.”

I roll over on my side, prop myself up on my elbow, and watch you as you pull a brush through your wet hair, your large frame filling the mirror over the dresser. Your hair is thick and wild, the envy of any woman. But when you look at your reflection, it’s with a critical frown.

“Where and when?” I ask.

“There’s a place I want to try in the Village. I’ll text you the address.”

When you come to sit beside me on the bed, you smell of sage and mint.

“Thank you,” you say.

“For what?”

“For sharing yourself with me. You won’t regret it.”

“Run while you can,” I quip with a confidence I don’t feel.

You kiss me long and deep, then reluctantly pull away, hand lingering on my hip.

“I’m late,” you say with a groan. “See you tonight.”

And then you’re gone, and I am alone with my confession, my past, all the voices in my head.

I spend the day working, my escape hatch, the place where I bury myself and all my own problems. The day passes quickly. You don’t call at lunch, but around two in the afternoon I get a text with the address, a restaurant I don’t know.

My stomach flutters with butterflies, as if it’s our very first date. Maybe in a way it is. Because now you know.

What do you want to ask me, Adam?

I arrive at the restaurant, butterflies reaching a crescendo.

The space is dark and glittery. Private booths and candle-lit tables. A golden buddha sits in the center of a dark fountain where lotus flowers float. I look for you, but I don’t see you.

It’s not like you to be late.

The host with big dark eyes and chiseled features, dressed impeccably in triple black, is smiling, and I can see in his face that the dress I’m wearing—new, a rare frivolous purchase—was the right choice, highlighting my cleavage and brightening my eyes.

“You’re the first to arrive. Can I show you to your table?”

“Yes, please.”

His eyes linger.

I’m nothing special to look at. I mean, I’m okay. But I’m not in love with my legs. And my hair has a life of its own when it rains. I haven’t mastered the whole makeup thing. In a city of beautiful, stylish, glamorous women, I usually have a whole urban warrior look going, mainly jeans and leather jackets, T-shirts, and Doc Martens. I’m not one to thread or wax, pluck and manicure, starve and preen. A natural woman, you said. Rare these days. I took it as a compliment.

But this dress, a royal blue wrap, clinging, long, really highlights my assets.

Why am I dressing up for tonight? I don’t know.

If he’s going to break up with you, at least he’ll see what he’s missing, said Robin unhelpfully as I got ready. She’d lounged on my bed, just as she always has—at ease, sure of herself, ready for anything.

At the table, I look at the menu.

Wow.

Very pricey.

You always pick up the check. Which at first, I didn’t feel comfortable with. We struggled over the bill. I’m old school, you told me. At dinner, the guy pays. It’s just gross if you don’t. But I grew to love this about you. Your generosity. Your kindness. You give without asking anything in return.

I keep glancing at that door when it opens—a young couple laughing, an older gentleman with a baritone voice. I’m hungry—of course. The waitress comes to ask if I’d like a drink. But I’ll wait for you. Those butterflies, they’ve turned into crows.

Moments from last night keep coming back to me.

You’ve been through so much, you said, your voice heavy with compassion. You’re a survivor.

There’s more. Layers. There’s always more to us than what we say and show. But I have shared everything I can. I am exposed enough.

So, after I got your text, I zipped out to a boutique I love and bought a new dress. Retail therapy, not usually my thing. I can see the appeal though, a new skin I’ve slipped into. Something bright and fresh.

The door opens and a tall, stunningly chic woman with dark skin and a magnificent black wrap breezes in. She sits at the bar, is joined shortly by two Asian men in crisp charcoal gray suits. They lean into each other, conversation low and intense.