To See You

by Rachel Blaufeld

  “Listen, you don’t even have to pretend to understand. I have to chase this, and I earned it. I had some savings, which is remarkable in New York, and I haven’t even touched the money Dad left me except to put a security deposit on the condo. So, I have to try.”

  “Well then, you don’t have to pretend to understand what I’m about to ask,” she countered.

  My feet trudged, one in front of the other, my body rigid and wary of what was about to come from her mouth next. Whatever it was, I was certain I wouldn’t like it.

  “Garrett needs a date this weekend, and you’re going. He has some company thing and he really needs someone by his side. It’s non-negotiable. I told him yes.”

  I blew out a long breath and decided to take a run when I got home. Maybe to New Jersey and back? Or however long it took me to burn off my growing tension.

  “I can’t, Mom. I’m seeing someone.”

  “He’s across the country. Garrett is there and he needs someone. He’ll text you later with the details, but it’s Saturday, late afternoon, an evening picnic. Period.”

  “Why are you so set on Garrett?”

  “He’ll get you back on track.”

  “I am on track. I don’t want to do this.” The evening wind cut through my sweater, chilling me to the bone. I started to shiver.

  “You will. I’m all alone, a widow, and I asked.”

  “’Bye, Mom.” That was all I could force from my throat before disconnecting.

  I knew better than to change the plans. If I did, she’d be on a plane and fixing them to her liking. Whether I liked it or not, I had to do this and get it over with.

  Do I tell Layton?

  I decided to run to the Pennsylvania border over that thought.

  We hadn’t been able to figure out a September plan. We were aiming to connect to celebrate our birthdays during the last weekend of the month, hoping to steal four days while my book was at the copy editor and two of his films were wrapped.

  I’m not going to lie. I was counting the minutes and it was only midmonth.

  I couldn’t go through with this Garrett thing. I’d have to find a way out of it, I decided as my feet picked up their pace on the New York streets.

  My bare feet were up on the desk in my studio, Harriette on the cool floor, her jowls dripping on the hardwood. We’d just come in from an early evening walk, and I was antsy. Determined to shrug off the feeling, I shoved on my headphones and listened to a few loops of an electric violin solo.

  It was perfect.

  I let out a loud sigh. I’d been looking for something to pair with an erotic bathroom scene, the last piece of music for this movie, and then I was done. I played the clip on my laptop and matched up the tinny violin strokes with each body movement. The scratchy music fit perfectly with the gruff, tattooed man and the lithe woman onscreen in front of me. He was abrasive like sandpaper and she was smooth like silk. Together, they were explosive and gave new meaning to scratching an itch.

  I rewound the clip, made sure the music was set perfectly, and e-mailed it to the producer, confident he would love it.

  Leaning back in my chair, I should have felt at ease, but I was even more antsy. All the sexy clips made me miss Charli even more than I already did. I pined for her laughter, the new slight curve of her hips. She hadn’t really gained weight; she looked more like a woman filled out in all the right places.

  And her smile . . . that smile could light up Manhattan.

  I didn’t want to share it, though. I wanted all of her grins, each and every one. I would stuff her giggles in my pocket for a rainy day.

  Fuck, I’m such a goner. Gone for her.

  My mind went to her, to our situation, like it so often did throughout my day.

  Although no one had said I love you, I wanted to, but I needed it to be right. Charli needed to be settled in her career before I approached her about this. Although her job was sort of transient, but no . . . no, I needed to make a move. I suspected that was pivotal to our relationship working, yet I waited. And now I feared I’d waited too long.

  It didn’t matter. I missed her so much that my hand twitched, wanting to touch her, to feel her, to slip her hair behind her ear. It was silky like satin sheets fresh from the package.

  I should buy some of those, I thought, but then my phone buzzed on my desk.

  Adam.

  A few guys were grabbing drinks at Bastion’s. Looking more closely at the time, I realized it was almost seven on a Friday night. Happy hour was well under way.

  I needed to get out of my house for something other than a run or a walk. My mind was playing tricks on me.

  She loves me. She loves me not.

  Leaving out some fresh water for Harriette, I pulled off my old concert tee and grabbed a Henley. I left my jeans on and slipped into a pair of Reef flip-flops. Why else live at the beach?

  Adam clapped me on the shoulder when I bellied up to the bar. “Well, it isn’t Romeo! How’s it going in lover land?”

  “Beer please, whatever’s on tap,” I said to the bartender.

  “That good?” Adam took a sip of his drink.

  “It’s rough, man. She’s not here and I’m not there.”

  “Star-crossed lovers, that’s what I said.”

  “I heard your little joke, but this is my life.”

  He lifted his glass to my bottle and said, “Cheers, Lay. Damn straight it’s your life. Take control.”

  “You’re kidding. You don’t think I have?”

  But I hadn’t. It was my fault we didn’t share our true feelings. I should say it first. I knew she loved me.

  “No,” Adam said, his tone suddenly sober. “And you know me? No bullshit ever. You took control of your life, even though you almost had it all. Kicking business, lots of pussy, but not her . . .”

  “Don’t say it,” I warned.

  “Now you just mope around.” Frowning, he said, “Fucking fix it, dude. You want her to move here, ask her. You want to marry her, ask her.”

  “Whoa, marry? No, we’re not there yet.”

  But the idea did appeal to me . . . a lot. To all of me, my head and my dick. My heart too.

  “Drink up and enjoy your night,” Adam said as he circled his finger at the bartender for another round. “Wake up tomorrow and do something ’bout this shit.”

  We drank like he wanted but my mind was elsewhere, concocting a plan. I was going to fucking fix it, all right.

  At ten, I left and prayed my neighbor’s lights were on. They were, and I knocked softly. Then I grabbed Harriette and delivered her over there before grabbing a duffel and shoving shit inside.

  By a quarter to eleven, I was on my way to the airport with one thought in mind.

  I was going to fucking fix it.

  Physically exhausted, I was running on adrenaline as I made my way to ground transportation at JFK. I needed a cab quickly.

  Turned out, I missed the red-eye back east. It left at half past eleven, but the nice old lady working the counter took pity on me and put me at the top of the standby list for the first flight out in the morning. I ended up sitting at the gate for most of the night, too afraid to lose my spot.

  By the time I landed in New York, I was wired on caffeine and Charli.

  The air was damp when I walked outside, a light mist coating the sidewalk, the sky gray and the leaves in mid-change.

  It wasn’t the kind of day I’d imagined for us. Back home, I was used to hummingbird-blue skies and hearing the ocean in the background. Maybe that was one of my main issues—I was a California boy at heart. The place had woven itself into my blood, and maybe subconsciously, I worried our love wasn’t geographically compatible.

  If she wanted me to move here, I would. That’s what I decided as I slid into a cab and barked out the name of my regular hotel. I hoped to be surrounded by purple soon enough, but I needed a shower and fresh clothes. Even I knew that spending the night in an airport after drinking beers with buddies and then flying cro
ss-country was no way to meet a woman.

  “Crap,” I muttered as we hit bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Jersey side of the Lincoln Tunnel. “What’s happening?”

  “There’s parade. Fashion Week.”

  In September? I closed my eyes, thought hard, and came up short. They paraded around the street for Fashion Week?

  “German parade,” the cabbie hollered, explaining.

  Christ. I leaned back into the dirty seat and took a breath, counted to ten, and exhaled. I did that all the way to Columbus Circle. It took us over an hour.

  At the hotel’s front desk, I begged for any room as long as it was ready. They took pity on me, which was unusual for New Yorkers. The minute I got to my room, I dialed room service, jumped in the shower, and was out in time for the knock on the door.

  With coffee down my throat and toast in my gut, I tossed on jeans, a long-sleeved tee, and Chucks. Fuck it, that was me. She liked the old me.

  In the lobby, I paused and texted Charli.

  LAYTON: Hey! Happy Saturday! How goes it? I’m just back from a run. You?

  She didn’t respond right away, so I decided to take a quick walk. Roaming Central Park South, I was convinced I needed a plan.

  By the time I hit Fifth Avenue, my thoughts went haywire.

  Finally, she texted back.

  CHARLI: Hey, you. Curled on my couch, writing and drinking coffee. I ran on the treadmill this morning. It’s raining here.

  No shit. The rain had stopped, but the skies looked like they were about to crack back open.

  It should have been a warning.

  My conversation with Adam turned in my head, mixing with my love for Santa Monica and my need to have Charli completely. My brain was like a washing machine on the heavy cycle. Thoughts whirred and swished around in one big tangled mess.

  The skies parted just as I ducked into a fancy jewelry store and came out twenty-five grand lighter.

  I didn’t realize how fucked up I was, or that there was more fucking up coming my way. Or that my heart was about to crack in half, like the dark sky above.

  I was on a major mission, and nothing was going to stand in my way.

  Definitely not New York traffic during a thunderstorm.

  I darted into the street and hailed a cab, my free hand in my pocket, fingering my purchase. When a cabbie stopped for me, I jumped into the backseat and rattled off my destination in the Meatpacking District, then closed my eyes, thinking of what I wanted to say.

  Water splashed as the tires rolled through puddles, a dull hum of Indian music flitted from the car’s radio, and I felt at ease.

  I love you.

  All the way home, I cursed myself for lying, my hair freshly washed and curled in beach waves that were beginning to droop from the rain. I stood outside my apartment, not wanting to open the door, flipping the key back and forth between my thumb and forefinger.

  I just had to get through the next few hours, and then I was going to take charge.

  It didn’t change how much I despised my mom. There was nothing more to say. She’d thrown down the gauntlet and then shown up out of nowhere, her hair done in some weird seventies Farah Fawcett style, and wearing tight jeans. She resembled the twenty-something version of herself I’d seen in pictures.

  Great. She’s having some sort of midlife crisis, and my love life is the innocent bystander.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said, opening my door. She was the one curled up on my couch, listening to rock and roll and drinking coffee. Not me.

  “You look great, Charleston. Let’s see what you’re wearing. He’ll be here soon.”

  “I’m not really up for turning this into a big fashion show. I’m going to get dressed and wait in my bedroom.”

  Not bothering to remove my wet jacket, I stopped in the kitchen and filled a glass with Pellegrino and stomped back to my bedroom. Of course, my mother had spread out in my living area.

  An hour later, I heard the buzzer and my mom yelling into the intercom.

  I made my way out in a pair of skinny jeans, knee-high boots, and an eggplant-colored blouse. The event we were going to was a faux picnic, held inside, and only eighty-five percent work-related, like everything in Manhattan. I didn’t think the occasion called for flannel, so I opted for business casual.

  My mom threw open my door. “Garrett,” she said, her voice practically a coo as she greeted him before she called out, “Charli, he’s here. Your date.” Her voice carried through my small condo.

  I felt like saying, I can see that, but I wasn’t an ornery teenager. Just back to being a bitch.

  Garrett stepped inside and smiled at me. “Charli, thanks so much for coming with me.”

  He was stuffed into one of those tight flannel shirts with the big pockets and rhinestone buttons. He looked so stupid, like a freaking idiot whose secretary dressed him.

  “You look great,” he told me as my mom smiled at us with approval, sipping a Bloody Mary.

  I wanted to roll my eyes. “Thank you. Ready?”

  He held out his arm, but I didn’t take it.

  “’Bye, gang!” my mom called out, so cheerful now that she’d gotten her way.

  I didn’t bother saying good-bye to her. Honestly, I hoped she was gone when I got back.

  “Oh, Charli, come here,” she called out before we were out the door. “One sec, Garrett.”

  Of course, she needed the last word.

  “You’re taking the pill right?” she whispered into my hair. “Feel free to go back to his place.”

  “Enough,” I replied through clenched teeth.

  I met Garrett in the hall and we made our way to the lobby. It seemed to take all his strength to pull open the outer door, and I wondered what he looked like under those clothes. Probably a scrawny little boy-man.

  I was cringing to myself when I heard a familiar voice.

  “Charli?”

  I looked up from the floor. “Layton? What? How?”

  I fell over each word, landing on a new question each time. We stood still under the awning, protecting us from the pouring rain but not the impeding shame as we stared at each other.

  My “date” shifted at my side. “Excuse me? I’m Garrett.”

  Oh, now he decides to act like a man?

  “I’m Layton.”

  As Layton looked back and forth between Garrett and me, my throat tightened, clogged with a combination of fear, tears, and screams.

  Oh, wait. Those screams were in my head.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I missed you, needed to see you, wanted to surprise you. But I’m thinking now you didn’t miss me that much. What the hell?”

  I reached out and gripped Layton’s bicep, stabilizing myself but also needing to touch him. He was damp from the rain.

  “This isn’t what you think,” I blurted. “I know what it looks like. Please, come in and listen to me. My mom . . .”

  Layton shook his head, unable to meet my eyes. “I don’t think I can do that right now.” He turned away from me and pulled his arm from my grasp, leaving my hand feeling as cold as ice.

  “Please,” I whimpered.

  With all the drama unfolding in front of him, Garrett just stood there staring, not talking or fighting or explaining or defending.

  Little boy-man.

  “I have to go.” Layton ran outside on those words and I followed behind. Luck was on his side—a cab emptied right in front of him and he jumped in, slamming the door behind him.

  Devastated, I stood on the sidewalk, tears pouring down my cheeks, cold rain pounding onto my shoulders, unable to move.

  “Miss, are you okay?”

  Soaked and uncertain how long I’d been standing there, I startled and looked up. Apparently one of the last known friendly New Yorkers had stopped to check on me.

  I nodded and murmured, “Yeah,” and forced myself out of my stupor.

  I looked at my phone. It had been an hour since Garrett showed up at my door to pick me up
, and now he was nowhere to be found. My mom was radio silent upstairs in my apartment, and I’d been standing on the sidewalk with the rain dumping on me for close to forty-five minutes.

  My feet began to move, and I walked anywhere but home as a tornado whipped up inside my head.

  Why didn’t Layton listen to me?

  Why didn’t I chase after him?

  Why the hell did I just stand there in the pouring rain?

  My boots beat the pavement as rain splashed around my ankles. I remembered my adventures with Layton in the city, our time at the beach in California, and the first moment I laid eyes on him again in February . . . looking so different but his personality just as amazing. He’d been right to run out on me. I was a head case.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I looked at who was calling.

  “I’m not in the mood, Mom.”

  “What happened?”

  I ducked into a coffee shop, brushed the rain off my jacket, and sat down at a lonely table.

  “Mom . . .” My voice was tangled in my vocal cords and tears. “Why did you keep pushing for it? I went and did what you wanted, second-guessed myself, and now I ruined everything before Garrett and I even went to the damn picnic.”

  “Charleston, you can’t keep hauling out to the West Coast for some guy. You’ll move out there for him and lose yourself. You’re a smart woman, a prodigy, went to college early, started to make a fabulous career. Now you meet this schlepper and turn freelance, and want to go off the grid.”

  Tears dripped on the table in front of me as I held my forehead in my palm. “Mom, I’m not you, not by a long shot. Was it so bad that you followed Dad on his career? He had goals, and yours were sort of frivolous. Besides, I don’t believe he would’ve stopped you from traveling, seeing things, hearing music. Maybe he would have appreciated going with you sometimes.”

  “Do you hear yourself? You talk like you know all about love.”

  “Well, I am in love, but now I’ve ruined it. Actually, you had a hand in that. Where the hell are you? In my apartment? I want you gone. Seriously.” My throat was scratchy and my body as cold as ice. I was dead on the inside.