by Holly Rayner
Feeling terrible about it, I let Aleksandr have twice as many fruit candies at the end of our session. I think he gets that it’s a bribe of sorts, but he doesn’t complain, and I leave his apartment thinking that I need to do something to get my mind off of Tomas. I decide to walk around downtown for a while and do a little people watching, maybe take a few pictures. Taking photos of people in New York is always good for a distraction, not only because there are so many interesting people here, but also because you never know who’s going to yell at you and you need to keep your wits about you.
But it doesn’t work. As soon as I start taking shots, my mind drifts to Tomas’s beautiful face bending over my camera, examining my work, telling me I had talent. Telling me I was an artist.
Why would he bother telling me that if all he wanted was to get me into bed? He could have just told me I was beautiful. But he didn’t even try to kiss me.
Maybe that’s not what he wants. Maybe I had him all wrong.
Did I make a terrible mistake by turning him away from my apartment? Maybe he really did just want to come up so that we could keep getting to know each other. We were having a really nice conversation, after all, and it would have been nice to keep it going. And he seemed so taken aback when I turned him down. At the time I assumed he was unused to being told no, but maybe that was unfair of me. Maybe he was actually surprised that I was ending things so abruptly.
What a mess!
I slip my hand into my purse and feel the scrap of paper that contains his phone number. Does it mean something that I haven’t yet thrown this out? Could that be significant in some way? Or am I just attributing meaning to nonsense things because I want my crush to be more than it is?
He gave me his number. He wouldn’t have given it to me if he didn’t want me to use it, would he? There’s no other reason.
I punch it in slowly, wondering what I’m doing. This could turn out to be a terrible idea. What if my initial instinct about Tomas was right, and my second thoughts are just rationalization? What if he sees a text message from me and assumes it means I want a hookup?
Then I’ll just tell him no. That’s not such a big deal.
I will tell him no, won’t I? It’s easy to say that I will right now, standing here alone on the street. But he was so attractive, and that hug we shared was hard to let go of. If he ever actually does kiss me, I can see myself being completely swept away.
Okay, so we won’t kiss. We’ll talk.
I bite my lip for a minute, thinking, and then my hands seem to make the decision for me.
“Hey Tomas,” I type. ”It’s Emma from the other day. Just wondered if you’re still in town and maybe wanted to go grab coffee again? Let me know.”
I hit send before I can stop myself and the message jumps up into the top part of the chat window as I watch. It seems out of my control now, like something somebody else did. I watch my phone for several minutes, waiting to see if my message receives a reply.
Nothing.
He’s probably not looking at his phone right now. It occurs to me that I never asked him what he did for a living, but it’s the middle of the day and most people are at work. I put my phone back in my purse. I’ll check it out later and see if he’s gotten back to me.
“Tomas—did you get my last text? Hoping I have your number right! Let me know.”
“Hi—it’s Emma again. I’ll be over by the park again this afternoon if you want to meet up. Send me a text this afternoon if you do.”
I have to stop texting him. I know I have to stop texting him. I’m being ridiculous, and I’m letting myself fall victim to my feelings and to the disdain of yet another man. He’s not going to get back to me. It’s obvious, and I can’t believe I’m letting myself hope otherwise.
But it’s so frustrating! He was so kind to me when we met. I really believed there was something between us.
Now that several days have gone by, I’ve had a chance to really think about things, and the more I do, the more I feel—really feel—like I was the one who overreacted. Tomas never did anything wrong. And what if he did want to have sex with me that night? All he did was ask. There’s nothing wrong with that, and it doesn’t change the fact that he seemed genuinely interested in me as a person before he walked me home. My friends would be furious with me if I told them what had happened.
But there must be something wrong with the way I’ve interpreted Tomas’s behavior toward me, I realize now. I must have had it right the first time, when I thought he was only trying to get me into bed. Even though that doesn’t seem to make as much sense now that I’ve had some time to ponder it. Even though I think my friends would agree that there was a genuine connection between the two of us. Because if that connection had been real, if it had really been there, he would have answered my texts, wouldn’t he?
It’s been three days now since I sent the first message. Three days, and three different texts. No response. I haven’t gotten the little indicator that my messages were read either, but I know it’s possible to turn that indicator off. It’s impossible to believe that a man with a young child wouldn’t have looked at his phone for three days. Surely a phone is essential to tracking what your kid is doing. No, he’s seen my messages. He’s just choosing not to answer.
I shake my head, trying to rid myself of these thoughts. I can’t have my head full of Tomas and the disappointment of not hearing from him. I’m on my way back to Zhen’s penthouse to tutor her, and the last thing I want is for my favorite student to have her lesson disrupted by my stupid crush, my stupid inability to relate to a man.
Honestly, I’m beginning to wish I’d never met him. The time we spent together was fun, but it hasn’t been worth it. And isn’t this always how I feel in the end after something happens between a man and me? Don’t I always end up wishing I had kept to myself?
I’m just not cut out for relationships.
Maybe if I had spent more time dating when I was younger. All my friends had boyfriends and girlfriends in high school, but I wasn’t involved with anyone until my senior year of college. At the time I thought it was just a function of the fact that I was a serious person, dedicated to my schoolwork, with no time for boys. But now I think I missed out on an important developmental stage, because everyone around me knows how to do this without getting their heart broken every single time.
I barely know the man. It shouldn’t matter this much to me.
It’s just that I really felt like we had a connection. Something powerful. Something rare.
God, I sound like a teenager.
Is it possible that it really is too late for me? Maybe there’s something fundamental missing, and I’m too old to figure out what it is. It’s like that saying about teaching an old dog new tricks. I know thirty-three isn’t old, not by a long shot, but when it comes to the dating game, I’ve always been a late starter, and it’s clear that I have no idea how to handle myself.
I think about my best friend, Isobel, who’s always meeting new men, taking them home, and having a good time. She knows how to keep her feelings out of it. And when she meets someone she really likes, she knows how to take it from just fun to a serious relationship. But me…I have no idea what I’m doing.
Isobel would have known what to do with Tomas. I try to imagine it. She would either have invited him up to her apartment when he asked, or else she would have turned him down, but in a clever, winning way that would have captured his imagination and ensured that he would want to see her again. Not like me. I probably just made him feel like I wasn’t interested. He’s probably decided I’m a waste of his time.
The kind of connection I thought I had with Tomas—I need to stop looking for that. That doesn’t exist outside of movies. Two people don’t just meet and see sparks. That’s not a sign of love; it’s just a sign of immaturity. For proof of that, all I need to do is to look at my other good friends, Ian and Rachel. They’ve been married for ten years. Their love for each other is very apparent, but it�
��s also very practical. They show their affection by doing things like remembering to put each other’s clothes in the laundry.
If Tomas knew how I felt when I saw him—as if every cell in my body was waking up from hibernation—he’d laugh.
He probably is laughing. Right now. He’s probably looking at my texts and laughing at me.
As I step into the elevator that will take me up to the penthouse where Zhen lives, I feel my face growing warm. I feel humiliated, yes, but I also feel a strange sort of grief. It’s painful to realize I’m going to have to let go of the idea that there’s a soulmate waiting out there for me. It’s painful to think that something that felt so wonderful at first—meeting Tomas—could actually mark the end of my youthful ideas about romance.
And that’s not all. I’m beginning to doubt my ability to find a relationship at all. It’s been so long since I’ve been in one. It seemed smart, when I was twenty-five, to take a break from dating after getting my heart broken three times in succession. It seemed too risky to put myself out there again. But now I wonder. My late start, combined with my long hiatus, has left me woefully inexperienced. Maybe I’ll never know how to handle a relationship. Maybe I’ll never know love, never build a family of my own.
Maybe I’ll be alone forever.
By the time the elevator reaches the top floor, my tears have spilled over. I wipe them away quickly as the doors slide open. I can’t show up to work like this. Fortunately, Zhen’s nanny never pays too much attention to me. She greets me, says goodbye at the end of our tutoring sessions, and on alternate Fridays she points me toward the envelope of cash Zhen’s father leaves on the counter for me. That’s the extent of our interaction.
But today, luck doesn’t seem to be with me. As the doors open on the penthouse, I see Mr. Li standing in his foyer and pulling on his jacket. He’s clearly getting ready to go out. I turn away from him, hoping to slip by unnoticed, but—
“Emma?”
Damn. I turn to face him.
His eyes go wide. “You’ve been crying.”
So much for not being noticed. I should have realized there would be no getting anything past this man. He’s a high-ranking diplomat, after all, and that means he’s very good at reading people.
Mr. Li reaches into his satchel, pulls out a full bottle of water, and hands it to me. I accept it gratefully and take a long drink, delaying the moment when I’ll have to speak, making sure the lump in my throat is fully under control.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
For a moment, I’m on the verge of answering him with the truth. For a moment I actually want to tell him. He’s an adult, after all, an authority figure, someone whose experience in the world of dating is much more comprehensive than my own. If I told him what I was worried about and he told me things were going to be all right, I think I might actually believe him. And it’s silly, but right now I’m longing for someone to tell me everything will be all right. I want to hear that my fears are unfounded and that I won’t be alone for the rest of my life.
But to talk about it would be unprofessional. Mr. Li isn’t a friend of mine. He isn’t a confidant. He’s a client. He pays me to teach his daughter English. He’s kind to check on me, to make sure I’m all right, but that doesn’t mean he wants me to unburden myself here in his foyer. He just wants to make sure I’m not having a meltdown before I go in to tutor Zhen.
I force a smile onto my face. I doubt the expression is very convincing, but it’ll have to do.
“I’m fine,” I tell Mr. Li. “It was just the wind blowing in my eyes, making them water.”
He frowns. “Is it very windy?”
It’s not, and he’ll know that as soon as he steps outside.
“I was caught in a gust,” I say. “But I wouldn’t worry about it. I think it’s died down now.”
Mr. Li hesitates, then nods. “I see,” he says.
I can tell he doesn’t quite believe what I’m saying. But I can also see that he’s decided not to pursue it. After all, who am I to him? I’m just a girl who works for him. As long as I’m not actively crying when I’m with Zhen, there’s nothing for him to worry about.
I smile a little harder, hoping my expression looks real. “Is Zhen ready for her lesson?”
“She’s in the dining room,” Mr. Li says. His tone is relaxed now that we’ve both decided to pretend I didn’t come in here crying. “She’s been talking about you all morning. I think she’s really excited to talk about her homework assignment.”
I remember the movie I gave Zhen to watch. “Good,” I say. “We’d better get to it, then.”
Mr. Li nods and heads for the elevator. Once the doors have closed on him, I stand in the lobby for a long minute, ensuring that my emotions are under control. Diverting Zhen’s curiosity won’t be as easy as deflecting her father’s was if she notices that I’ve been crying.
She’s waiting, as her father said, at the living room table, sitting up straight and neat in a high-backed chair. The DVD I loaned her sits before her, along with a pad of legal paper where she’s clearly made notes on the film in Mandarin. As I draw close, I can see that she’s done her best to translate her notes to English on the right-hand side of the page.
I’m so lucky, I think. So lucky to be part of this little girl’s life, to be able to help educate her.
So maybe I’ll never get married. Maybe I’ll never have children of my own. But what I do have is a lot better than nothing.
I smile as I take my seat beside Zhen. This time, my smile feels genuine.
Chapter 4
Emma
June
As summer rolls in, my tutoring schedule grows more and more busy. Schools let out, and kids who have been taking advantage of the tutoring programs their schools offer are left with nothing to cover the summer months. Of course, upper-class Manhattan parents can’t stand the idea that their kids might spend a few months away from the grind, playing with friends and just generally being kids. They all have résumés for their children and are looking to bulk them up with constant studying.
It’s not my favorite time of the year to be a tutor.
I do try to make it more fun for the kids during the summer. Instead of studying indoors, I take them out when I can. I have a museum pass, so we visit the museums and the Statue of Liberty. We go to restaurants and the students are required to order food in English. I even convince the parents of one of my older students to let me take him to a Broadway show. But no matter what I do with them, I can tell all of my students are feeling itchy and summery and would rather be out playing baseball or hanging out at the movies than spending their days with me.
Mr. Li’s time in the United States came to a close earlier this month, so he and Zhen have gone back to China. I’ve had to say goodbye to plenty of students before, of course, so I was surprised at how much this farewell got under my skin. She was a particular favorite of mine and maybe that had something to do with it, but I wasn’t prepared for how emotional I would be leaving their penthouse for the final time.
Zhen had made me a card, as many of my students do when our lessons are at an end. Sometimes I can tell their parents put them up to it, but with Zhen it was clear the card came from the heart. She’d drawn a picture of me—she’s a talented artist—and written a short message in English, thanking me for being her friend while she was in America. Then, on the back of the card, she’d written a note in Mandarin, warning me that I’d better keep practicing too so that I could come visit her in China someday. Her father slipped some extra cash into my last payment envelope.
It was a lovely thing to receive, and as I walked home, I actually thought at first that the tears threatening to spill down my cheeks were tears of joy. By the time I got home, though, a sort of emptiness had opened up inside me, and I had to acknowledge that what I was feeling was something much more complex.
I was feeling lonely.
I’m still feeling lonely.
And it’s such a sur
prise. It crept up on me out of nowhere. I was single for most of my twenties, after all, and I never really felt bothered by it. I’ve had plenty going on. I love my job. I have plenty of amazing friends. And when there’s nothing else to do and no one to talk to, there’s always photography, which has never failed to make me feel close to my grandfather and connected to my heritage.
But now I realize I’ve always clung to the belief, in the back of my mind, that I could find someone to settle down with eventually. When the time came. When I was ready. And what happened with Tomas is making me doubt that for the first time. I’m two years shy of thirty-five, and I should be capable of reading a romantic situation, shouldn’t I?
I suppose my loneliness has really been set off by Zhen’s departure. The rest of my summer students aren’t happy to be working with a tutor. They’re polite, for the most part, but there’s no one whose face breaks into a joyful smile whenever they see me, and I’m beginning to feel like I’m sleepwalking through the days.
I’ve tried to find things to fill the blank spaces in my life. Photography has always served me well as a distraction, and today I’m standing at the foot of the Empire State Building shooting straight up. It makes for an interesting perspective.
You do a lot of looking up, don’t you?
I wish Tomas’s voice would get out of my head. I need to stop thinking about him.
I pack up my camera and head for home, taking the subway this time so I can relax and zone out on the way. The gentle rocking of the train is soothing, and for a moment I do manage to put thoughts of Tomas out of my head.
I return to my apartment, toss my bag on the couch, and head to the kitchen to start dinner. I’d never noticed it until recently, but cooking for one is a joyless enterprise. I remember my mother starting dinner for the family an hour before we were due to eat, playing music as she worked and whirling happily about the kitchen, carefully timing out each dish so they would arrive on the table at the same time. I remember how every meal included something that each member of the family would like. I remember the pride on her face as she set the serving dishes on the table and watched us fall on them like ravenous wolves.
