Chapter Twelve
I hand out my last business card of the night and skirt around the ballroom twice, searching for Savannah. We planned to leave at ten, allowing more than enough time to drain my social battery. I haven’t spotted her, so I shoot her a text while I idle by the doors.
“I take it your warm-up was effective.” Parker finds me first. He doesn’t look nearly as tired as I am—in fact, he looks just as alert and refreshed as he did at the start of the night.
“Rewards for being professional and personable.” I hold up a couple cards from my new contacts: a prestigious editor-in-chief and a big name from The New York Times.
Charlotte had introduced us in her efforts to get back in my good graces.
“Obtained through the power of alcohol and only mild extortion of a coworker.”
“And you were afraid you wouldn’t fit in here.” He watches as I read Savannah’s reply on my phone. “Heading out?”
King Cole Bar. “Yeah, but I’ve got to meet Savannah downstairs.”
“I’ll walk you down. I could use a breather.”
Perhaps it was the last humble brag about a thirty-foot yacht that did it for me, but I’m burned out.
I don’t say anything to Parker as we step into the elevator together.
Our conversation from earlier cycles through my head, as it has most of the night.
When I remember his parting line, my body goes rigid.
The nice act is distressing enough, but when he complimented me, it was as if a mental barricade went up, reminding me not to trust the enemy.
From beside me, Parker puts his hands in his pockets. “You’re doing that Dani thing where you get all in your head. I can see you filtering through a million thoughts right now.”
“Okay, mind reader. What am I thinking about?”
“Hmm.” He taps his foot against the floor. “You’re either hoping I didn’t catch that six-month sex drought comment from earlier, or . . . you still can’t figure out why I’m being so nice to you.”
I turn my head, and our eyes meet.
“You think I haven’t noticed that you’ve been keeping me at arm’s length?”
“I wasn’t . . .” The words die in my throat. I know why the entire barside conversation felt so unnatural to me: It’s because neither of us wants to mention what happened that Christmas eight years ago or why we stopped talking in the first place.
“To answer your question from before,” he says, “I’m not really sure why I invited you, but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.
I wasn’t prepared at all the night I ran into you at Picotea.
Even if you weren’t exactly avoiding me, I had a vague feeling that it might be the last time I would see you. At least for a while.”
I respond with silence, and he continues.
“I always thought I’d run into you back home, not that you make it very easy to do so. I, um, heard you don’t keep in contact with Nathan or my mom anymore.”
I stare down at my feet, afraid that if I face the elevator doors, I’ll catch his reflection looking back at me.
He goes on, “And I know that’s my fault, after what I did. But a lot has changed in the last seven years; I’ve changed too. Maybe I was hoping you’d hear me out some time. I don’t know if I deserve it, though.”
I thought an apology from Parker would make me smug with vindication, or that at the very least, I’d be curious to know why he didn’t show up that Christmas Eve.
But instead, I feel hollow inside. There remains only a voice, telling me not to ask.
I don’t know if I can have this conversation yet.
If we dredge this up now, it’ll feel a lot like suffocating.
He’s hurt me once before; I don’t know that I can piece myself together if it happens again.
Maybe out of mercy, Parker changes track. “How are you getting home?”
“Splitting a cab with Savannah. We’re both in Brooklyn.”
“I was there the other day, and I thought of that movie you’d watch every Christmas,” he says. “Moonstruck, was it?”
I don’t have many memories of my mother.
I remember breakfasts of dan bing with soy milk and dinner spreads of stirfry and herbal broths.
The sweet lilt in her laugh. I also remember movie nights when she and I would wait for Dad to fall asleep to put on Moonstruck.
Those were the nights I looked forward to the most.
“It was my mom’s favorite.”
He clears his throat, and his voice comes out a little softer. “Back when you were planning my trip, you put Brooklyn Heights on the list and wrote ‘Cher’s house’ next to it. You were just trying to take me to all your favorite spots, weren’t you?”
“I don’t remember,” I say. “That was a long time ago.”
The elevator stops, and Parker walks with me through the lobby, bright and majestic with its gold-overlaid walls.
My heels click and echo loudly against the marbled floors.
When we reach the Drawing Room, I take in the chandeliers suspended throughout the room and the signature hand-painted clouds on the ceiling.
“Must be nice staying here,” I muse.
Parker shrugs, but I see the mirth in his eyes. “It’s not bad.”
Across the dining area, I spot Savannah at the iconic bar. The whole scene—framed by the Old King Cole mural, the wood-paneled walls, and the candlelit ambience—has a dreamy quality. Sitting alone at the counter in her gorgeous, silvery dress, she looks like the star of her own movie.
“Why didn’t I think of escaping to the King Cole Bar too?” I pull a face, crossing my arms.
Parker follows my line of sight. “It does seem fitting that you’d find better company with a Maxfield Parrish painting.”
“You know who Maxfield Parrish is?”
“Believe it or not, I’ve been to the Met,” he says dryly.
I peek over at him. “Thanks for walking me down here.”
“I should probably turn in too,” he says, reaching up to rub the crook of his neck.
“So soon? It’s not even eleven.”
He scrunches his nose and shrugs again. “This stuff gets old quick.”
I want to tease him about losing his party-animal roots, but something about the Parker before me seems a little raw and unguarded. I suppose that under the great hair and suit, there’s a normal guy who grows weary of nights like these too.
“Anyway, goodnight, Dani.”
“Goodnight, Parker.”
He smiles that devastating smile. That same boyish charm from the other night. “Maybe I’ll see you again.”
“Maybe,” I say.
Parker turns to leave, his easy strides carrying him across the lobby.
A dull ache forms in my chest. His words from the elevator stay fixed in my mind, but it’s that brilliant smile that pulls me back to juvenile summers and rainy days huddled by the window.
It’s still hard to believe there was a time when my world revolved around that boy.
My face is warm from all the wine, and I try to calm the aching feeling, but it only grows heavy and crushing.
Parker Tran was my first friend. He was the first boy to hold my hand, and the first boy to make me cry. Now he’s the most breathtaking man I’ve ever laid eyes on, and when he tells me I look beautiful in a room packed with other people, I forget everyone exists but the two of us.
I was five the first time I watched Moonstruck with Mom, too young to form much of an appreciation for it.
Nicolas Cage had a wooden hand, and Cher didn’t seem to like him when she was slapping him, but she liked him a whole lot when they were kissing.
I remember when the credits rolled, Mom was crying.
That was the first time I saw her heart breaking, and once I understood that, I couldn’t let go of the image.
It comes back to me at times like these, when I don’t know what to do with my own shattering heart.
I don’t realize I’m moving until I’m already running down the gilded halls.
When I reach the foyer, I make a sharp turn toward the elevators, and my hand flies between closing doors, willing them open.
Parker is the only one inside, and he stares down at me, wide-eyed.
I don’t spare any room in the chaos of my mind to think, because I know if I do, all the doubt and fear from the last seven years will catch up to me.
Instead, I grab him by the lapels of his jacket, and I kiss him.