Girl Before a Mirror (26 page)

“Exactly. Letting-go adjacent,” Sasha says, lifting her glass and downing it in one.

“I do miss him,” I say.

“And just think. You could see him tomorrow,” Sasha says. Who am I kidding? Sasha doesn't need to convince me of anything. I've been dying to see Lincoln since I got into New York. Hell, I've been dying to see Lincoln since I walked out of the Biltmore in Phoenix.

“Okay,” I say. Another drink of champagne. “I'll do it.”

“I wonder if you can rent a beach cruiser on such short notice,” Sasha says, pulling out her smartphone.

I know it's a bad plan. I know it could end badly. I know all this. I'm haunted by this reality as I wander around Chelsea Market in search of “adorable food.” But here I am. With a reusable bag slung over my shoulder and an actual baguette sticking out of the top. How can it be an accident if I've brought food? Shouldn't I be “coming from a meeting?” And why am I in Soho? I buy myself some tea and decide to power through. I want to see him. And yet . . . I want to see him without risking actually saying I want to see him. Oh, is that . . . is this where you work . . . hm. I'm just in New York and couldn't care less! (I love you.)

I hail a cab and give him the address for Mallory Consulting on Wooster Street in Soho. Soho, with its cobbled streets and high-end boutiques, of course that's where Lincoln's consulting firm is. My reusable bag filled with baguettes and I will fit right in. Cue maniacal laughter.

I scroll through my e-mails and am over the moon with the pictures coming in from our week of photo shoots with the
RomanceCon men. Preeti keeps sending me shot after shot with subject lines that range from “OMG” to “No, this is my new favorite” and on and on. I go back and forth with Sasha, sending her all the feedback we're getting as well as the front-runners for the photos we plan to use. Sasha is out of pocket this morning, except for a photo she just posted to Instagram of her and four impossibly beautiful women somewhere in Brooklyn. I can only imagine that it's going well. With all this Lumineux stuff, it's felt like the world has gotten smaller and smaller. Sasha meeting up with her friends means we're loosening up a bit. Getting back to our regular selves, albeit a tad rawer. Hopefully. Or not. My mind is racing. I'm trying to be esoteric about five models having coffee as if it's the beacon of normalcy that I've been waiting for lo these many months. I'll stop at nothing to get out of thinking about where I'm headed.

The cab slows down. I could just wave him on and go back to the hotel. And then what? Spend the next ten months waiting? On pause? I pay the fare and step out in front of a beautiful sage-green building, the words
MALLORY CONSULTING
in white block print along the bottom of one of the huge windows that line the front. A shiny black door has a gold plaque and a bell you can ring to be let in.

I immediately start walking down the street, looking in the boutiques and trying to lower my heart rate so I don't pass out in front of Mallory Consulting. The image of me having a seizure in front of his office, probably becoming incontinent as my little perfect baguette rolls down the street, isn't helping the situation.

I've timed my arrival right around lunch so I'll have a better shot at catching him stepping out for something to eat. Oh my God. What if he's meeting someone? What if he's having a
torrid affair with his secretary or another consultant? What if he's married? The scenarios rack up as I pace back and forth in front of Mallory Consulting. I walk past his building and down the block again. The sounds of New York all around me, honking cabs and blaring sirens in the distance. But this section of Wooster Street is quiet enough that I can hear the rustle of the trees above me and the
rat-a-tat
of the tires along the cobblestones. The fresh smells and the tinkling music waft from the boutiques and cafés that pepper the classic, idyllic New York lane. I turn around and walk down the street once more.

Lincoln.

He's standing out in front of the building. Just standing there. Hands in his pockets. Head tilted. I recover from the shock of seeing him and can't help but smile. He's dressed more casually today—gray tweed pants and a gray cashmere sweater over a light blue oxford cloth shirt.

He's what's been missing.

I walk toward him, hitching my purse and the stupidest reusable bag in the entire world over my shoulder. My stomach immediately drops. I can't read him. Furrowed brow with the hint of a smile—but the hands in the pockets is never a good sign.

I stand right in front of him. I stop and start a thousand sentences. Everything I'd planned to say has left my head and now I'm just breathing heavily as I stand in front of Lincoln Mallory out in front of his office building. Wow, the bad ideaness of this whole thing really hits home. His face is—

“I'm in New York on business,” I croak out. I clear my throat.

“This doesn't look like that little Italian restaurant in D.C. that you gave me explicit directions to,” Lincoln says. That voice. I'd forgotten what he sounded like.

“No, well—”

“No,” he says. He's . . . annoyed. Oh, no. He's annoyed.

“Okayyyy, well, this was a terrible idea,” I say, walking to the curb in a fugue state and flinging my arm up in the air to hail a cab.

“Anna,” he says, and dammit if Lincoln saying my name doesn't just roll through my body like a tsunami. I turn around, my arm still in the air. Oh, that's right, mister, I'm still hailing a cab. This is still happening. “My office is right there.” Lincoln finally pulls his hand out of his pocket long enough to point to the large window just above the shiny black entrance to his consulting firm. Or what others might call “a front-row seat to watch Anna Wyatt psychotically pace and mutter to herself.”

“Oh?” I ask, shocked that I can form words or say anything through the absolute horror of what's transpired here this afternoon.

“Was it twenty times?” he asks, his hand going back and forth.

“I'm starting to see why all those women hated you.” I turn around. “You can just say you're not interested, you know,” I say, and I am back at the curb with my arm in the air.

“Your arm is going to grow tired if you continue to insist on dramatically hailing cabs to punctuate your frustration,” he says, folding his arms across his chest.

“How can you be so cavalier?”

“I'm being cavalier?”

“Haughty,” I say.

“Do you plan on running through all the synonyms or—”

“I'm just—” I say.

“So the woman who told me to appear at her birthday dinner
in exactly one year is now calling me cavalier?” His folded arms. The tensing jaw. Lincoln is pissed.

“Yes,” I say, clearing my throat.

“And this is where that folksy saying about pots and kettles comes in?”

“It was romantic,” I say.

“It was Machiavellian,” he says.

“What?”

“I wanted the messy conversation. I may not have been ready or . . . may not . . . no, I definitely wouldn't have said the right things, but I wanted to try.”

“Don't you even try to rewrite history and portray yourself as the one who didn't explicitly say it had to stay temporary and you didn't want me—”

“No, I know. I know.”

“This wasn't all me.”

“I know.”

“I was desperate. I had to come up with something, because the thought of not seeing you again . . .”

“This has nothing to do with me.”

“It has everything to do with you!”

“No. It's your birthday dinner. It's your candle. It's your timeline. It was even your bravery that you commended yourself for in the end,” he says.

“But—” Lincoln steps closer. It's then that he sees the baguette. He just shakes his head.

“I was a coward. I know that now; hell, I knew that the minute I said it,” he says. He unfolds his arms and stands over me. So close. “But all this?” He motions to the adorable bag and all of its adorable contents. “Why didn't you just call me?”

“Why didn't you just call me?”

“I wanted to. So many times.”

“Me too.”

“I don't know how to do this,” he says, unable to look at me. I hear him take a deep breath. I step closer. He reaches out and I want to tell him to stop. Don't make me remember what it's like when you touch me. Let me have the sweet oblivion of forgetti—He runs his hand down the length of my arm and takes my hand. I curl my fingers around his and the ache of it eclipses the horror of the last ten minutes. He wraps his other arm around my waist and pulls me into him. And I breathe him in—that oaky, outside smell of his. My arms remain at my sides, that stupid tote bag thunking and banging into my back. I push Lincoln back and throw the tote bag into the gutter of the perfect little cobblestoned street. I set my purse down between my feet. I look up at him. Finally. Those dark blue eyes. He's hurt. I lift my hand hesitantly as if I'm reaching out to pet a stranger's dog. Is it friendly? Will it bite? All these questions are also relevant in the scenario currently playing out on Wooster Street.

His mouth is a hard line as he watches me. I bring my hand up to the side of his face, the stubble tickling the palm of my hand. And as he always has, he closes his eyes and leans into my touch. And finally—a deep breath. His eyes open for the briefest of moments and before I know it, his mouth is fast on mine. The world blurs around us and when we finally part I don't know what to say. Do I tell him about how I'm trying to let go? Would that be anti–letting go? He straightens the collar of my blouse, patting it into place.

“I have to go. My lunch is rolling down the street,” I say. Lincoln laughs.

“What do we do now?” he asks. And another kiss. I wrap my arms around him, his smooth leather belt just under my fingertips.

“I don't know,” I say. “I don't think I'm ready.” I look at the reusable bag in the gutter. “Clearly.” Lincoln laughs. “But I meant what I said: loving you is one of the bravest things I've ever done.”

“Before it was
the
bravest thing you'd ever done.” I smile. And think of Ferdie.

“Things have changed,” I say. Lincoln throws his head back and laughs. And then a smile. A beaming, proud smile that even I can recognize.

“Well, you're my person. I'll wait.” He kisses me. “I'll be here when you're ready for messy,” Lincoln says, my face in his hands. I kiss him and he holds me close . . . close . . . closer.

“I know,” I say.

He takes my hand and we walk to the curb. He puts his arm in the air as a cab rumbles down the cobblestone street. It pulls over. He opens the door for me and pulls me in for one last kiss.

“Do hurry back, my love,” he says. I run my hand down the front of his sweater, over the scars and the heart and the body and the man that I love. I nod. Unable to say a word, I get into the cab and he shuts the door behind me. The cabbie turns around and asks where to. I don't want to tell him. If I tell him he'll pull away from this curb.

“Where to?” the cabbie repeats. I mutter the name of my hotel and the cabbie situates himself behind the wheel. I stare out at Lincoln and his eyes are fixed on mine. He smiles as we pull away from the curb. Lincoln remains just where he is, watching me drive away.

The television in the cab blares.

I pick my fingernails.

. . .

A honk.

The cabbie talks on the phone.

I roll down my window.

Close my eyes.

Lean my head against the door.

Wind.

Wring my purse straps.

The leather creaks.

Creaks.

“This is it,” the cabbie says.

Focus.

What?

What's happening with time?

The TV blares.

“We're here,” he says.

The doorman of my hotel opens my door and I give the cabbie money. Through the lobby. Push the button. In the elevator with all the mirrors. Where's my key card? Key card. Down the hallway and slide key card. Green light. Drop my purse. Pull down the duvet, turn off the lights, and crawl under the covers.

And cry.

The next morning, Sasha sits down across from me on the Metroliner with two cups of tea and a muffin. I thank her and manage a smile.

“I'm so sorry,” Sasha says.

“I'm not,” I say, blowing on my tea.

Silence.

“You're too quiet,” she says.

“I wasn't ready. So busy trying to find the wrong man . . .” I can't even finish the sentence. Hoisted by my own petard.

“But you don't have to be totally ready for these things,” she says.

“No, I know. I learned all this stuff, but when I was put to the test I defaulted right back to my old ways. Kept trying to control everything. I'm not ready to step in the ring.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“I was so set on creating this perfect environment where no one would get hurt and . . . well, not no one. Me. Where I wouldn't get hurt. I knew if he walked through that door into that Italian restaurant—which I am never setting foot in again, thankyouverymuch—that he would be ready to love me in such a way that I wouldn't . . . oh my God.” Crumbs shoot out of my mouth as I continue to speak with my mouth full. “It's Machiavellian.
Machiavellian
.”

“I thought it was romantic,” Sasha says.

“What am I going to do?”

“He said he wanted messy, so . . .”

“I don't know how to do messy.”

“I think he just wants you to be—”

“If you say raw or authentic right now I am going to throw this muffin at you,” I say.

“Real. I think he just wants you to be real.”

“Do you think he wants me to Just Be?” I ask with a smile. And she laughs.

“I was totally going to say that,” Sasha says, still laughing.

“We've been doing this damn campaign for weeks and I have no idea what it actually means,” I say.

“Well, it's whatever . . . what is it you were saying? It's whatever feels totally wrong and uncomfortable,” she says.

“Why can't I drop the act? Why couldn't I just let it go?”

“Because sometimes the act is all we've got, you know?”

“Oh, I know,” I say. A beat. The landscape speeds by outside the train's window. “Why didn't I just . . . why wasn't . . . oh my God. It's changing the lightbulb in the pooey bathroom all over again,” I say.