Is that what I need to do? Protect myself from the one person I never needed to?
How do I talk about the photograph? What do I say? It pulled me in off the street before I saw the name of the artist. But I knew, seeing something more in the eyes that made me walk into that gallery.
Passing her film quote test with flying colors was easy. It makes me curious how she could ever think I’d forget something that only the two of us shared. Never. Not one second of us is forgotten. I often travel back in my memories just to feel us, to feel anything again, to see her smile, and have her laughter ring in my ears.
I drink water, using the time to get reacquainted with reality again. “We had a bad ending.” Not sure what else to say.
“Sometimes, that’s all we get.” That doesn’t sound like the Story I used to know. Has life treated her harshly or just me? Her gaze travels across the garden away from mine. She’s hiding her real feelings, which isn’t something she did before. But accepting the fact that she’s not that same girl and I’m a long way from the same guy is near impossible right now.
This may take a few times seeing each other to keep my thoughts with her in the present, to us in the now instead of reliving the memories. We’ll never be those people again. So is this the closure that will allow me to move on, to change the direction of my life for good?
I’ll hate it. Roaming this world without her, pretending that the best thing I ever had I lost, kissing another woman in the morning like someone could replace the woman across from me now. The void I thought this meeting could fill grows wider instead.
The food delivery offers breathing room, and when I catch my breath coming harder, I know I’m not alone. She takes a bite.
I pick up my fork and knife, and say, “Let’s talk about Reed.”
She practically spews her food and starts hacking. Grabbing her throat, she continues coughing until she drinks some water. That tells me all I need to know.
Having it confirmed is not what I expected today.
I put off my feelings, not wanting to interject hope or disappointment or . . . whatever else I’m supposed to be feeling into this. She hasn’t said the words, but I feel the truth between us. From the fear in her eyes, she does, too.
Still trying to catch her breath, she exhales a shaky breath. “It’s a . . .” She takes a breath in, then drinks more water. “It’s one of my most talked about creations.”
Narrowing my eyes, I study how her eyes can’t meet mine and the words as curated as her collection. I set my utensils down and sit back in the chair, thinking we’re going to be here a while. “I’m not mad, Story.”
“Mad?” I never understood how someone who’d been through such a tragedy had managed to hold on to her innocence. Not sexually, but the purity of who she was without being tainted by the events. She still does that very well, even if she knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“I don’t blame you for what you did.”
Staring at me from across the table, she’s rattled by my words. She sets the glass down before the water tips over the edge. “What did I do?”
The server returns to deliver napkins and check on us. “We’re fine,” I reply, my eyes never leaving Story’s. When she leaves, I add, “I’m fairly certain you remember my name.”
“Cooper.” Tears threaten her eyes. She looks down to dab the napkin at the corners.
“Cooper . . .” I leave it there for her to fill out the rest.
Looking back up, she says, “Cooper Haywood.”
“Cooper Reed Haywood.” I grin, not because I take pleasure in upsetting her, but it hits me as hard as it does her. I have a son.
36
Story
I feel sick.
Panic rises like bile up my throat, and I wrap my arm over my stomach, hoping to hold in the contents.
Now I regret not easing into this conversation with the small talk we hate so much. Is it too late? “The weather has really warmed up today.” I use my napkin to fan myself though the shade has kept me cool.
Cooper shifts in his seat and then rests his elbows on either side of the plate. Grasping his hands together, he bounces his chin to them a few times. I wasn’t expecting to see him at the gallery, dressed fairly ordinary in jeans and a white button-up shirt as if he wanted to blend in.
That’s not how he looks today. The clothes are nice, similar even—darker jeans, a black button-up—but it’s his hair—enough gel to keep the waves tamed, but not so much that his hair doesn’t look incredibly soft. Eyes that it’s a shame are hidden behind sunglasses when he arrived are hitting me with their full vibrancy now. That jaw that could cut ice has the lightest covering of scruff as if he’s chosen to take the day off from shaving. Are Sundays his days to relax, or did he go for a run this morning? Is the six-pack I once dragged a tongue over hidden under button numbers two, three, and four?