Chapter 21
21
NEW YEAR’S EVE
When I arrive at the bench, on the east side of the park, overlooking the river, Gail is already there in a black windbreaker with a fur-lined hood, her shortish hair blowing around her ears. She could be reading a newspaper in a trench coat and not look any more like a spy. I’ve never met on an actual park bench before. It almost feels as if we’re in the movies, playing our roles. Slowly, I lower myself to the other side of the seat, kicking out my heels and leaning back. Like we’re strangers. Like this is a chance meeting.
“So funny to see you here,” Gail says, a hint of mirth in her voice. “What a coincidence.”
“Thanks for asking me to come,” I say, swallowing a little.
Her chin tips up. “Did you know this is where all the greats met? This very park. Fed the ducks over there. I didn’t bring any bread, but apparently ducks can’t digest bread anyway. If anything, we should be tossing them algae. Or fish chunks. But that does seem very messy, doesn’t it?”
I sniff out a laugh. She really is kind of humorous, even if she’s not trying to be. It’s strange that this is only the third time we’re meeting in person; she’s quickly become one of the people most integral to my life. “You’re right. I don’t really want to carry fish chunks in my pocket on the Metro.”
“Oh, god no. No, you wouldn’t. Especially on a warmer day. I think that would be grounds for expulsion from the city. I would personally kick you out.” Gail shifts on the park bench, straightening her shoulders. “You look well.”
“So do you,” I say honestly.
“It’s the holidays. I take an hour off work in the evenings. Really restorative... Okay, good. Now that the chitchat’s all done and dusted, you’re probably wondering why I’ve brought you here.”
I sit up a little as the breeze hits the water. “Is my Grandma Ruby marrying a crime lord?”
A real, proper laugh escapes Gail. I’ve never seen her laugh—just heard her from the other side of a hotel door—but she throws her entire head back, chin to the sky. “You’re funny, Sydney. A bit too stubborn sometimes, but funny.” She chews on the inside of her cheek, hawkish eyes staring out at the river. “I may have doubted you once or twice since we first met. Now, I don’t do apologies. They’re soppy. I don’t care for them. But if I ever were to give one, it might be to a case officer who showed great resolve in a near impossible familial situation.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “Yeah?”
“Yes. I might also add that, given the circumstances—and now that Johnny Jones is being arraigned—the badge-pulling maneuver might have been a bit harsh. Also, metaphorical badge. Since you have never actually worked for us. I’ve always found that a bit confusing, haven’t you?”
I laugh. “I have never been more confused than I have been in the last couple of weeks. It’s made me rethink everything.”
Gail nods. “I hear you’re no longer employed by the CIA. Was that your decision?”
“It was.” Even saying it now, relief floods through me. “I’ve applied for a few positions at think tanks instead. International diplomacy and conflict-resolution-type stuff. The truth is, I’ve thought about quitting the CIA for a long time, just didn’t know that I could, and I... I really don’t want to keep secrets anymore. About myself, about others. It isn’t healthy. I think I only joined the CIA because I wanted to hide.”
“Yes, very hidden,” Gail says. “Very inconspicuous with the car crash and running through that parade, and the two hundred onlookers, with all the Christmas lights—but yes, I do see what you mean. This job does tend to eat you, whether you want it to or not. How’d they take the news?”
“The CIA? Oh, badly.”
“Mmm,” Gail says. “Good for you. How is your sister?”
“Healing,” I say nonflippantly. It’s going to take a long time to recover from everything that happened to her, to learn to trust again. But we’re going to tackle everything together. Just like we called Dad together, a few days after Christmas. We talked for over an hour, and it was... hard. Hard, but good. The three of us still haven’t seen each other again in person, and things will never be the same—but a relationship might exist. Right now, that’s enough for me.
“Calla’s a fighter,” I tell Gail. “She’s stronger than you think.”
“Teachers often are. She is also a sister of yours, so the strength is possibly a given. As is your grandmother’s. I was glad to hear that she’s recovering well.” Gail peers at me, brow furrowing. “Is this what one might call ‘a moment’? Are we having a moment?”
I return her gaze, eyebrows pulled together like hers. “I think so, Gail. I think we might be.”
Gail clears her throat. “Well, that’s that, then. I just have one more piece of intel for you before I go.” At this, my stomach actually does a little flip-flop, but Gail dives in quickly. Doesn’t beat around the bush. “My sources tell me that your gentleman friend, one Nick Fraser, may or may not have landed in DC on American Flight 2169 out of Boston, and he might have picked up his luggage at Carousel 2, and he has possibly taken the Metro Yellow Line from Ronald Reagan National Airport.”
Briefly, I’m legitimately not sure what she’s telling me, even though she’s laid it all out in explicit detail. Nick. Nick Fraser. He’s flown to DC on New Year’s Eve. For me?
“I believe, Sydney, that this is what’s known as a ‘grand gesture.’ I imagine there will be flowers involved. But I figured you’d had enough surprises for one holiday, even if the final surprise is a positive one.” Gail turns to me, one of her eyebrows raised. “I also thought you might want to meet him as soon as he stepped off the train.”
—
I’ve worn the wrong shoes for running. My high-heeled boots stamp along the rock-salted sidewalk as I pick up the pace, checking my watch. Gail said that Nick exited baggage claim forty-two minutes ago, which means—yeah, jogging now. I descend the escalator with a rolling gait. “Excuse me, sorry, excuse me,” I tell people, bobbing around them.
The Metro floor is still littered with Christmas tree needles. A half-abandoned wreath hangs on the information booth; only the faintest tinge of holiday glitter reflects on the railing. The season’s coming to an end. Taped-up flyers advertise the festivities tonight. Fireworks over the Lincoln Memorial. The ball drop. It’s almost another year. Time to start over. To be different people.
But I finally feel like I’ve become the person I was .
More open. More trusting. This Christmas, everything changed.
Tapping my fare card on the entryway, I rush through the opened gate and down the stairs to Platform B. A sea of winter coats and shopping bags. Suitcases, last-minute trips. Children in strollers and parents holding hands. My chest starts to ache. Where’s Nick? At first, I think I’ve missed him. That I’ve gotten the wrong Metro car, the wrong platform. Maybe he isn’t visiting my apartment first. Maybe he’s planning on checking himself into a hotel, or getting a bite to eat, or—my god—not visiting me at all. He could be in DC for business! Something totally unrelated! And here I am, like an absolute fool, neck craning into carriages, waiting for—
Him.
Nick steps onto the platform with his roller bag. He’s wearing a longish beige coat, a black beanie, and an expression of utter determination. He hasn’t seen me yet. He’s too focused on weaving through the crowd, isn’t looking my way, and my heart thuds. Keeps thudding as I zigzag around passengers, closing the gap between us, until we are abruptly face-to-face. His facial hair is longer than I’ve ever seen it. Almost a beard.
He startles, dark eyes wide at the sight of me. “You’re—”
“Surprise,” I say, suddenly sheepish. We haven’t seen each other since the morning after Christmas, when we woke up together, intertwined in bed. We’ve been texting, though. Just this morning, I sent him a picture of myself wrapped in his christmas sweater . That was my Christmas present; he’d left it on my dresser, tied with a silver ribbon, and it is quickly becoming my favorite item of clothing.
Nick chuckles. “I thought I’d get to be the one to surprise you this time.”
“In that case, you should’ve hidden in my shower.”
“Mmm,” Nick says, reaching up to tuck a stray hair behind my ear. “I value my life too much for that... How’d you know I was coming?”
“Got a hot tip.”
“You glad I’m here?” Nick says, fishing, his lips inches from mine.
“Very,” I say, travelers rushing around us. “Because the truth is... I think I might want you for every holiday. New Year’s. Christmas. I want you for Arbor Day. Groundhog Day, I’m there. And even the nonholiday holidays. International Talk Like a Pirate Day. We’ll buy beers and speak like Long John Silver. Hot Pastrami Sandwich Day—”
With a laugh in the back of his throat, Nick leans forward and kisses me, lips capturing mine. And I want him like this is the first time I’ve discovered what want truly is—the real meaning behind it, that soul-scraping, gut-gripping, can’t-feel-my-face sort of desire. My fingers tangle in the back of his hair, smoothing the skin on his neck, and he moves in closer, until our bodies are flush. Until we’re becoming one united, happy person on this random DC subway platform. His thumbs trace the line of my jaw, such a light touch, like snowflakes. “Maybe we should...” I say after a long moment, breathless, my head cocking a little toward the escalator.
“Right,” Nick says, similarly out of breath. He grins. “We used to be spies. You’d think we’d be better at the ‘keeping our actions on the down-low’ thing.”
“Used to be?” I ask, blinking.
Nick wraps his arm around my shoulders as we stride together, into the next crowd of people, who are already testing out some party poppers. Colorful pieces of paper and glitter speckle my coat. “Turns out,” Nick says, stooping to whisper in my ear, “you inspire me.”
But there’s something else. I can tell there’s something else on his face, some element of this visit that I’m missing. On the escalator, I study him, his pupils ever so slightly dilated, his pulse almost imperceptibly thudding in his neck. He chews the bottom of his lip as he gazes at me.
“What?” I say, a smile in the corner of my mouth.
“Nothing,” Nick says unconvincingly, shaking his head.
“Oh, come on.” I poke his dimple, just as he once poked mine. “You have your own tells.”
When the escalator spits us out on the main road, winter is alive and well in the air. The weather has taken a turn for the frosty, and snowflakes are just beginning to fall. They start to dust Nick’s beanie, and for some reason, perhaps nervously, he takes off his hat. His dark hair springs out, ruffled, like he’s just woken up from a long nap—and I think I might adore him more like this than any other way.
“You have snowflakes on your eyelashes,” he almost whispers, the world fading around us.
“You’re stalling,” I whisper back, because whatever he’s come to tell me, he should just say it now.
Nick laughs. He laughs in this private, knowing way, like it could only be a joke between us. “You want to know the truth?” he asks, pausing on the sidewalk. One of his hands reaches out to cup my face, and he looks so incredibly earnest, taking a breath to steady himself. “The truth is, when I left that morning, when I thought we might never see each other again, that I might go back to a place where there was no Sydney, it hit me like...”
“Like an Oldsmobile?” I offer, suddenly a bit light-headed.
He nods, wiping a snowflake off my cheek. “Yes. Exactly like that. And I realize we haven’t known each other for more than a holiday, and we can take this as slow as you want, but I want to be here. I want to be with you. And I just need you to know that... that I...”
He pins me with the most hopeful glance—and I know. I know it like I know that Sweetie Pie is a good dog, that Christmas trees are green, that this man is the best one I’ve ever met.
The words rush out of me, rasping. “I love you, too.”
“Yeah?” he whispers, his face like summer, and then we’re kissing, and he’s saying it over and over—on the sidewalk, at my house, later that week, later that month. I love you, Sydney. I really, really love you. And I trust him. I’m going to know every inch of him.
And he’s going to know me, too.