38. Find me in the Rain
38
FIND ME IN THE RAIN
Harlow
With fresh laundry in a bag, I step off the elevator, head down the hall, then open the door to my apartment on Sunday morning. Even though he’s on the couch, I teasingly call out, “Are you decent?” But I don’t wait for Bridger to respond. “I know the answer. You’re indecent until I give you these back.”
As I shut the door, I dangle his pants from my arm like I’m waving a red cloth before a bull.
With a casual grin, he looks my way. He’s lounging on the couch, wearing the orange shirt he gave me and his boxer briefs from last night. Those, obviously, weren’t soaked from the rain, so they’re dry enough, but I tossed his dress pants on an air-dry cycle in the laundry in my building this morning. He’s drinking a cup of coffee, steam wafting off the top of the mug. “Yes, Harlow. I’m incredibly indecent.”
I shiver. “And I like it.”
“I noticed,” he says, his grin spreading.
“Trade you? Pants for coffee?” But then I tap my chin, checking out his bare legs, his strong thighs on display. “Except, you are cute pantsless.”
He lifts one eyebrow. “Cute? I’m cute?” he echoes, incredulous.
I bob a shoulder as I flop next to him on the couch, cuddling right up against him. “So cute,” I say, vamping it up.
“Hmm. For that, you might not get coffee.”
“You’d never deprive me of coffee.”
“You’re right. I’m not that cruel.” After he sets down the cup on the coffee table, he tugs me close, presses a kiss to my hair, then inhales me. “Vanilla. You smell like vanilla.”
“Does it make you hungry?”
“You make me hungry.”
“You have quite an appetite,” I say.
“I do,” he says, but then he scoots away and heads into the small kitchen, returning a few seconds later with another steaming mug.
He hands it to me, and after I indulge in a life-affirming swallow of the good stuff, he pulls me against him once again. “Thank you for drying my pants,” he says like that is the height of generosity.
I smile, feeling at home with him on a lazy Sunday morning. Doesn’t matter that this hazy, floaty feeling won’t last for long. Doesn’t matter that we’re living in a bubble inside my apartment. For now, this bubble is the entire world.
I thought I’d lost him yesterday, but he’s still here after a night together, after waking up together, after unhurried, sleepy morning sex for the first time ever.
I like this bubble.
But sun streams through the window, casting brighter rays across my home, a reminder that the day is passing by.
I don’t want to delay the inevitable. So I gird myself, asking, “Do you have to go? Now that you have clothes again?”
“That’s a good question,” he says, deep in thought.
Setting my coffee down on the table, I turn to him, curious. “Why is it a good question?”
He runs a hand down my arm, purposefully, but also easily. Like this is just a thing we do. Hang together on my couch, drinking coffee, touching freely as the day unfolds. “Do you have any plans for today?”
“Not really. I’ll probably see my friends or go for a bike ride or go to The Frick,” I say, automatically before the weight of his question registers on the scale.
Oh.
He’s not asking what I’m doing simply to make conversation.
“Do you want to get out of New York with me? For the day?” he asks.
Sounds like a dream. “Yes. I do.”
“We can do that, don’t you think?”
I understand everything he’s asking. “I think so,” I say, giddy already from the possibility. “We’re still working on that Afternoon Delight thing.”
There you go. We have our cover story—not that we’ll likely need it. Escaping from New York means escaping from the tight quarters of the sardine city, from the probability of bumping into someone we know on the subway, in the park, on the street.
“Let’s go to Wistful. It’s not far from here. I’ll call my car service.” He takes another drink of his coffee, checks his watch. “Can you be ready in an hour?”
My heart flies to the moon. “Yes.”
A little later, we step out of the car and onto the quaint, quiet stretch of Main Street in the little Connecticut seaside town, so far away from everything and everyone in New York.
I feel like I’ve stepped into a story, especially when Bridger sets a hand on my back and keeps it there as we wander down the streets.
Together, for the first time.
We pass a hardware store, a shop peddling vintage signs and garden gnomes, then I stop in front of Various and Sundry when the window display catches my attention.
An umbrella—clear, with a map of the world on it. “You need an umbrella, tiger.”
“I thought you liked my emerged-from-the-lake-like-a-Jane-Austen-hero look,” he deadpans as I push open the door, the bell tinkling above me.
“That’s true. I did. But what if you get stuck in the rain before an important meeting? Like, with David Fontaine,” I suggest as we head toward the umbrellas, blue with polka dots, gray with cartoon dogs, red with music notes.
A woman behind the counter looks up from behind cat-eye glasses. “Let me know if I can help with anything.”
“I will,” I say, then beeline for the rain gear. “So you’d rather show up to a meeting soaked than carry an umbrella?”
Bridger pretends to consider this, then nods. “I would.”
I roll my eyes. “You really don’t want to carry an umbrella?”
“I don’t. I don’t want to lug a bunch of things around. Too much to carry in New York already. You need to be nimble in the city,” he says, then he moves deliciously closer, his nose near my neck. “Besides, you don’t carry one either.”
“Touché,” I say, feeling a little fluttery, a little tingly with him next to me.
A little distracted too from my mission.
But I shake off the fizz of desire, spin around, and search through the store till I spot a simple dove-gray notebook. Small, nearly pocket-size. I grab it and a pen, then head for the counter and buy them.
Once we’re outside, Bridger gives me a quizzical look, clearly waiting for me to explain the purchase.
I don’t indulge him yet.
Spotting a bench along the sidewalk, I head to it, sit down, and flip open the cover. He sits next to me, curious eyes on me the whole time as I write.
Closing it, I hand him the notebook and the pen. “It’s a gift.”
My stomach cartwheels. Nerves spin through me. I’ve never given him a gift before. I hope he likes it. “So you can think of me when you’re in the office this week,” I add.
“I would anyway,” he says, then, with the hint of a smile, he opens the notebook.
Heart beating in my throat, I watch as he reads the words.
Find me in the rain.
When he closes it, his eyes glimmer darkly, deeply. “I will, Harlow. I will.”
He moves closer to me, and it’s like we’re poised, riding the possibility of a public kiss on the streets of a small town.
Far, far away from our New York life.
He stays there.
And it’s enough for me.
Later, we stop in a jewelry boutique at the edge of the town square. It reminds me of my cousin’s store in San Francisco. As we amble past a display of necklaces, Bridger stops, stares at me, his gaze drifting down to my neck. “I’ve never asked what this is for?”
He brushes his thumb gently against the I on my chain.
“My mother gave it to me once upon a time,” I say, memories of her flashing before me. But they don’t hurt now. In this moment, I feel like she’d understand me and my choices, every single one of them. I’ve read her books. I know what her religion was. Romance was her one and only church. “It’s intrépidité .”
He repeats it, not quite getting the pronunciation, but valiantly trying. Then he lets go of it, his fingertips dusting across my chest.
“I’ve always wondered,” he says softly.
That thrills me. “Have you?”
“Maybe not always,” he corrects with a slight shrug. “But definitely since that party.”
I know exactly which one he means. “Last December? In the brownstone?”
“That one,” he confirms.
“When I learned olives were your guilty pleasure?”
“Yes,” he says.
“I almost didn’t go to that party.”
“I’m so glad you did,” he says.
“That was one of my brighter decisions,” I say, laughing, but then the laughter fades. That night was a turning point. When my future came into focus. All because I said yes. Bridger and I – we are invitations accepted. We are yeses and more yeses with no regrets.
“But I learned other things that night,” he says. There’s a hint of vulnerability in his tone.
“What did you learn?” I ask, like I’m on the cusp of something big, something meaningful.
His gaze lingers on me for a good long time in the store. “ You ,” he says at last. “I learned you. Like how you knew all the lyrics to Ask Me Next Year .”
It’s as if gravity doesn’t have a hold of me.
I’m drifting back in time to that heady moment when he said that was what he wanted in a woman.
When we traded lyrics and looks.
When we started, for all intents and purposes, making a plan for each other.
“And so it began,” I murmur.
“And it didn’t stop,” he adds.
He blinks, like he needs to recenter himself. To shake off the haze of desire curling around us. He turns away from me, heads to the counter, purchases a brushed silver barrette. As we leave, he hands it to me.
“It’s for your first day. At your new job.”
“I haven’t gotten it yet.”
“You will, Harlow.” He links his fingers with mine. “You will.”
He’s right. On Tuesday, an offer lands in my e-mail. On Thursday, I begin at Petra Gallery. Before I leave my apartment that morning, I send him a photo of me on my first day at work. I stand in front of the Zara painting. The side of my hair is clipped back with the silver barrette.
Art Harlow is in the house.
A few minutes later, when I’m out on the street, heading to the subway, he responds with a photo.
It’s a picture of the notebook I bought him. It’s opened on his desk. On the first page, he’s written me a message.
Miss you at work. But I’ll see you tonight. Can’t wait.
I touch the I on my necklace, look at the message from Bridger, then click over to my group text with my friends, who are wishing me well.
Today feels like the start of the rest of my life.