Exit Event
She knows where to find him.
It’s still early; SoHo’s streets are flush with the first wave of subway commuters, analysts and agency kids heading downtown.
Traffic is loud on Broadway, and restaurant staff unload deliveries into cellars.
As Lili slips into the restaurant, it’s starting to bustle. Welcoming smiles of staff, white aprons, early client meetings,
breakfasts before work, eggs en cocotte and Bloody Marys—it is Friday, she supposes—ushered out of the kitchens. Servers chat
at the host stand, as sunshine spills in. That red awning, those gold letters. A few other people are already waiting for
tables, and Lili tries to breathe steadily.
What is she doing?
The host ferries one party—light camel coats, talk of book deals—to their booth. Around Lili, the discussion of weekend plans,
buzz of conversation blurring with her jet lag. Nerves are sharp in her chest, bright and breathless in her throat. She feels
torn between the hope that he’s here and the hope that he isn’t.
Do you think he’ll listen? Jackie had asked, last night.
Together, they’d eaten takeout on their couch, Lili freshly showered after the flight. Her hair was wet against her sweatshirt.
I don’t know, she said, honestly. She twisted her chopsticks between her fingers. Vegan mapo tofu, pai huang gua: comforting numb burn of Sichuan peppers, smashed cucumber, extra chili oil. Favorite foods, but her appetite was still remote, warded off by worry. Am I—am I being selfish?
Jackie frowned. In what sense?
Like, in apologizing? Seeking him out, when he’s made it clear he doesn’t want to speak to me—is it selfish to ask him to
listen?
You’re asking him, Jackie said. He can say no, love. It’s horrible, but he has a choice.
Lili gave a tight nod, biting her lip. I know that it’s . . . unlikely that he’d even consider forgiving me. I mean, it looks like he’s seeing someone, Christ—but
I can’t help wanting his forgiveness. Give him the apology he deserves, yes, but also . . . hoping that he might accept it,
might take me back? Fuck, I don’t know, it just—it feels selfish, going into it like this. Like I’m making it about me, instead
of him.
I wonder if that’s the point, actually, Jackie mused. Like, if that selfishness is part of what’s necessary, for a genuine apology. For you to sort of humble yourself, with what
you want and what you did, and then . . . he makes the choice? Not in, like, a sexist way, or some toxic power imbalance,
but—you sort of took away any power from him, whatever balance you two had in the relationship—or situation, or whatever you
want to call it—when you cheated. Took away his choices, so now you give him one.
I think I always had the power in the relationship, Lili murmured. It was intense, all of it, and he’s not a relaxed person, not by far, he thrives off control, but not—not with me. Not outside
of, like, sex. He was always . . . giving me the space to decide, or shape things, now that I look back.
Jackie nodded. So, maybe that’s it, then. Maybe that’s the unselfish part of this. That you explain, and apologize, then you accept what
he decides. You fight for the chance to apologize, but you won’t fight what he decides.
And what if . . . Anxious, her chopsticks churned in her tofu, through scallions and sesame seeds. What if he says no?
Her roommate had sighed. I think that’s also the unselfish part. You live with it. You want him, as much as you do—and you make that clear to him—but
then . . . then you let go. You let it be in his hands.
Lili listened, nodding. She’d bitten her nails raw on the plane, thinking about this: He could say no—he will likely say no—and
she will have to live with that. The painful idea of growth as a matter of loss, rather than gain.
How are you going to do it? Jackie had asked, leaning back against their couch. Are you going to—not call him, I guess, but like, go to his house?
No, there’s a place he likes for breakfast, she murmured. I’m going to try that. Neutral ground, sort of. So he can leave, if he wants.
So, Balthazar.
“—for breakfast, miss?”
Now she glances at the host. Menus shuffle in his hands, expectant look.
“Sorry, yes, I—”
Behind the host, the gleam of glass.
She sees him in the mirror, first.
A center of gravity, for her. In this huge room, still too lavish and intense for breakfast, its rich red booths, faded saffron
walls, servers setting fresh tables, diners drinking coffee and eating breakfast, the image of the half-full dining room,
the clatter from the kitchen, laughter from outside, large windows, sunshine, reflected in these old massive mirrors on the
walls, and there, him.
Aleksandr.
Back in one of the banquettes, near the window. Coffee, white saucer. A newspaper, the Times. Good suit, glint of cuff links at his wrists. He’s focused, reading. A Friday morning.
One man, in a city of millions.
A held breath suffuses through her, as she takes him in—this intimacy, unseen for a few seconds longer. She could almost stand
still and believe he’s waiting for her, in this moment before he’ll look up; could imagine that he’d smile, seeing her; that
he’s hers still.
“Sorry,” Lili says to the host, “meeting someone. Thank you—”
She almost doesn’t want to see it: the moment when he notices her.
This was stupid, she starts to think, heart pounding as she weaves between the tables. She tries to wipe her clammy palms against her skirt—simple
clothes, a thin sweater; all black, meant to be comfortable—and she tries to remember—think, Lili, think—the words she’d cobbled together when she was lying awake last night.
What she might have said to him in the park, in Paris, on the phone, and the wordless things she’d cried into her pillow for weeks, and what she might say to him now: this man who might not speak a single word to her, who might leave before she can even open her mouth; this man who once held her so close as she grieved her parents with years-old pain, who pushed her too far and picked her up; this man who might already be done with her, and might leave her here now, with nothing but indifference, coldness, and her own empty hands.
Her boots scuff against the floor, almost tripping.
“Fuck,” she mutters.
A glance of dark eyes up from his newspaper, her fumble drawing his attention—the same instinct as when a server moves by
fast with full plates, or sets down fresh coffee.
But he sees her, instead.
And oh, oh—that instant, when he sees her: unexpected in this restaurant, the part of his lips, taken aback, and the amount she sees
in his eyes then, the openness of his expression, a gaze full of so much—disbelief, confusion, want—a sharp split second of
an inhale shared between them again, before he hardens; before his expression shutters fast with intense hostility, fingers
tensing around the newspaper.
But in that instant of a moment, before she is shut out—
There’s something here. Even if it’s just hate, and hurt, it’s something that cared about her, once.
That might—could—care still.
“Hi,” she says. Her voice is quiet, a little fumbling, but it is not weak.
He stares at her.
Lili clears her throat. “Could I sit? Please?”
His newspaper snaps as he throws it onto the table. “Are you lost?”
She flinches. His voice, last heard over voicemail—heated with desperation, fucking talk to me—is now so cold. “No, I . . .” She trails off, glancing at the floor: panicked heart, shaking breath.
Look at him, she snaps at herself. Look at what you’ve done.
Look at what you want, still.
Her grip tightens around her tote. “I’d like us to talk,” she says, meeting his stare. “If that’s alright.”
“I have nothing to say to you,” Aleksandr says.
His stare is steady; heavy, hateful.
And hate—she can do something with hate.
“Right, yeah.” She nods. “Could I—could I say some things, then?”
He does not respond, but he does not refuse.
She lunges after that not-refusal. Sitting down, she glances over the restaurant growing busier. Her stomach churns, empty and nauseous, with memories of their last time here, warm glancing moments of past lives.
“I didn’t mean to—” Her voice cracks; a stumble. “No, fuck, sorry, I . . . what I mean to say—what I mean—I—I . . .”
Words fumbled again. His face is cold, and she cannot read it.
Fucking talk, she screams at herself. Fucking talk—
Against the table, his fingers are curled into a fist.
She has this moment, and then it will be gone.
“I’m not . . .” Lili tries again. “I’m not doing this right. I’m not looking for anything from you, but I thought you deserved—well,
no, more than that, I thought I owed it to you—not that this is like, some debt—Jesus, fuck, I’m sorry—what I’m trying to—”
“Why are you here?” Aleksandr interrupts, sudden. Interrupting her—something he did so rarely.
“I’d like to apologize,” she whispers.
A harsh sound rises up the back of his throat. He glances at his watch. “This is uninteresting to me,” he says. “You are uninteresting to me.”
Lili’s hand spasms against the tablecloth. “Don’t you—wouldn’t you like to talk about it, or—”
“I don’t want anything from you.”
She flinches. Uncomfortable heat washes through her: shame, guilt, embarrassment, all deserved.
It’s selfish, how much of this apology is driven by her own wants. But how much of her entire life has involved pulling herself
back from what she wants, for fear of the pain of its loss? Isn’t it somehow meaningful to stand here now and tell him—Aleksandr Petrov, a man whose name she’d carry with her own—how much he means to her, how scared she was—is—of losing him?
She cannot be a person that does not let others get close to her, any longer.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I know how little that means, but I’d like to tell you, still, how sorry I am—”
“This is ridiculous,” Aleksandr mutters, glancing across the restaurant.