by Jen Morris
“Hey,” Michael says on the other end, breathless. “We’ve got her.”
“Oh, thank God!” I’m so overcome with relief I want to sob. I sag against a lamppost, forcing myself to take a deep breath. “Okay, I’m heading back.” I practically skip the few blocks back to the building and happiness sweeps through me when I see Agnes and Michael on the front steps, Stevie curled up on Michael’s lap. “Stevie!” I cry, scooping her up and kissing her little pug face. “Thank God you’re okay.” I hold her tight, waiting for my heart to stop racing.
“She was here with Agnes when I came back,” Michael says, relief etched on his face.
“Thank you, Agnes. Thank you.” I give her a grateful smile, cradling Stevie in my arms. “I thought she was gone. I thought—” I break off, unable to say my worst fear out loud.
Agnes smiles. “I don’t think she got very far. Came sniffing up to me a few moments ago. She’s such a sweet dog.”
Michael pushes to his feet. “She is a cutie.” He reaches forward to tickle her under the chin and she melts in my arms.
I glance up at Michael, feeling a spasm of regret for the things I said. I know it was all true, but I didn’t mean to be so blunt. And, I realize, I still haven’t apologized for the whole book misunderstanding. But now doesn’t seem like the right time.
“I’m so sorry, Alex,” Michael says earnestly. “I should have been more careful.”
I survey his sincere face, realizing once again how wrong I was about him, wanting to make things better. “It’s okay. I’m sorry too, all the things I said…” I shake my head. “I was just so worried.”
He nods in understanding and something occurs to me.
“How did you have my number?”
“You gave it to me in Starbucks, remember?”
“Yeah,” I say, frowning. “But I wrote it on a napkin. And that was like a month ago, and you never did call me about your shirt.”
He looks momentarily caught off-guard. “Oh, well, I kept it in my phone… just in case.”
I stroke Stevie’s head, studying him. Is it my imagination or is he blushing a little?
Agnes starts up the steps and Michael immediately takes her arm, helping her up. It looks so natural, as if he’s done this a hundred times before, and I remember her saying at length what a lovely man he is. I’m starting to wonder if, just maybe, she could be right.
“Thanks for your help, Agnes,” I say as I climb up behind them. I squeeze Stevie again just to reassure myself that she’s still safe in my arms.
“Oh, I didn’t do anything, dear.” Agnes turns at the top of the steps, her eyes sparkling as she looks between Michael and I. “It was all you two.”
15
I’ve found my favorite coffee shop.
A bold claim, I know. Admittedly, I haven’t tried every coffee shop in Manhattan, but there’s something about this tiny place—called Beanie—that I love. It’s warm and cozy, the smell of sweet, buttery treats mingling with the powerful spice of espresso. There are only a few small tables, but the baristas are so nice; they’ve already memorized my order and they don’t mind if I sit for hours and write. Oh, and best of all—it’s on our street!
A few days after the close-call with Stevie, I wake early and head to Beanie to write for a couple of hours before work. I’m getting into a bit of a groove with my life in the city now—working at the bookstore, writing before or after work, going for a drink with Cat. My romance novel is coming along nicely, and my blog is doing well. I’ve even got a few followers—beyond Cat, Geoff, Emily, and Harriet, I mean. And I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the fact that people are enjoying what I have to say about being single in New York. Every time I get a comment on one of my posts, I’m inspired to write more.
I slip the door of Beanie closed and take a seat at my favorite spot; a stool at a bar in the window, looking out over our street. Pulling out my laptop, I take a sip of coffee then get to work on another blog post. It doesn’t take long until I’m in that sweet spot where I can write easily for ages, without having to think or try too hard. Flow, I think they call it. It’s so good to get into this space, because—
“Any more runaway dogs?” I hear from behind me.
I flinch. God, there are some real lunatics in this city. I lean in closer to my laptop, avoiding the presence I can feel hovering nearby.
A throat is cleared. “I, ah, saw you through the window and thought I’d come say hi.”
Oh. I think that voice is talking to me.
I look up from my laptop to see Michael gazing at me. He gestures to the empty seat beside mine. “May I?”
Oh, right. He was talking about Stevie.
I give him a small nod, taking in the playful expression on his face. He might find it amusing, but losing Stevie was terrifying. And I’m still a bit anxious after everything I said to him, everything that has happened between us.
He sits on the stool, placing his coffee on the table, and stares out the window in front of us, not saying anything.
I shift awkwardly, my fingers poised over the keys. I can’t keep writing with him right there. I glance at him from the corner of my eye, wondering if he has anything more to say or if he’s just going to sit there, making me uncomfortable. Despite myself, I notice he’s looking very nice in a wool coat, sweater and jeans.
After a while he turns to me. “So, I think I owe you an apology.”
I let my gaze slide back to my laptop and run my finger along the space bar. This should be interesting.
“I think maybe I’ve been kind of rude to you.”
I raise my eyebrows, still avoiding his gaze. I guess I can’t disagree.
“Look, we didn’t exactly meet under the best circumstances,” he points out, and I cringe, thinking of the coffee soaking into his fancy shirt. “But, besides that…” He softens. “I think I’ve been kind of a jerk.”
I twist in my seat to look at him, concealing a little smile behind my hand. “And why was that, exactly?”
He’s quiet, fiddling with his coffee cup as he stares out the window again. “I’ve been in court the past couple of months, dealing with… something.”
I narrow my eyes. “What did you do?”
He snorts as he looks back to me. “Why do you assume it was something I did?”
I open my mouth, then close it again, feeling a bit sheepish. I don’t know why I assumed that, but he does have a point. “You’re right. Sorry.”
He releases a long breath. “My ex has been trying to get full custody of Henry, if you must know. It’s been a stressful few months.”
I feel a rush of compassion. After reading about him and his son, about how cut-up he was in his divorce, I can understand why he’s struggled with that so much. No wonder he’s been feeling so resentful and angry towards women. I guess being in court explains why I kept seeing him in suits.
“Anyway. It’s all over now and she didn’t win, which is a relief. But it was a nasty ordeal, especially for Henry.” He runs a hand over his beard, his eyes distant, then he fastens his gaze back on me. “The other day when Stevie escaped, I felt really bad. Afterward, I thought a lot about what you said. You’re right; I’ve been an asshole. You caught me at a bad time, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, and I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”
I suck my bottom lip into my mouth, letting my eyes roam over his handsome face. “It’s okay. I don’t blame you for being mad about the coffee. And that’s awful about your ex. I’m sorry you had to go through that.” We sit in silence for a while as I try to find the courage to say what I really want to say. Eventually, I take a deep breath. “I, er, might owe you an apology too.” I reach down into my bag and pull out my copy of his book, placing it on the table between us.
His eyebrows shoot up, then his face breaks into a smile, then—I can’t quite believe it—he laughs. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him smile, let alone laugh, and my lips part in surprise. The deep chuckle that rumbles from
his chest is so delightful it’s as if sunlight has burst in through the window, lighting up his face and warming me through until my whole body is humming.
Whoa.
I pull my gaze down to the book in my hands, remembering the awful things I said. “I’m so sorry. All that stuff I said—”
“It’s okay.” He holds his hands up, giving me a wry smile. “I know it’s not my best work. I’ve made my peace with it.”
I shake my head. “I loved it, I really did. When I said all that stuff, well, I hadn’t actually read it.”
He chuckles again. “Yeah I kind of figured, based on your comments regarding—what was it?—the topography and mountain ranges.”
My cheeks warm. “Yes, well. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He takes a sip of coffee, not lifting his gaze from me. “So you’re from New Zealand, right?”
I nod.
“And Henry said something about breaking up with your boyfriend?”
I grimace, recalling how I spilled my guts to Henry in the hallway when I was trying to cheer him up. But how was I to know Michael was his dad? “Er… yeah. Just before I came over here.”
“Is that why you moved?”
“Yes.” I run my finger around the rim of my coffee cup, thinking, and realize there was more to it than that. “And no.”
Michael tilts his head, eying me curiously. For some reason I feel the urge to go on.
“Have you ever just stopped to look around at your life and realized nothing is how you want it?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation, and for some reason this surprises me. “So what was wrong? What did you have that you didn’t want?”
I think again, recalling that moment I sat in my old flat with my parents, taking stock of my life and feeling empty. “Nothing. I didn’t really have anything. That was the problem. I just…” I pause, wondering how much to share. Strangely, I find that I want to share more, that I feel comfortable talking to him. Maybe it’s because I read his book—because I read about some of his personal experiences. And even though it was only through a book, I feel a sort of connection to him now—like I know him, in a way. It makes me feel like I can talk to him.
I let out a long sigh. “I guess I just realized that I’m thirty—that I’ve gone through my whole twenties without taking my dreams seriously. It’s like I have nothing to show for my twenties. And now… I don’t know. I sort of feel like it’s now or never.”
He gives a slow, thoughtful nod. “I get that. I was about thirty when I finally started going after what I want, too.”
I rub my forehead. “I always thought that by thirty I would have my shit together a bit more, you know? I should have figured this out by now.”
“Says who? I’m in my forties and I still don’t feel like I have my shit together.” He gives me a kind smile. “Don’t be too hard on yourself.”
I gesture to his book. “Well, you’re a lot more successful than me.”
“Sure, my career is going well.” He shrugs. “But that’s not everything. It’s only one area of my life.”
I think back to the jaded man I saw on Halloween after a date, and feel a wave of sympathy. I know what he said at the time wasn’t very nice, but after reading his book I have a much greater understanding of why he felt that way.
His mouth lifts into a small smile, and for a second I think maybe he knows what I’m thinking about.
“So what were you doing, then?” I ask over my coffee. “Before you were thirty, I mean.”
“I worked in finance.”
I raise my eyebrows, the image of him in his suit flashing into my mind. No wonder that look worked so well on him. “And you didn’t enjoy it?”
“No. My folks pushed me into it, thought it was a good career. But I wanted to write. Always have.”
I breathe a disbelieving laugh. My parents might not have pushed me into finance—thank God—but they sure have their own ideas for my life that do not align with mine. And as for always wanting to write… Well. I get that too. Big time.
“So what made you decide to leave finance and write?”
He thinks for a moment, raising his cup to his lips. “Same as you. I turned thirty and took a good look at my life and realized that I didn’t want it to stay the same. I wasn’t taking my dreams seriously, either. So I started to do that.”
Warmth spreads out through my chest as I absorb his words. I’m not crazy, I realize. I’m not the only one who’s felt this way. He understands.
He sets his coffee down and fixes his attention on me. “So what are your dreams, then?”
I give him a shy smile. “To write, as well. That’s what I’m passionate about.”
“Yeah?” There’s a little spark in his eyes as they linger on my face.
“Yeah.”
He motions to my laptop. “What are you working on?”
“Oh, just… a blog post.” For some reason I feel a bit silly, thinking about my tiny blog in the context of this conversation.
“What about?”
I glance at my laptop, hesitating. He’s a real writer, with books and everything. The last thing I want to do is tell him I write a blog about being single. It’s hardly the dream writing life we were just talking about.
“You know, er, various topics. What do you write about?” I ask, to take the spotlight off me. “I know you write books about the Appalachian Trail, but—”
“You mean terrible books about the Appalachian Trail,” he interjects, a smile peeking over his lips.
I groan. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”
“I’ll make a deal with you.” His eyes dance as he leans closer to me. “Tell me what you write about and I’ll forgive you for pretending you read my book.”
He’s got me backed into a corner now, but for some reason I’m reluctant to tell him. I don’t know why. It’s not like I need to impress him. And as much as I might be starting to like him, I know nothing will happen. I’m so much younger than him and he’s a successful New York writer. I don’t think he’d ever look twice at someone like me.
And what was Agnes saying? Something about how he’s not up for meeting women—something that was quite evident in his book, despite all my previous assumptions about him being a womanizer.
None of that matters, anyway. Because my twenties didn’t just teach me to take my writing seriously, they also taught me to stop believing in fairy tales. I know better than to go looking for happily ever after now, especially with someone so far out of my league.
I move my eyes over his friendly face, so different from the man I first met. He has crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiles, and there’s a dimple in his cheek, hiding under his dark beard. It’s adorable. My heart gives an involuntary kick when his smile quirks up a little on one side, and I can’t ignore the desire simmering inside me, threatening to boil over.
Shit, I need to get a hold of myself.
I force the air out of my lungs, closing the lid on my laptop. “Maybe another time. I should get to work.” I drain the cold dregs of my coffee and slip my laptop into my bag.
We head out onto the sidewalk together, and a few feet away there’s a guy shaking a cup with change in it. I’m guessing he must be homeless, or close to it, and it’s cold out. I haven’t seen many homeless people in the city. Compassion nudges me closer, and I stuff a $5 bill into his cup. It’s not a lot but it’s all I can part with right now.
“God bless,” he says gratefully.
I turn back to see Michael watching with interest.
“What?”
“You’re sweet. Most people would just ignore him.”
I sling my bag onto my shoulder. “Hopefully it helps. It’s not much.”
“Yeah. He’ll probably just use it for drugs or something, though.”
“You’re so cynical!”
Michael gives a light shrug. “Well, it’s true.”
“You don’t know that,” I say as we start to wan
der down the street. “That’s totally making an assumption based on the way he looks. It’s like, someone could look at you and say, ‘he’s just a dumb jock. He probably spends all his time in the gym and is as thick as two planks.’” I think of all the assumptions I made about Michael when I first met him and how wrong I was.
He stops walking and turns to me. “You think I look super fit?”
I blush furiously. Jesus, why did I say that?
“I didn’t say super fit,” I mumble.
“But you did suggest that I look fit.” His mouth tilts into a teasing grin.
“Ugh, whatever.” I roll my eyes and turn to walk away, more because I’m embarrassed and don’t want him to see me blush again than anything else.
“Hey, Alex.” He falls into step beside me. “Why don’t you give me some of your writing to read?”
I stop again and glance at him. He’s looking at me warmly, his eyes twinkling, a smile on his mouth. It’s like now that I’ve cracked that frowny exterior he can’t stop smiling. I’m not used to this new, friendly, smiley Michael. If I thought he was sexy before, this is something else.
“Because,” he continues, his lip twitching, “if it’s anything like your other reading material, it’s got to be good.”
“Other reading material?”
“Yeah. What was it, The Prince of Pleasure?”
Oh my God. Somehow, during the course of this perfectly pleasant conversation, I’d let myself forget about our interlude at work. I press my eyes shut in mortification, feeling heat creep up my neck. Because some of my writing is like those books, but I’m certainly not going to be telling—or showing—him any of that.
I brave a glance at him. There’s a playful light in his eyes and his mouth is cocked in a sly grin. It sends a little thrill through me and I bite my lip, trying to make sense of what’s going on here. It almost feels like he’s flirting with me, which is weird. I’m quite certain I’m imagining that. My cheeks burn under his gaze and I look away.
“No, it’s not like that. That was just… something else,” I mutter, feeling silly again. Why do I feel like this around him? He always reduces me to this blushing, mumbling mess, and I can’t stand it. “I should get to work. I’ll… see you around.” I spin on my heel and stalk off, pretending I don’t hear him calling out after me.
