Chapter Six #2
“So? When are you going to see him again?” Winona asks.
I dab syrup off the corner of my mouth.
“I’m not sure.”
There’s a sharp clink; Winona has dropped her fork.
“I’m confused,” she says. “What’s the problem? Has he not reached out?”
“Um, yes. He has.” I clear my throat. “Called me, actually.”
“And…?” Winona prompts. “What did he say?”
I bite my bottom lip.
“I…didn’t pick up.” Before her jaw can drop, I hold up my hands to defend myself. “I was in the gym!”
“And I’m sure you called him back after.” It’s not a question, because she already knows the answer.
I swallow. “He left a message.”
“Which you haven’t answered.”
“I don’t know how to respond!” I confess.
It’s true. When I left the gallery, I’d felt so certain that I’d done the right thing by walking away. An iron wall had fallen in front of my heart, reverberating as it slammed shut—because I knew, with certainty, that Julian Conrad was too good to be true.
But he’s since brought a battering ram to my defenses, and I’m starting to feel them shake.
Most of what I’ve assumed about Julian is based on his superficial attributes—his youth, his looks.
What if I’m judging him too harshly, failing to see him beyond his facade, as he’d attempted to see beyond mine?
What if he wasn’t lying through his teeth when he said that he wanted me to take him seriously?
My cheeks warm in a familiar, upsetting way, and across from me, Winona freezes.
“You like him,” she whispers. Then, louder, her eyes sparkling with mirth, “Oh my god, you actually like him!”
A group of women sitting at a table a few feet away snicker along with her, and I lean back, crossing my arms in defiance.
“Volume, Winny,” I mutter, waiting for her to gather her wits.
“I’m sorry,” she says, dabbing her eyes with a napkin. “It’s just…it’s been so long since I’ve seen a besotted Sean. I forgot how completely useless she could be.”
“Now you’re just being mean,” I say, but my ears are burning and my stomach is leaping and I know that she’s right: I am indeed crushing on Julian, and admitting it to myself, even if just the tiniest bit, feels like participating in the Polar Plunge.
Exhilarating, maybe, but supremely stupid too. I might die of hypothermia.
“In my defense,” I say, “he’s almost impossible not to like. Even his voice is sexy.”
“Can I listen?” Winny says, holding out an expectant hand for my phone.
I navigate to my voicemail, and she lifts it to her ear.
I know when it starts by how her eyes widen, and I know what she’s hearing, because I’ve listened to it a thousand times: Julian’s voice, pitched low into a growl that is clearly not for public consumption.
His tongue curling around the syllables of my name like an incantation.
Sean Sullivan, the message begins. You seem to enjoy running from me. Unfortunately for you, I’m quite tenacious, and I’m not above using petty tactics. I’ll be seeing you soon.
Winny lowers my phone. Sighs. Takes a swig of her water.
“What, and pardon me saying,” she says, “the hell was that?”
“I know,” I lament.
“I felt something, and that wasn’t even meant for me.”
“I know.”
We look at each other, then squeal in unison.
“Okay, now I need to see what this man looks like,” she says. “I need to know what face goes with that voice.”
I’m already scrolling through my phone to find the pictures from Brandon and Leila’s wedding.
“He isn’t on social media,” I say as I search. “Trust me, I’ve looked. No Instagram, TikTok, not even a LinkedIn.”
“Rich and private,” she coos. I hold up my phone to the one picture I have of him, snuck at the end of his speech. It’s in profile and a bit out of focus, but it still gets the point across.
Winona moans around a bite of French toast, so loudly that a waiter squeezing behind her barely muffles his laughter.
“That is absurd,” she says. “No way that man is flesh and blood. He looks like AI.”
“Oh, he’s flesh and blood all right.”
Winona wags her eyebrows suggestively, and this makes us laugh even louder. When we recover, smacking our chests and downing our water to clear our throats, Winny taps a finger against the table.
“And the petty tactics?” Winona asks.
“He’s holding my earring hostage,” I explain, biting back the enormous grin that threatens to bloom across my face.
I show her another picture, this one of my wire-face earring held up by its hook next to a torn piece of paper with the date.
Under it, a text: if you ever want to see her again, you know how to find me.
I wait as she scrolls maniacally through the rest of the thread.
Sean: wow. are you resorting to extortion now?
Sean: fine, I’ll hear you out. What do you want.
Julian: You know what I want, Sean. The question is, do you love your precious little face earring thing enough to give it to me?
Sean: You’re a very nasty man, to do this. You know Sophie gave those to me, right? My goddaughter?
Julian: Nasty? You’re the nasty one. I’m not asking for anything improper. I’m just trying to get a second date.
“That’s it, I’m officially jealous,” Winny says, handing back my phone with a pout. “This just gave me necessary inspiration. It’s high time I put myself out there too. Find some strapping young cutie to help me get my groove back.”
She says it as a joke, but I know there’s truth to it.
Winona is an objectively beautiful woman, but she’s also a working mom who has been cast aside by her ex-husband for a pretty little thing who doesn’t have her C-section scars or her smile lines.
There’s only so far positive self-talk can go in restoring her self-esteem.
What she needs is cold, hard evidence. Emphasis on the hard.
“I agree,” I say. “You’ve been through it, Winny, and it’s time. Go get wined and dined like you deserve.”
“Wined and dined sounds lovely,” Winny says wistfully. She sighs. “I can’t even remember the last time I had a…little romance, you know? I feel sexless down there. Like a Barbie doll.”
“I get that,” I say distractedly. “There’s only so much healing you can do on your own. You have to put yourself out there, learn to trust your judgment again.”
The moment the words leave my lips, the mood shifts. Winona puts down her fork, folds her hands on the table, and stares at her French toast like she half expects it to walk off her plate.
“I’m happy for you, you know,” she says. “You haven’t been this excited about a guy since, well…”
Acid rises to my throat, and I dab my napkin to my lips to push past it. I know what she means, but the young woman who had once been caught in my ex-fiancé Eric’s web doesn’t exist. I cast her in a fire alongside our engagement photos and watched her burn.
A hand covers mine, and when I meet Winona’s gaze again, she’s giving me the look.
The one that means that she is ceding the floor to me, reminding me that no matter how many times I’ve recounted this particular trauma with her, she’s here to listen again.
It’s the same regard that she gives to her cancer patients who are grappling with the question of their mortality alongside side effects from chemo, providing a safe space for them to scream and mourn in ways they can’t with their families.
The depth of her compassion is what makes her clinic routinely run late, but also what probably makes her the most beloved psychologist in her practice.
And without a doubt, an incredible friend.
“I’m sorry,” Winona says, when I don’t fill the silence she’s provided. “I shouldn’t have brought him up in this context.”
I shrug.
“Yes, well, he’s unfortunately a very relevant part of my story,” I say. “Besides. You’re probably right.”
And I hate that she is, because I hate what it bodes for me.
Sean in love is not a reasonable woman. She abandoned herself for a man who held her in an ever-tightening grip, who abandoned her in turn as she bled out on the carpet.
She accepted disrespect and even rage and made herself compact, and I cannot ever go back to being her. Not for anyone. Ever again.
“For what it’s worth, I think this is a good thing,” Winny says. She squeezes my hand. “Even if you aren’t totally sure what you want out of this. You’re healing, Sulley.”
I smile and squeeze back.
“Healing, and having fun doing it.” My smile becomes wicked. “Which, if I’m honest, I’m not sure you’re capable of having. You care too much.”
Winny crosses her arms, affronted.
“I am capable of fun!” she insists. “Besides, when will I have time to foster a relationship? Sophie has dance, Science Olympiad, and violin practice, and between mom duties, work, and grant application deadlines, I can barely find the time to cook. Whoever I meet will have to be fine with a little ‘wham bam thank you ma’am’ every other weekend. ”
“Oh, you’ll definitely be able to find that,” I say, and we snicker as I guide Winona through my assortment of dating apps—“LMT is my favorite—it’s professionals only, so you don’t have to swipe through bums”—when a text lights up my screen.
It’s from Julian—another picture, this time of my beloved earring dangling over what appears to be the Chicago River. I’m running out of patience, Sean. And Ms. Face is running out of time.
Winona lets out a laugh.
“I swear to god if you don’t text that poor man back, I will,” she declares. Then she props her head up on her chin. “In the meantime, please teach me your ways.”
I do not teach Winona much of anything, on account of having zero game and acquiring the affections of a baddie purely through chance and despite objectively poor behavior.
We do create an account for her on LMT, though, and for the next week she sends me photographs of eligible bachelors (Darren, forty-two, engineer, “Proud dad of 2, Go Astros”; Manny, thirty-two, financial planner, “high-value man, first three dates won’t be dinner”; Lawrence, twenty-six, project manager, “My secret talent is getting back my hoodies after you steal them.”)