“You think?” she managed.

I had no idea what I had said that triggered her reaction, so I just sat still, imagining that less was probably more when sitting beside a woman who might or might not really be losing her kit.

She calmed, wiping her eyes and sighing. “Yes, I could be more adaptable. Having sex with a guy in a club, in a banquet hall, a warehouse, a library—”

“Oi, Sara. I didn’t mean—”

She held up her hand. “No, it’s just a good lesson to me. Stretching myself is a constant process. As soon as I stop and consider how well I’m handling one thing, I see how rigid I am about something else.”

I pulled up a long blade of grass, considering this. “I should have texted.”

“Probably.”

“But you know, I would have been thrilled to see you randomly show up at a meeting at Stella & Sumner.”

“You also want to go out to dinner with me, and have me sleep in your mother’s guest room, and probably even make cookies with me or something.”

“Because I don’t care if we’re seen together,” I said, growing frustrated. “Why do you?”

“Because people will get invested,” she said, turning to look at me. “People will discuss it, make a narrative out of it. They’ll speculate, look into who we are, what we both want. Relationships in the public eye don’t do well and it will follow you forever if you admit you care.”

“Right,” I said, nodding once.

I listened to the wind blowing past us, muted by the curtain of leaves. I liked being in this little cave of quiet, hidden from foot traffic, birds, anything else that might want to witness our conversation and my silent meltdown. Too many things were bubbling up inside me: the realization that I wanted Sara, that I’d always wanted Sara—from the first day I saw her. I also accepted the truth that I’d expected Sara to eventually hope for more, and that I would be the one setting limits, not her.

“Max, I’m kind of a mess,” she said quietly.

“Will you at least tell me why?”

“Not today,” she said, looking up at the branches overhead.

“I’m happy with what we’re doing, but it’s not always easy to be kept at such arm’s length.”

She laughed a little, humorlessly. “I know.” And then she leaned over, and pressed her mouth against mine.

I expected a tiny peck, a discreet public kiss to wipe the slate clean after I’d admitted I should have given her a heads-up and she admitted she’d overreacted. But it turned into something wholly deeper: her hands on either side of my face, mouth open and hungry for more, and finally her climbing over me, straddling my thighs.

“Why are you so nice?” she whispered, and then kissed me, muting any possible reply.

But this one stuck. It felt too big to disregard and pave over with my hand in her underwear or a grind under a tree. I pulled back. “I’m nice because I’m genuinely fond of you.”

“Do you ever lie?” she asked, eyes searching mine.

“Of course I do. But why would I want to be dishonest with you?”

Her face straightened and she nodded thoughtfully. After a long pause, she whispered, “I should get back.”

My mood shifted immediately from warm and intimate to resigned business-as-usual. The girl was a boomerang. “Okay.”

She stood, wiping the grass from her knees and skirt. “We probably shouldn’t walk back together.”

I could only nod, for fear I’d let loose a litany of frustration over her publicity rules, particularly after she’d just climbed into my lap beneath a tree.

After a lingering look, she stretched and kissed my jaw once, carefully. “I’m fond of you, too.”

I watched her walk away, head straight and shoulders back. Looking to all the world as if she were returning from nothing but a brisk walk through the park.

I looked around me as if it were possible to collect together the heart I’d nearly spilled all over the grass.

Eleven

To say my interaction with Max at the park had been odd would be an understatement. I knew I’d overreacted, but honestly? So had he. Worrying about my reaction in the conference room? Chasing me down? What were we doing?

Monday night I came home and spent two hours making æbelskivers for dinner. Puffed balls of dough, fried and powdered in sugar, traditionally served for breakfast, but screw it. I needed something elaborate. It was my grandmother’s recipe from Denmark, and focusing on making them perfect gave me time to think.

I hadn’t spent much time thinking at all lately.

But cooking something so associated with my family also made me miss home, miss my parents, miss the safety of a predictable life, no matter how depressing or untrue.

I reached for my phone, not caring how messy my hands were. Mom picked up on the seventh ring. So typical.

“Hi, pumpkin!” I heard something crash in the background and she swore, “Fucksticks!”

“You okay?” I asked, smiling into the call. It was amazing how three words could make me feel grounded.

“Fine, just dropped my iPad. You okay, honey?” And when she asked this I remembered I’d called her that morning on my walk to the subway.

“Just wanted to hear your voice.”

She paused. “Feeling homesick?”

“A little.”

“Tell me,” she said, and I immediately remembered the hundreds of times she’d said exactly this, urging me to let it all out.

“I met a man.”

“Today?”

I winced. I’d spoken to my parents a few times a week since I’d moved and had never mentioned Max. What was there to mention? They didn’t want to know about my sex life any more than I wanted to share it.

“No. A few weeks ago.”

I could practically hear her strategizing her best response. Supportive, but protective. How one reacts the first time their daughter starts dating after a horrible, public breakup.

“Who is he?”

“A finance guy here. Local. But not,” I said, shaking my head and wishing I could start over. “He’s British.”

“Ooh, a foreigner, how fabulous!” she said laughing, putting on her thick southern drawl. And then she paused. “Are you telling me this because it’s serious?”

“I’m telling you this because I have no idea.”

I loved my mother’s laugh. I missed its frequency. “That’s the best stage.”