Madly (New York 2)

She knew that already. Even at Pulvermacher’s she’d been spilling her secrets to this man, one after another, and the thing that scared her the most now was that there wasn’t any bottom to it. He knew it all, and anything he didn’t know he had a right to know, because that was the groundwork they’d laid.

With Winston, she could have the kind of relationship she’d never had with anyone. One based on respect, honesty, boundaries, bravery, communication.

He would expect that from her, and she couldn’t imagine herself ever being able to measure up to it. She was barely handling this family stuff. She had a birth father she’d never met or spoken to, who she couldn’t imagine wanting to meet and speak to without a decade of therapy. She had a mother she would have to figure out a way to reconcile with, or lose her. She had Matt back in Manitowoc, like a giant scab waiting to get pe

eled off.

The whole reason you were supposed to be your true self with the mailman was that you didn’t have to be authentic all the time—just for a few seconds, a minute or two, out of your whole day.

You didn’t have to deal with the mailman and his feelings about you when you were with your family, duking your way through all the hardest stuff.

“I realize this wasn’t what you intended,” he said quietly. “It’s not what I intended, either, and it would be difficult to pursue a relationship, but it’s not impossible. You must agree it’s not impossible.”

“I’m only here for a few days. For my mom.”

“Your sister is here. You were just talking about investing in a business here. And we have enough resources, financial resources, personal resources, for travel. We could try.”

She hated that she was arguing with him, making him lay it out for her so she could turn it down. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t how she felt. “I think—yeah, okay? Yeah. I like New York. It’s interesting, and I’m going to want to see May more, see her here, get my hands dirty at this restaurant if she’ll let me. Maybe my mom will end up here, although I hate to think it’s going to come out that way, and you’re here, and that’s very attractive. You’re—” She lifted both hands to gesture at him, sitting across from her, all hotness and kindness and great. “It’s not like I haven’t imagined you coming to see me in Manitowoc, either, because I have. But…”

There were too many things to say after that but, and it made her ache the way he looked at her with his whole self in his face, as vulnerable as she felt, which wasn’t really fair because she was starting to fall for him, or she had fallen for him, maybe, already, a not-quite-forty-year-old dad from thousands of miles away who didn’t belong in this country any more than she belonged in the Imperial Club.

It ached because it was exciting, and because it scared her to be excited when she wasn’t ready yet.

She just didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to feel anything else today, nothing really big, not during her nice lunch, not with Winston.

“It’s hard to think about,” she said finally. Winston was staring at his plate, half covered in cold sole. “I know that’s stupid.”

“I understand.”

Then his gaze caught on something behind her, and the server was at their table again, bearing a plate of cheese and a perfectly sliced apple that reminded her of Ben. Behind him, a second man had a tray of drinks. They were presented with dessert menus. It was a decadent flurry, but she’d lost her appetite for the pageantry of this place.

When the servers left, Winston cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just want to have fun, you know, you and me together? I don’t want one more thing to be heavy. Hard.”

“Of course.”

“I hate it when you say ‘of course.’ It means yes, you agree with me, and it means no, you don’t agree with me but you’re going to do what I say anyway. I can’t tell if I’m crushing your soul or what.”

His expression, when he met her eyes, was naked and helpless. So that was a yes.

“Don’t look at me like that.” She shook her head. “Don’t, please.”

She had to watch as he shuttered his face. He closed the windows to his heart in his eyes, tightened his mouth. He turned himself into a parody, like the waiter, like the menu, like the Imperial Club.

“Excuse me.”

Winston folded his napkin on the table, set down his fork on the correct side of his plate, and left her alone to deal with the fact that she couldn’t take back what she’d said, or how she’d said it.

And she didn’t really want to.

—

“What shall we do until it’s time for Beatrice’s meeting?”

He stood by her arm beside the table, having returned from the bathroom looking only mildly careworn, signed the tab, and handed it off to a waiter. Allie took it as a good omen that he was willing to smile at her. A good omen of what, she couldn’t say. That he wouldn’t push her where she wasn’t willing to go?

Whether that was good, or correct, or what she deserved, she didn’t let herself think about. She wanted to be with him tonight, but only if they kept it…not fun, since fun didn’t seem like quite the right word for this thing she and Winston had going, but something like fun.