Chapter 32 #2
The heady scent of truffle descends with the mountain of fries dropping between us, along with our frozen dessert. It’s unthinkably large, the famous treat, a cauldron of icy chocolate, whipped cream, and cocoa shavings. Mountainous, two straws and two spoons, though it could have come with ten.
“Yikes is right,” Quinn repeats. But her smile spreads. She grabs a fry and points it into the air. “I’m only telling you this as backstory, by the way.”
“I’m ready for the good part when you are,” I say flatly, diving for one of the sundae spoons.
Her pretty face—upturned nose and carved cheeks—grows pink with expectation.
I know this look.
She’s thrilled to say what comes next.
She picks up her phone and tip-taps to some sort of document. She fiddles it in front of me, her instrument, like she’s a musician in Carnegie Hall.
“Alan knows a guy,” she says. “Through work. We tracked down your future husband.” She lets this land. “And guess what?”
“What?”
“He’s in New York.”
Here in the café’s haze, my whole body liquifies.
I’m frozen.
No—hot.
I’m the famous dessert between us.
I’m frozen hot chocolate.
My chest cools and burns at the news.
How did she . . . ?
Where is he . . . ?
I yank the neck of my white sweater, begging for air.
“Reid?” I manage. “He found Reid.”
Her chin sets. “That’s right. Reid Andrew Layne. You’ve mentioned his name enough. I know you’ve been looking. And—I’m sorry, I hope you don’t mind, but I finally told Alan about your situation.” She takes a beat. “We were both worried about you—and I told him I might have a solution. A big one.”
You can say that again.
“I’m not mad,” I say. “But—how? He’s been so untraceable.”
“Well, don’t be too impressed. He started a new job last year, with a bank on Wall Street. They keep a solid employee directory. The guy still had to dig, but timing was on our side, definitely.”
She holds up the phone and points with her manicured finger. “It’s all here. His address. His birthday.”
“August third?”
“That’s right. Blood type.”
“O positive.”
“Height, weight.”
“Six foot one. One hundred and ninety pounds.”
“Dang, girl. You know your man!”
“Seventeen years of marriage.” I shrug. “I know it all.”
She offers her phone to me.
I take it, eyes round, devouring.
His phone number isn’t the same, I see—and even though I already knew this, I’m startled by the small sting.
How much don’t I know, after all?
My past and my future, here in my hands. My best friend and roommate. My boyfriend and rock. The one I’ve been waiting for, yes, but also the one I was so willing to leave.
Guilt snakes inside me, mixing with hope.
I soak in the information and handful of pictures.
A work headshot I’ve never seen, blue suit, blue tie; a childhood portrait with his parents and brother that I’ve seen a thousand times, everyone in summer denim; a photo of him on a boat in a baseball cap, proudly holding up a fish the size of a shark.
Does he fish now?
Like, out on a boat?
He’s never fished in his life.
I feel another twinge of betrayal.
I don’t know him here.
And he doesn’t know me.
I look at Quinn. “I can’t believe you did this for me.”
Was there ever a better friend?
She licks her spoon, like it’s no big deal. “I’d do anything for you. You know that.”
“Well, it must’ve been pretty bad,” I say. “My spiral.”
She flaps a hand. “That’s over now. The best is ahead. The rest is ahead.”
I sigh. “I’m so grateful. You have no idea. This is what I came to New York for.” All indeed serendipitous. “But I guess I’m wondering—where do we go from here? Do I knock on his door? Give him a call?”
My heart jackhammers just thinking about it.
Quinn sets down her spoon. “Now I get to show off. Ahem.” She pauses. “Alan’s guy was great and all—but then I got busy, the second we started planning this trip. Started googling and calling like crazy.”
I lean forward, snatching a truffle fry. “And?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Your birthday?”
“Correct. But also the company Christmas party for—wait for it—Coldwater Bank International.” She gives jazz hands. “Sparing no expense.”
My stomach flips.
“Oh, gosh.” I’m tracking. “You think I should crash the party.”
“No. I think we should crash the party.”
“But it’s your thirtieth birthday!”
“And you think I could ever imagine I’d have a thirtieth birthday this thrilling? Chasing down time and fate? I’m not missing this for the world. We are finding Reid Layne.”
I release a breath that could fill a blimp. “How did you find the party?” I ask. “You’re positive? And you think we should just . . . show up?”
“It’s amazing what you can google these days,” she muses. “And don’t worry. I helped you pick out the perfect dress. If people crash weddings, we can do this.”
My throat tightens. “Where’s the party?” I ask after a minute, warming up to the idea. This still gives me more than twenty-four hours to mentally prepare.
Physically prepare.
Existentially prepare my entire being.
She licks at a dollop of whipped cream held to her lips. “You think I picked the Plaza for nothing?”