Chapter 23
I’m dying. My lungs are on fire and I’m pretty sure my last words will be some iteration of: “Don’t invite this man to my funeral. He’ll tell everyone about my days-of-the-week underwear.”
“You okay?” Nathan asks as I wheeze. He’s next to me, his easy canter at odds with my flailing limbs.
“You did this on purpose,” I choke.
“You said you were good at running.”
“Not for this long .”
He laughs, the sound so deep it reverberates in my chest. “It’s just two miles.”
“It’s death.”
It’s Sunday morning, so the running paths that line the thin track of park between the West Side Highway and the Hudson River are relatively empty.
And cold. The chill dampens the smell of the water and the road, and for the first few blocks it was even pleasant.
But after mile one I forgot everything that had made it pleasant.
I can only focus on the skyline ahead while trying to figure out how they would get an ambulance down the footpath to pick me up when I eventually drop dead.
It’s another few blocks before Nathan’s easy gait slows to a walk, and I’m so happy I want to cry. Instead, I just stop, bending at the waist as I gasp for air.
He stops, too, watching me with more confusion in his expression than concern. “So, you’re not a runner.”
I don’t bother looking at him as I shake my head.
“Why’d you suggest it, then?”
“I work out,” I wheeze. “I thought I could handle it.”
After a minute I stand upright again, squinting against the sun as I take a few more deep breaths. I can see that he’s smiling as his gaze flits down my body, and I mentally pat myself on the back for remembering to throw my leggings and sports bra in my laundry bag.
“What do you usually do to stay in shape?” he asks.
“Yoga,” I say around gasps. “What I lack in endurance I make up for in flexibility.”
His smile broadens, the dimple on full display. “Well, that explains a few things.”
I laugh even as a rush of heat floods my cheeks.
We cross the West Side Highway into the Village, my breath finally slowing enough that my lungs no longer hurt, and I can stand up straight without breaking into a coughing fit.
Nathan, on the other hand, looks like he just stepped out of a photoshoot for athletic wear.
His light brown hair is tousled in a way that looks annoyingly intentional, and, besides the sheen of sweat on his face, there’s not a hint that he spent the past half hour sprinting downtown alongside the Hudson River.
As if on cue, he brings the corner of his shirt up to wipe a bit of it away from his upper lip. I watch the motion until I feel my phone vibrate on my hip. Nathan’s attention is on the traffic light now, so I pull it from the pocket of my waistband, peeking at the screen.
MAGGIE
Are you alive?!
WHY ARE YOU IGNORING ME?
Answer or my next call is to the police.
Shit . I forgot that I put my phone on silent after my alarm went off Saturday morning.
BEATRICE
HI SORRY
I AM ALIVE
MAGGIE
Sorry you’re alive or sorry you didn’t reply earlier?
Don’t answer that.
So did they fix your building?
If not you can still head up to ours.
The key is under the gnome thing next to the garage.
I instinctively hold the phone a bit closer to my chest. It’s not that I don’t want Nathan to see, but I still turn a bit to hide the screen as I type out my reply.
BEATRICE
NO ITS OKAY
I WILL CALL YOU NEXT WEEK
MAGGIE
If you say so.
We’re not back until Wednesday so it’s yours if you need it!
ps: what do you think about a floral for the bridesmaid dresses?
I send her a barfing emoji before sliding my phone back into the small pocket of my leggings. Nathan hasn’t seemed to notice; he’s watching the light as it changes, and then he nods for us to cross.
Crisis averted , I think as I take a deep breath. The last thing I want to do is bring reality into our weekend.
But I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just wallpapered over a substantial crack.
This weekend is built off the fact that I need to be here, right?
And somewhere in my mind that rationalized it, like the necessity of staying with him somehow makes everything else okay.
Except now I don’t have to be here anymore.
Every second I stay is a choice. And if he knows, this all becomes so much more real.
“Everything all right?”
Nathan’s voice snaps me back to the present.
He’s looking down at me with his signature impassive expression, one I’ve seen a hundred times before, but right now it feels just like the first time, when I thought he could read my every thought with that look.
And all the anxiety in my chest feels like it’s going to burst out.
“What?” My tone is more defensive than I intended.
“The text.”
“Oh. Yeah, it’s fine, why?”
“You tensed up.”
I roll my eyes because I literally have no idea what to say. He’s right, I did tense up. And I don’t want to lie to him. I don’t even know if I can. And now that anxiety feels a lot like anger because, oh my God, when did I lose all control of this?
“It’s nothing,” I finally say.
“Okay,” he replies, in that skeptical tone I’m beginning to think he should trademark. Then he nods to the restaurant just a few doors down from us. “Want to grab some food?”
I scrunch up my nose. “I’m sweaty.”
“I’ve noticed,” he says. “But I’m starving, and there’s nothing at home.”
The word falls so casually from his lips that I almost miss it until it lands with a dull thud in my head.
Home . Everything is bleeding together, and now he just called his apartment “home,” like that not only meant something for him but for me, too.
And suddenly my heart is racing because I realize, just as quickly, that it did. It meant everything.
So I do what I do best, what I’ve conditioned myself to do every time I start to feel too much—I cross my arms over my chest and fortify my armor again.
“So rather than solve that problem, you just want to ignore it?”
He blinks. “What?”
“I’m just saying that if you don’t have any food, maybe grocery shopping is smarter than throwing money at a restaurant.”
“You want to go grocery shopping?” He’s looking at me like I’ve suggested we shave our heads and join a cult. Any other time I would have found it annoyingly endearing, but right now I feel on edge. An odd flood of emotions is churning in my chest, and I can’t decipher them.
“No, I don’t want to go grocery shopping. But I think we should go grocery shopping.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not leaving you tomorrow with an empty refrigerator!” I snap, motioning wildly in the air in front of me.
It’s still after that. I can feel him staring down at me, but I won’t meet his eyes.
I can’t. I didn’t intend for those words to have the weight they did, to imply exactly what I’m so scared of him seeing: that I care about him.
A lot. But trying to pull it back would mean acknowledging it, so I stay quiet, staring past him at the slow line of cars passing, and let the silence expand.
“Okay,” he finally says, reaching out and pushing an errant curl behind my ear. “Let’s go grocery shopping.”
The fact that Nathan knows that the store is just a few blocks away is mildly comforting.
That comfort is dispelled, however, the minute he grabs a basket and heads for the frozen food section.
Trying to convince him that there are other appliances in his kitchen besides the microwave is met with the same sardonic expression I’ve become familiar with, so I don’t even offer a biting retort as I grab his arm and drag him to the produce.
The next hour is a crash course in all things Nathan Asher.
He shares tidbits about his childhood across the organic vegetables.
We compare high school horror stories at the meat counter.
In the dairy section, he admits that eggs are his favorite food (mostly because he knows how to cook them).
He likes bell peppers (his mom used to grow them in the backyard when he was young), he hates peaches (apparently fruit should never be fuzzy), and he didn’t know they still made Froot Loops, so now we’re at the checkout line with three boxes.
I stare down at them, conspicuous among the array of otherwise-healthy food on the conveyor belt.
He sees my critical glare and pushes them closer to his side.
“Hey,” he says. “Be nice or I won’t share.”
I roll my eyes and suppress a laugh.
The cashier finally gets to us and starts chatting with Nathan, smiling and giggling, literally giggling , when he tells her about the Froot Loops.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I turn my back on them and let my eyes wander to the front of the door.
The Easter display flails in the wind every time the doors slide open.
I’m considering how long it will last before it finally topples and sends chocolate eggs flying, when my phone rings.
It’s still stuffed in the small pocket of my leggings, so it takes me a minute to pull it out and see Jillian’s name lighting up my screen.
“Hey, Jills,” I answer, forcing a smile as I take a few steps away from Nathan. I just need to pretend everything is fine, signal that she doesn’t need to worry. Then get off the phone as quickly as possible and call her back when I have a second to get my head around how this conversation will go.
“Hey! I saw I missed a call from you on Friday. Is everything okay?” she asks.
“Yup. Fine,” I say quickly, wandering closer to the doors so she won’t hear Nathan’s voice in the background. “How’d the interview go?”
“Really well. I’m still up here, actually. Thought I’d take a few more days to explore the city, check out the real estate,” she says, then releases a humorless laugh, and I can tell something is wrong.
“Why don’t you sound more excited?”
“I know, I’m trying.” Then, a moment later: “It’s just, when I got back to the hotel Friday, there was an email from Josh’s attorney waiting with the twenty-four-page affidavit outlining his alimony request.”