Ever

Exercise is not my friend. It’s probably my least favorite pastime, right below going to the DMV, but just above pedicures. I have extremely ticklish feet. Since I taste test every calorie-packed morsel I create for Hot Damn, however, I’ve been thrust into a world of spin classes and treadmills, at least three days a week. My biggest qualm with working out—apart from the way it makes you feel like dying—is the monotony. I’ve found a way to combat my routine from going stale by purchasing a pass from some online deal site. I paid a one-time fee, and I can do classes of my choosing all over the city. Happy wallet, happy Ever. Except for the actual exercise part.

I’m in particular need of exertion today, however, so I’m not cursing the instructor to hell. He’s teaching us the choreography to a Bruno Mars video—yes, it’s a real class—and I’m actually keeping up, instead of pretending to need water breaks.

This need to burn energy is all Charlie’s fault.

I haven’t seen him in a couple days, although he has been texting me steadily, when I least expect it. Friendly texts. But there wasn’t anything friendly about the way he’d looked at me as I drove off in the cab the other night. He’d been almost . . . torn. That whole meeting at the memorial felt like a dream now. We’d dropped pretense for a couple seconds, Charlie giving me a deeper explanation for not wanting a relationship, even though I’d never asked. Never would have asked. But saying the words out loud had been proof we’d both thought of the impossible possibility of being together, right?

As I side-lunge into a booty shake, I replay the text-alogue we had this morning.

I definitely hadn’t felt a deluge of pleasure over that. Definitely not. I also hadn’t lied about what I was eating. Okay, I had. I’d been going to town on a bowl of Lucky Charms, but in the interest of living vicariously, I’d said, Belgian waffles with berries and cream.

Groaning into my Lucky Charms, I could just see him, all blue eyed and cajoling. If he’d been there in person, turning him down would have been impossible, so thank God for modern technology.

Lies. When did I become a liar? I really didn’t want to become one, so after I’d sent the text passing on lunch with Charlie, I’d signed on to DateMate with a head full of determination. Of course, not a single one of my matches gave off sparks, probably because I was still spooked over the Aviator Squad and Laundromat Landon. I toyed with the idea of messaging Reve S. Guy—weird-ass name, but a great sense of humor—and seeing if we could bump up our date, but I worried that might appear desperate. So I sent him a knock-knock joke instead. Just to prove to myself I’m trying to connect.

And I can admit to myself that I’m getting anxious. Anxious for a place to put these feelings Charlie stirred up inside me. Which makes lunches with him a bad idea. I don’t like the unsettled feeling I get every time we part ways. Like I’m dying to see him again, even though I know I would feel . . . abandoned afterward.

There, I said it. Charlie makes me feel abandoned. And that shit really isn’t going to fly with me. When we’d both wanted nothing to do with relationships, that sense of loss when he blew out of my apartment had been scary. Now, it was like a ghost that follows me around room to room, haunting me. I need to exorcise it.

Plans? Charlie had texted back.

As in, what are they?

I haven’t answered. Which is the right decision. Mostly because we don’t have another catering job until Wednesday night, and I don’t really have any plans. If I relayed that to Charlie, he would persuade me into lunch. Just a friendly little lunch with a man whose smiling face comes to me in dreams, whose voice whispers in my ear even when he’s not around. The guy who’d stood stock still on the sidewalk and watched my cab disappear out of sight in the darkness.

Right. Maybe there was another workout class across town I could take after this. Anything to keep me away from my cell phone and answering that single-worded text that wouldn’t stop popping wheelies in my mind.

By the time class ends, I know the dance moves to “Uptown Funk” and my head is somewhat clear of Charlie-related thoughts. I’m going to round out the afternoon by showering, throwing on fresh clothes and checking out the farmer’s market in Union Square. Maybe it will inspire a new recipe or two, and I can try them out for Nina tonight. We’ve been spending more time together now that she is boyfriend-free, and I’m really enjoying the company. Silence lately only reminds me of my mother. How often had she been without a shoulder to lean on, thinking it was exactly what she wanted, but not really believing it?

After showering, drying my hair and throwing on a red sundress, I call my mother and leave her a voicemail. I don’t ask her to call me back, because she rarely returns phone calls, instead letting her know I’ll be stopping by for a visit this week. After business hours, of course. As I walk out of my building, empty tote bag in hand, I rethink the message I left, hoping I sounded upbeat enough. If I’d betrayed one hint of sympathy over her confession last time we were together, she probably wouldn’t be as open this time around. And I’m really hoping she is.

I turn in the direction of Union Square—

Charlie is walking toward me, coming from the direction of the train.

“Hey, cutie.”

The most annoying part of his showing up unannounced? I’m not annoyed at all. I’m relieved. And my second reaction is all-out joy. Just a giant, glowing burst of it. Don’t show it. Don’t let him know. “Charlie. Hey.”

“I know you have plans.” He holds up both hands, palms out, except there is a bag dangling from his right thumb. “I’m not intruding. I was just hoping to catch you, before you went out.”

His crispy aftershave hits me and my tummy takes a dive. And the rest of him keeps it plummeting. Worn-in jeans, boots, a faded navy T-shirt that makes his eyes a blinding blue. Honest to God, he looks better every time I see him. I’m starting to think I’m the victim of a conspiracy. “Well, you caught me.”

“Yeah.” He gives me a once over, his gaze lingering at my low neckline. “I have late classes tonight, so this was my only chance.” He drops his hands, but jiggles the bag he’s holding. “You know when you have a gift for someone, it burns a hole in your pocket until you hand it over?”

“That’s for me?” Charlie nods and the sidewalk turns into ocean waves under my feet. “Oh.” I love presents. Everyone loves presents. I’ve just never accepted them from men, because it was against the rules. No gifts was one of mine and Charlie’s ground rules, too, but technically that was before we stopped hooking up and became friends. So it’s okay to accept, right? Man, this situation is confusing.

“Don’t think about it too hard. Please?” He’s watching me with a hopeful expression. One that makes my palms sweat, my mouth dry right up. Cautiously, he hands me the bag and we step into the shadow of my building, allowing cranky Villagers to pass on the sidewalk. There is so much tissue paper in the bag, and none of it was placed there skillfully. It’s a manmade mess. “Go ahead and laugh.”

“Somewhere in Connecticut, Martha Stewart is rocking in a corner.”

“Smart ass,” Charlie murmurs, propping an elbow on the building. “We wrapped presents in newspaper growing up, and it worked just fine.”

“It would have worked fine for me, too—” I stop talking when I finally reach the actual gift and remove it from the bag, a couple pieces of tissue paper flying away on the wind. It takes me a moment to realize what I’m holding, but when I do, my heart jerks and stutters, like a stalling car engine. I’m holding a metal tree, welded to a stand, with big branches poking out in different directions. At the end of each branch, there is a little spiral. “It’s for holding my notecards when I cook.”

“Yeah.” He looks relieved that I figured it out, but he’s trying to hide it by gesturing and not meeting my eyes. “I noticed you had them all over the counter that night in the kitchen . . . they kept falling down.”

“Charlie.” I press the notecard tree to my chest. I’m horrified to feel little pinpricks at the backs of my eyelids, but there’s no help for it. I can’t recall a time someone has bought me a gift this thoughtful. “I’m going to use this all the time. It’s perfect.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

He’s suddenly serious. “I found it because you needed it, and I thought you should have it. Your job is hard, and I hope this makes it easier.” We’re standing closer now. Who moved? “But I also wanted you to know it hasn’t stopped bothering me. How you thought of yourself as some kind of mistress. I should have been a better friend. I can be.”

There it was. The F-word. And yet it wasn’t nearly enough to ruin the gift. Or the moment. “Do you want to come to the farmer’s market with me?”

His shoulders lose tension, but his eyes stay sharp. “I thought you had plans.”

“I’m making dinner for Nina later. That’s the plan.” I shouldn’t be telling him this. I know. But the way he’s looking at me is so earnest. And I’m holding his thoughtful gift in my hands, and I don’t want him to leave just yet. “I’ll just run this upstairs and be back down. I-If you want to go—”

“I’m going.”