CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I have three hours until dinner and I don’t know what to do with myself. My hormones are on overdrive, fueled by seeing Gavin so close and so real, from touching him and aching under his touch.
His sudden exit bewilders me. I was so certain of him when he was a pen pal, an abstraction I built up in my mind. That abstraction was healing and feeling and finding a way back to reality.
This Gavin, the real Gavin, is in the wind.
This Gavin is filling in the gaps that my imagination filled before. I filled the cracks with what I wanted to see and hear from him. Now that he’s real, he’s flawed.
My Gavin is not as simple and perfect as a dream. Not that I should be calling him mine.
I go through my room—no, Gavin’s guest room—and clean up, packing some of my clothes into my suitcase to be ready to move. I can go anytime; the Steens left for Europe this morning and I made my first visit to walk their chocolate Lab, Aleah, before going to the spa.
I tell myself I haven’t moved over there yet because Jasper needs me, too, and I didn’t know when Gavin would get home. But the truth is, living here—sleeping in Gavin’s bed, feeling his soft T-shirt around my body—makes me feel closer to him.
I take Jasper for a walk. I need to get under the trees and think.
Jasper and I get Aleah from the Steens’ and we wind through The Ramble, following a shady trail where few others are likely to pass. I let the dogs off-leash to sniff around in the brush and I shut my eyes, inhaling the smell of warm earth and early summer, verdant leaves and sweet grass.
This space gives me clarity: I am being lame.
Try-new-things Beryl gives New-York-newbie Beryl a swift kick in the ass. I can mope or I can seize the moment, get dressed up, go out and have a fantastic date, and stop whining about which way the wind is blowing with Gavin.
He’s real. He’s unpredictable. And just because he’s not following my imagined playbook doesn’t mean things aren’t going to be amazing.
And if they don’t turn out perfectly?
That’s not the point. The point is to try.
***
I’m reinvigorated by the time I’ve fed Aleah at her apartment and returned with Jasper to Gavin’s. I listen carefully when I enter but he’s not home yet.
I shower and take extra time with my makeup, drawing fine eyeliner at the base of subtle shadow. I stain my lips and apply gloss, then pin up my hair in defense against New York’s sweaty heat.
My bumpkinwear has migrated to the back of my closet, and for a few minutes I debate resurrecting something from Eugene to wear to dinner with Gavin. But he’s a rock star, and I’m—well, nothing but a house sitter.
No contest. I go for Lulu’s clothes and choose a deep burgundy dress that’s ruched at the ribcage, skirt flaring from its high waist. I think I remember a picture of Lulu wearing it at a red carpet event.
The dress screams siren and it feels ridiculously expensive; with my perpetually pale skin and dark hair I feel vampy, polished, and sexy.
I put on my new Stella-approved fuck-me shoes. How appropriate. That’s what I want—ferocious, intense, mind-bendingly hot. I want him to make me forget my name, to take me and claim me and make me his own.
Soft and sweet has its place, but not tonight.
I arrive at Sant Ambroeus a few minutes early and I’m thankful Gavin’s not here yet—I need a few minutes to cool down after the five-block walk from the subway.
I’ve heard the line that guys sweat and girls glisten. That’s crap. I’m trying my best to not soak Lulu’s gorgeous, light-as-air silk dress.
I don’t know if Gavin made us a reservation under his name or a pseudonym, but when I peek at the reservation book I don’t see anything I recognize. I ask for an outdoor table and I’m grateful the hostess doesn’t make me wait.
A server brings me a glass of water and a basket filled with five kinds of bread. I work myself into a carb-frenzy trying each kind. Then I give in to my nerves and order a full carafe of sangria, telling the server Gavin will join me soon.
I fiddle with my phone and people-watch. Two tables away, a couple is deep in conversation and I catch bits of gossip about people I’d never want to meet. Their sweet-faced beagle is having doggy dreams of a magnificent chase while tied to the low, wrought iron fence that separates our tables from the sidewalk.
I pour a second glass of sangria, the same color as my dress, with bits of apple and berries floating in it. It’s smoothing out my rough edges but I’m increasingly worried that Gavin isn’t here.
A man in a pale gray suit and loafers but no socks is seated at the table next to me. With his round, horn-rimmed glasses and coiffed hair I get an artistic vibe.
His guest soon joins him, a fiftyish man with coffee-colored skin and a barrel chest beneath his crisp linen shirt. I eavesdrop with abandon, pretending to be absorbed with an app as the two discuss a famous woman’s influence in fashion and music.
At one point Horn Rims explains that he’s working on a biography, though this piece will probably appear in short form in the Times first.
“She’s been at the bleeding edge of New York culture for decades,” the interviewee says, and then details her sexploits through the 1970s and ’80s.
The details make me flush and I’m desperate to hear the subject’s name, but I never catch it. My frustration rises.
Fifty minutes, two more glasses of sangria and three-quarters of the breadbasket later, I’m fuming.
I’ve run the emotional gamut from concern to worry to fear, and from annoyance to anger to outrage. Now I’ve tipped past the point of no return.
I don’t have Gavin’s mobile number. He didn’t take a phone on his trip and I don’t remember him picking up a phone when he left the apartment so suddenly. I don’t even have Gavin’s home number—I never thought to program it into my phone.
Just as I’m about to abandon ship and put this ruined evening behind me, I hear a familiar ping.
I dive for my phone, nearly dropping it in my haste to read the text.
Anthony: You said you wanted to take it slow, but I can’t get you out of my head. Is this slow enough?
I stare at my phone, fingers poised to text back.
I know better than this. But right now I’d say “what the hell” to almost anything, from another drink that’s sure to have my head pounding in the morning, to an ill-advised tryst with a hot, protective, well-mannered, responsible builder.
Me: Your timing couldn’t be better.
Anthony: Awesome. When can I see you?
Me: How about tonight? My plans just fell through.
Anthony: It’s my lucky day. Want me to pick you up?
Me: Let’s meet up—name the spot.
Anthony: How about 750? It’s a wine bar a few blocks from my place.
Me: See you in 20.
I stuff the subtext of this location in the back of my mind, choosing to believe that I’m really just swapping the prospect of a good date with Anthony for a non-starter with Gavin.
I kick myself for not moving my stuff over to the Steens’ earlier today.
I should have known better. I should have known Gavin would come home and slide back into his irresponsible ways.
I should have known I wouldn’t be the first thing on his mind when he got back.
I should have known that Gavin’s tattoo isn’t just about how he treats his things or lives his life.
He was reckless with Lulu and she died.
He was reckless with my heart and I feel it breaking.