Stella

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I’m brewing coffee the next morning when an email comes in from Dr. Stern. At first, I don’t pay it much attention. She reminds me to finish off the last of my antibiotics and stay hydrated. I know this well. But it’s the rest of her report that has the blood slowing in my veins. Apparently, I’m also free of any sexually transmitted diseases.

It’s not like I don’t remember Dr. Stern asking if I wanted a complete checkup, including blood work for any possible STDs. At the time, I thought it kind of her to be so thorough. Now, however, it has me pausing. Because a forgotten memory flickers to life. She’d said John was worried, that he’d wanted me to get those tests, but that it was up to me to choose. Some fuzzy ignorant part of me had hoped it was his weird way of assuring both of us were safe for sex. But her use of “worried” makes me wonder why.

Why did John worry specifically if I had an STD? Was this some bullshit throwback to when he believed I was an escort?

A slow simmer of rage builds and bubbles. But then I think of him slumped in bed, the way he seemed to mentally beat himself up. He’d been hiding something. All through our movie marathon, I’d known. It was there in the tension that kept creeping back up his neck, and in the tightness of his jaw when his attention would flag. Yes, I’d known something was bothering him deeply, but I couldn’t force him to tell me what.

I’m about to text John and ask, I don’t know what, something, anything to give me a hint about what’s going on, when I get a text from an unknown number.

Unknown: Hey, this is Brenna. Doing a little PR damage control. Since you’ve been hanging around Jax, they might come to you for questions. If anyone does, just stay calm, say no comment, and get out of there.

“What the fuck?” What the hell had John done? But I think I know, and it makes my heart plummet.

My fingers fly over the phone, responding to Brenna so she won’t text again.

Will do.

It takes all of two seconds to find the stories. This time, my chest squeezes tight. The way they dig into his personal life makes my skin crawl.

One thing is clear: John lied to me. A lie of omission is still a lie. He kept me in the dark.

“Damn it.” I set my phone down and stare out the wide window wall where the sunlight reflects off the buildings in the distance.

I’ve been lying too. I’m more invested in John that I’d wanted to admit. Maybe I’d have been able to walk away earlier on. Before I’d been sick, before I’d hunted him down and comforted him in return. I can’t do that now.

It scares the crap out of me. They say there are times in your life when you realize everything is about to change. I never believed in that, until now. I’ve never been one for change. But I can’t deny it any longer—John means something to me. I might mean something to him too. Or maybe our relationship is just a distraction for him. I’m not sure. But I do know one thing: when he eventually slips out of my life, it will hurt.

I need to sort this out before I go over there and say something to him. I have no idea what I would even say at this point.

I have no one to talk with about John. It hits me like a punch to the stomach the moment I pick up the phone to dial and realize I don’t know who the hell I’m calling. More to the point, there is no one to call. It hurts. More than I expected it to. I’ve spent years pretending that my life is filled with people and joy, when really I’ve walled myself off in this self-protected tower. I didn’t need anyone to talk to about men and personal worries because I’ve never let myself get attached to anyone or anything.

A lump fills my throat and swells until I have to swallow convulsively. Hurt suffocates, pushes in on the walls and makes the room stuffy. Outside, the city waits for me, a never-ending river of motion and humanity and noise.

But as soon as I get outside, I find myself hesitating. I’m not in the mood to walk and roam.

Ten minutes later, a light, dry voice made rough by decades of smoking cuts through my brooding thoughts. “Don’t you have a terrace in that apartment of yours, my dear?”

Elbow braced on my knee, chin resting in my hand, I glance up from where I sit. “I’m more of a stoop kind of gal,” I say to Mrs. Goldman.

Her red lips pull into a thin but friendly smile. “I grew up in the Lower East Side. Sitting on the stoop and playing around in the fire hydrant spray made up the majority of my childhood.”

“I would have liked to play in a hydrant spray,” I tell her.

She makes a noncommittal noise. “You look like you could use some company.”

It is on the tip of my tongue to pretend that I’m fine. But I can’t make myself do it. I shrug instead, embarrassed that I’m so obvious. But she doesn’t look at me with pity. Her eyes are warm as she nods.

“As much as I’d love to relive my childhood by sitting with you,” she says, “my hips cannot tolerate it. Why don’t you come upstairs with me, and I’ll fix us a nice lunch.”

Again, I want to protest, to tell her not to put herself out on my account, but I find myself clearing my throat and pushing a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Goldman. I would appreciate that very much.”

“Come along then.” She waves me up. “And don’t forget to dust off your bum.”

A few minutes later, I’m sitting in Mrs. Goldman’s cozy kitchen as she bustles around getting lunch together. I’ve been informed that I am a guest and thus not allowed to help. Lunch is an assortment of fresh bagels, lox, cream cheese, tomatoes, pickled herring, pitted cherries, pumpernickel bread, chicken salad, with little dishes of mustard, capers, and pickled onions, and a bottle of champagne to top it all off.

“Because I love champagne,” she says, pouring each of us a glass. “And you should indulge in what you love every day.”

“Every day?” I take a sip. It’s crisp and cold and perfectly bubbly.

“It need not be the same thing every day. But I’ve come to the realization that denying ourselves daily joy is to live a half life. And where is the fun in that?” She raises her glass and salutes before drinking. A satisfied sigh leaves her lips. “Wonderful.”

I make myself a chicken salad sandwich on pumpernickel, accepting a knife from her to cut it in triangles. “Some people would argue that indulging in whatever you want leads to recklessness. That it’s safer to pace yourself and refrain sometimes.”

Mrs. Goldman smears some cream cheese onto her bagel. “Safer, huh?” She smiles but her dark eyes gleam when she looks up at me. “How alike you and Jax are.”

“Me? Like Jax?” I laugh shortly.

She isn’t at all thwarted. “To a tee. Both following the safe plan in life.”

Another shocked laugh bursts out of me. “Oh, come on, Jax never plays it safe. His whole life is one big indulgence.”

One iron-gray brow wings up. “You think so?” She adds a few slices of tomato to her bagel and sprinkles capers over it. “You realize that what one person considers a risk can be familiar comfort for someone else. That boy’s lifestyle has the appearance of living on the edge, but for him, it might as well be a cradle.”

“I guess I didn’t think of it that way.” I take a bite of my sandwich, mainly because I suddenly don’t want to talk. But even though it tastes delicious, I find it hard to chew past the lingering lump in my throat. I swallow with difficulty and take another long sip of champagne, grateful for the way it fizzes in my mouth.

Quiet descends as we eat. But I feel her curious gaze on me. Mrs. Goldman, while not my age, or even really a friend, is the kind of woman you know you can talk to and she’s not going to sugarcoat a thing. Even better, she’s obviously good at seeing clearly in places I cannot.

With a suppressed sigh, I set down the remains of my sandwich. “I’m attracted to Jax—John. I think of him as John.”

Both brows lift this time, but Mrs. Goldman isn’t surprised. “Of course you are, dear.”

My cheeks heat, and I know they’re bright pink, damn it. “Okay, obviously I always was. But it’s more now. I like him. A lot, and …” I press my hot hand over my burning eyes, a pained, wry smile pulling at my lips. “I can’t ignore it anymore, you know? I think … I think I either have to acknowledge it with him, or move on. Because I’m not one to stick around”—who are you kidding, Stells? You never stick around—“being moony over a guy who might not like me in the same way.”

I bite my lip, internally wincing at my emotional spew. From behind the shade of my hand, I hear Mrs. Goldman make a noise of amusement.

“Oh, I have a feeling he likes you just fine, dear.”

I sneak a peek at her through my fingers. How would she know?

She smiles broadly. “The notorious womanizer—yes, I know his reputation well—is spending time with you. Men like him don’t do that unless they are hooked.”

I slump against the table, resting my forehead on my bent arms. “God. I sound like I’m in high school, worrying if a boy truly, really, actually likes me.”

Delicately, she slides my plate out of the reach of my hair. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in school, but I do remember how to pass notes.”

I groan and lift my head. “I’m scared.”

The tremor in my tone softens her expression. She leans forward, closer to me. “Of what?”

What indeed? The hottest, funniest, strangest, most unpredictable man I’ve ever met. Before I saw him in that sadly depleted, pre-blizzard grocery store, I would never have thought of John as my ideal or even dating material. He exists on a plane that mere mortals like me never reach.

“He isn’t safe,” I whisper.

Mrs. Goldman sits back, crossing one slim leg over the other. She takes another sip of champagne, considering me, and I find myself desperate to fill the silence.

“I’m not going to lie. I’ve had celebrity crushes. Hell, every time I see an Avenger’s movie, I want to put my two Chris loves on slow motion and repeat. And I’d think, oh, if I were alone in a room with one of those hotties, what would I do?” I force a pained smile. “But when I’m actually faced with the real thing? This wonderful man who also happens to be extremely famous? He’ll never be like other men. He’ll always be more.”

“I’m certain Jax believes he’s just like other men.”

“I’m sure he wants to be,” I say. “But what we want and what we get isn’t always the same. He’ll always have the public and the pressures that come with it.” I run a hand through my tumbled hair. “Then there’s his …” I can’t say it. I’m ashamed to even think about it.

Mrs. Goldman’s dark eyes don’t blink. “His illness.”

Again my cheeks flame. “Yes. No.” My shoulders slump. “I feel like a jerk for even … especially when I have no idea what will happen. But it’s not exactly like I have my shit together. Half the time, I’m a mess, and I’m afraid I’ll fail him by not knowing what to do.” He’s had enough people bumbling in his life.

I press a hand to my hot forehead and sigh. “I don’t know what I’m even saying. I’m all confused. I just can’t help thinking the deck is already stacked against us. From both outside forces and inside ones.”

“It is,” she says simply. “Stacked against you, I mean.”

I’ve just said as much, but her instant agreement hits me straight in the chest, and I plop back against my seat, deflated. I haven’t had much experience being on the receiving end of advice, but I’m fairly certain the person is supposed to bolster you. Aren’t they?

“Fear will do that to a relationship.” Her smile is thin. “I’d kill for a cigarette, but I’m trying to cut back.” She pours us more champagne before she speaks again. “I told you I grew up on the Lower East Side. But I spent all my married life living Uptown. Eighty-second and Madison. I loved that place. I’d walk to the Met for lunch on my rare days off.”

She toys with the stem of her glass. “Then Jerry passed, and all I could see was him. In every room, every echo when I walked those empty halls.”

“How did you end up here?” I ask, not knowing exactly where she’s going with this, but understanding that she’ll eventually get there.

The lines mapping her face deepen, radiating outward from her eyes and mouth like a starburst. “This is where I met Jerry.”

“In this apartment?”

“No. In this church. We were both attending a wedding here. Patricia, the bride, was my secretary at the brokerage firm I worked in. Jerry owned the firm, though I hadn’t met him until that afternoon. He was too high up in the firm to bother with the new hires.”

“Wow. And now you live here.”

“Yes. I had my lovely four thousand square foot duplex, a home full of wonderful memories, and I could not stand it anymore. One day, my cab was stuck in traffic right outside this building, and there was a big sign advertising the new condo conversions. I remembered that first time Jerry and I had bumped into each other on those stairs leading up to the church doors.” She laughs softly, her eyes crinkling. “Two New York Jews about to head into a Catholic wedding.”

An image of sweat-slicked John, fresh from his run and giving me his smarmy smile as we bumped into each other on the stoop for the first time, fills my mind. “So you brought a place here.”

“Yes. Even though it was tiny, had no doorman, and was away from all my friends. It was the spot where it all started, and now it is home.”

Mrs. Goldman reaches out and touches my hand with the tips of her fingers. Her knuckles are knobby, the back of her hand veined and spotted, but still elegant, her skin cool and soft. “Oh, you should have seen that man in his prime. Jerry was rich as Midas, handsome as sin, and looking at me as if I were a crisp hundred someone had left on the sidewalk.”

I laugh, and she allows a fond smile.

“And I was more than willing to be picked up. We fell for each other like a house of cards in a stiff wind. But I resisted for the very real fear that I’d lose myself to him. It was the late sixties. We women were burning our bras, but it was still a man’s world. I was a novelty to even have an office, much less a secretary. Every ounce of respect I gained I had to fight for. Fight to keep. How would it look if I suddenly took up with the big boss?”

She shrugged and sipped her drink. “I’d be seen as nothing more than a pathetic light skirt, scaling the corporate ladder on her knees. But I loved him so. I knew he was both the beginning and end of me. Jerry offered to quit, give it all up.” She ducks her head as if laughing inwardly. “But that wouldn’t have changed the perception of me. We were at a stalemate. Fated to both love and resent each other.”

“What did you do?” Obviously, she’d married the man.

“I broke up with him.” She pops a cherry into her mouth and chews industriously. “And I was damned miserable.”

“Did you go back to him?”

“No.” She smiles. “He called every evening with one question. ‘Is it still worth it?’ I held out for months. Until finally, I could answer, no, being apart from him wasn’t worth it.”

“Then you got together, lived happily ever after and all that jazz, right?”

Mrs. Goldman shakes her head. “No. Everything I feared they would think, they did. I had to quit the firm and open my own. Set me back years because no one wanted to hire a woman as their financial manager.” A dark look comes into her eyes. “But I persisted. And I made it.”

“But you lost—”

“What?” she cuts in. “The respect of a bunch of ignorant cocks who didn’t really respect me in the first place? Lost sleep? Money?”

She rests her arm on the table and for a moment the expression in her eyes is wide open and young. “I lost all those things. And gained the love of my life. It wasn’t all champagne and roses, though we indulged in those every day. We struggled, fought. Jerry had dark months of depression now and then. So did I. On paper, we were a disaster. Together …”

She tails off with a shrug and looks away. Tears well in her eyes, and she sniffs. “Damn, I really do want a cigarette.”

Her loss and the love she felt for her husband wraps around us, both smothering and yet somehow warm. I give her a moment, my own thoughts running amok.

“I don’t know if John is the one,” I say finally. “But he’s only one I’ve thought about taking a chance on.”

Mrs. Goldman straightens and pins me with a look. “Then what are you waiting for?”