With no long-term issues (so far), all I have to do is come in for regular follow-ups and head to the ER at the first sign of pain behind my eyes or double vision.
“We’ll check you again in a couple of months.” He washes his hands on his way out, shaking them dry over the sink before dabbing them with recycled paper towels. “Can’t wait to hear what you’re up to next time. Sure it’ll be something big.”
Yeah, maybe.
Hopefully.
I head for the checkout desk and make my next appointment before heading home. On my way, I stop for an iced latte and a quick visit to Central Park for a little people watching. Grabbing a seat on a bench next to an elderly couple, I nonchalantly watch as they hold hands, rub noses, and share a turkey sandwich on rye that she pulls out of her purse. I bet they’ve been together their whole lives. No easy feat. When they’re finished, he helps her up before pushing himself to his feet, grabbing his four-legged wooden cane and hobbling off beside her along the path.
A dreadlocked man on neon Rollerblades whirs by with a pack of at least eight dogs, beachy music blasting from his headphones. And behind him is a leggings-clad mom pushing a double jogging stroller. Three women in pantsuits and serious haircuts power walk past, and I catch wind of their conversation—something about reports and changing drop-shipping protocols. On the other side of the green space is a preschool class cozying up under a shade tree for an afternoon picnic.
Statistically one of every fifty people in this country has an unruptured brain aneurysm.
I look at all these people, just out here living their day-to-day lives, blissfully unaware that all of it could be gone tomorrow. How many of them would waste no time becoming the best versions of themselves if they knew?
Drawing in a late-spring breath, I think of West. I meant what I said when I told him I was proud. He took my advice, stepped out of his control freak comfort zone, and softened up a bit. It may only be breakfast and small talk, but for a man like him . . . that’s huge.
Grabbing my phone, I shoot him a message.
ME: Where’d you go to college?
Seven whole minutes lapse before I get a response.
WEST: It’s a matter of public record (if you dig hard enough). But the University of Nebraska. Why?
ME: What’d you major in?
WEST: Again, matter of public record.
ME: Easier to go to the source.
WEST: Business Management. Why?
I send him a puzzle-piece emoji. I meant what I said about piecing him together—edges first, then the inside.
WEST: Cute.
There are no sarcasm emojis, but if there were, and if West were an emoji-using man, he’d have tacked a hundred of them onto his comment, I’m sure.
ME: I’m jealous that the staff got Beauvais for breakfast this morning. I’ve tried to get a table there for years and the second I quit . . .
WEST: I’ll make a call and get you a table.
ME: Oh. I wasn’t hinting at that. But if you’re offering . . .
A full fifteen minutes pass before he replies.
WEST: Ten AM tomorrow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
WEST
The scent of buttermilk waffles and croque monsieur fills the halls of Made Man’s corporate office Tuesday morning as I make my rounds. All morning I’ve made it a point to acknowledge anyone who isn’t hiding away from me. I’ve managed to corner an intern, two personal assistants, and the entire accounting department. While they were wild eyed and gape mouthed, as if seeing a unicorn in real life for the first time, they all engaged in conversation and emerged unscathed.
Little do any of them know, they have Elle to thank for this.
She wants me to show my softer side, to do things I wouldn’t normally do, and she promised it’d be “life changing.” I don’t know about life changing, but clearly whatever I’ve been doing isn’t working.
Scarlett avoided me all morning, but I managed to catch her on the way to school. She said she wanted to walk, and while I’d have preferred to give her a ride, I decided to take it easy on her and simply told her to be safe and that I looked forward to hearing about her day later. The hardened look on her face faded in real time when she realized I wasn’t going to berate her, and she even managed some semblance of a smile on her way out.
There’s a chance Elle isn’t wrong about Scarlett.
But only time will tell.
“Hey.” I stop at Tom’s office, leaning in at the doorway like a man with all the time in the world. While shooting the breeze grates against every fiber of my soul, I promised myself I’d try it out for a full twenty-four hours.