Chapter 3 #3
“Definitely not. But I…I have a child of my own.” I wince, both because giving myself away isn’t an option and because it makes me sound like an asshole. I can’t even tell her that I have a daughter who’s probably her age, but maybe she can tell just by looking at me.
“I happen to like older men. Does that make me a pervert? Well, an attempted perv, I guess. I can’t even do a one-night stand right.”
I offer my hand to help her stand. “I didn’t mean to imply that this was cheap or wrong. Just that I think you’d like to have a good cry alone and pick up the pieces after that. I don’t want to be something you wish you could take back.”
“A rebound for a rebound,” she mutters darkly.
“You don’t happen to have, like, a few grand sitting around that I could borrow so I can get my car fixed, do you?
I’ll pay you back. I’m just short right now.
Wedding season is coming up, but in the meantime, things get rough.
” She laughs like she’s joking. She certainly doesn’t expect me to say yes.
“Are you a photographer?” I ask.
“I wish.”
“Do you play for a living?”
“The piano? No. I wish that too. I plan weddings. I handle the boring, horrible logistics of the whole thing so other people don’t have to lose their minds doing it.
I like it though. The parts everyone hates are the areas where I thrive.
” She smooths her hand down her coat, even though it’s not the kind that wrinkles.
“I’m usually not a hot mess. I’m actually a very organized, meticulous, and careful planner. ”
I pull out my wallet and dig out a fistful of bills. “That should cover everything. You don’t have to worry about paying me back.”
She stares at me like I’ve just done the reverse prince-to-frog thing, and now I’m a giant toad standing here, but she likes toads. She just can’t believe it really happened. “What? Of course I’ll pay you back! Give me your number. I’ll have it in a month, with interest.”
“I don’t need it with interest.”
“You’ll get it with interest all the same. The only thing worse than not doing the one-night stand or one-hour stand thing with me because you feel sorry for me is giving me money after and not wanting to be repaid because you feel sorry for me.”
She’s not going to let it go, so I relent and say, “What’s your number? I’ll text you.”
“Okay. One month, I promise.”
“Do you like what you do? Weddings?”
“I…sometimes. It depends on the couple. I like celebrating people’s love. But sometimes, the excess of it all is a lot.”
I wonder if it’s salt in the wounds, planning the celebration of other people’s love and having lost the chance at it yourself because the person who should have treasured you is a total tool bag.
“Could I borrow your phone now?” she asks. “It’s late, and you have better things to do than provide charity to a stranger.”
“No. And it’s not charity if you’re paying me back. That will be a dollar for the call, ma’am.”
Her lips twitch as I pass her my phone. “I think this might be the only time I’m disappointed in someone for being a gentleman.”
“If it makes you feel better, I’m disappointed too.”
“It doesn’t really, but…I guess it kind of does.” She makes the call and then hangs up and passes the phone back. “Thank you. I…I hope you have a nice life? Is that what people say?”
“Probably not, but I’ll take it. Let me make sure you’re okay with the tow and everything.”
“I’ll just watch for the truck from the lobby. I’ll be fine. Honestly. I think it’s better if I just slip into the night.”
It’s not that I’ve spent the decades since my divorce guarding my heart or being locked in fear.
I’ve just buried myself under a mountain of busyness so that I don’t even have time to consider it being there.
The hurt was a long time ago. She’s moved on.
I’ve moved on. It’s what happened in the interim that hurt far worse than her falling out of love.
I’ve never found another person where it actually physically hurt to watch them leave.
This hurts.
After I unlock the door and pull it open, watching Bellatrix slip through into the lobby tears a fissure in my chest that doesn’t make sense.
Standing at the lobby’s window, I watch her to make sure she’s okay. I watch until the lights of the tow truck flash blue against the lobby’s interior, and then I watch her vanish like she was never there at all.
I want to go after her.
But I don’t have her number. She never gave it to me.
I don’t have her last name either.
And she doesn’t have my first or last name.
All we know of each other is that, for a few moments, we fit. Not perfectly, but more imperfectly perfect than I’ve ever felt before.
There have been many moments in my life where work has not been enough.
Where finding the vase that made this all possible was more of a curse than a blessing.
Where I wished I could go back and do it all differently.
But each of those moments revolved around my daughter.
I missed her. I wanted back in her life.
I wanted to know her. All the money in the world couldn’t undo the past, and it still hasn’t brought us back to a point beyond a few awkward phone calls and maybe seeing each other for a few minutes a year.
I’ve never wished I could change everything for a stranger.
There’s no going back and undoing time. Not for all the money in the world. Not for anything. If Bellatrix tries to come back here, I won’t be bartending. And if she asks the front desk, they won’t give her my name.
Brushes in the dark of night are meant to be just that. A whisper of shoulders. A flutter of the heart. One single moment of blissful dreams.
Anything else would ruin the beauty of it all.