Chapter 20
Lucy had picked the community hall in Queens with a kind of deliberate indifference. The windowless brown-brick building sat uncomfortably close behind a white-steepled church, its flat fa?ade impossible to confuse with anything romantic.
It was the kind of place that smelled perpetually of floor polish and musty community center carpeting—a template for blood drives, literacy auctions, children’s ballet recitals, and rotary-club meetings whose homemade signs collected like abandoned luggage in the lobby.
Neutral, unromantic, utterly forgettable: perfect for an encounter she refused to let feel like a date.
Several years ago, she’d walked through that same double door clutching three illustrated book covers for a fundraiser.
The auctioneer had rattled through bids so fast Adam ended up bidding against himself.
She remembered the sound he made when he realized: a startled exhale that became laughter.
He insisted the system had punished his enthusiasm, then joked that he should lose a paddle or two for his own good.
He bought all three covers, slipped them beneath one arm, and—completely out of script—took her number.
The memory usually made her smile. Tonight, it made her heart ache.
Adam waited beneath a wavering yellow security light, the wind stirring damp leaves at his feet.
His dark wool coat looked familiar—she remembered how the collar brushed his jawline the night they first kissed—but something else had changed.
His hair hung long enough to shadow his eyes this time, and the lines at his mouth were permanent now, never disappearing even when he smiled.
A pause in the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, and then: relief, edged with a trace of humiliation.
He was alive, annoyed by the wind, recognizable, unchanged enough to shock her.
When she reached him, she managed only, “Hi.”
He studied her face under the yellow glow, as though he’d hoped for someone different—a failure of expectations she knew all too well. After a beat, he said, “You look good”
Lucy’s heart stuttered, then danced. “No—I don’t.” She brushed a lock of hair back, then joked. “You look like hell.”
He ran a hand through his forehead-length hair.
“I missed two barber appointments this month. Booking my own calendar has exposed every weakness in the system.” He shrugged, as if confessing a sin.
“Oh, and I ordered six hundred legal pads instead of six last week. So maybe more than just calendars.”
She blinked. An urge to laugh tugged at her. She turned toward the door so he couldn’t see it.
“Are we standing outside for a reason?” she asked, steady.
“I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to open it,” he said. He pushed the door open for her, nodded—and she stepped inside.
Warm air, a soft hum of old heat ducts, the tang of expired coffee grounds and detergent: the hall was unchanged.
Folding chairs stacked along one wall. A cluster of children’s drawings—slick with crayon and finger-painted swirls—covered the other.
A battered silver paper moon, left over from a school disco, spun beneath a vent.
He’d already arranged two chairs. A small table held a paper bag, two coffee cups, and a narrow, leather-bound case. The neatness of it made her chest tighten. Adam always overprepared. She hadn’t counted on irritation being part of tonight’s menu.
He gestured at the table. “I brought materials.”
She glanced from him to the case. “I see that. Did you prepare a powerpoint?”
He looked apologetic. “It’s documents, not slides. The bag is bagels—unless the train ate them—and the coffee was a bad call made hours ago.”
Lucy watched him remove his coat and drape it over the back of a chair.
She noticed the cuff had frayed near the wrist, a small flaw so unlike Adam that she wondered whether he’d simply missed it.
He sat down, close to the table’s edge, forearms braced on his knees, as though the room were a stage and he didn’t know his lines.
“Thank you for coming.”
“I wanted to see you.”
“I’ll admit, don’t know what you want from me now. If I say I hoped you’d call, I’d be pressuring you. If I say I expected nothing, I’m lying.”
She tapped her fingers on the table. “I didn’t ask what you expected.”
He stroked a hand through his hair, making it stick up in front. He offered the barest grin. “We can talk about something else. Weather, perhaps?”
She rolled her eyes. “No sarcasm.” The room felt small now. She’d rehearsed an apology, or acceptance, or some stern rebuke. Not this odd, stuttering as if they were strangers. “You listed everything in your letter,” she said. “You laid it all out.”
“I told you I want you back.”
She folded her arms. “That doesn’t mean I owe you an answer.”
“I’ve been waiting, Lucy. And you’re allowed to keep me waiting, apparently, but I don’t know what else to do, I don’t know what you want from me.”
“Ninety days,” she echoed. “Four years of living together, and you think three bad months should settle the score?”
He rubbed his forehead. “I never said it was a score.”
“But you’re asking how long you have to suffer.”
“Because every time I do something, you tell me it means nothing.” He paced a slow arc.
She watched him. The small, bright flare of desperation in his eyes prickled something inside her. He was looking for a formula: X apology + Y sacrifice = reconciliation.
“I don’t owe you a chance to win me back,” she said.
“You don’t owe me anything.” He agreed, then stopped and faced her, voice echoing. “You, Steven, my mother, my therapist have told me that. But I’m still here. I still want you. I just don’t know how to want you without adding pressure on you.”
She felt the old ache: wanting to press ‘reset’ but knowing on some level that what happened couldn’t be undone. Her usual calm had fractured. She sat again, lower in the chair to watch him. He remained standing, like a pleading criminal.
He closed his eyes. A long breath. “You asked why I didn’t look for you sooner.”
“I know what I asked.”
“But you phrased it to blame me.”
“Yes. I do blame you. And you acted like I was wrong to be upset.” The single word hit her.
He stared at his hands. “I wanted to believe Karina that you’d gone off on the hike with Steven because you were mad at me. If you had, then you would have made a mistake. Then mine wouldn’t be the only one.”
She bit her lip. The memory felt jagged: the sand and surf and the crack of thunder.
He raised his head. “I’m allowed to hate that about myself.”
Silence. The silver moon above swayed in the draft. She watched it catch a streak of light. Then, quietly: “I don’t want you to hate yourself.” She pressed lips together. His candor was too human, too small—and painful in its honesty.
He nodded once, soft. Then, his voice poignant, he asked, “Do you think we can find our way back to each other?”
“I think,” she started, then paused. “I think,” she tried again, “I’m open to considering it.”
A slow smile stole over his face, and a look of relief. “That’s more than I could have hoped for an hour ago.”
Her eyes met his. She saw his eyes glance to her lips and she knew with certainty that he wanted to kiss her. He restrained himself though, and instead turned his glance to the paper bag. “The everything bagel is yours. I bought it fresh this morning. Might now qualify as historic artifact.”
She surprised herself by smiling.
“Also,” he added, “When I moved out of the apartment, I accidentally packed some of your things. They’re still in the storage unit, if you want them.”
“I might,” she stood and he opened the main door. Cold air rushed in, carrying city sounds—distant sirens, a lone car rumbling past—and the hall felt lonely again.
He paused in the frame. Their eyes met for a moment longer than she would have believed possible. No promise lay in his gaze, only a quiet plea.
“I’ll message.”
“I’ll answer,” she promised. It was both the biggest and the smallest thing she could do.
He stepped outside. The door closed behind him with a soft click. She waited until the footsteps on the pavement faded, until the yellow light winked out.
Inside, she lifted the bagel, cold on one edge, and tore it in half. With the folder still stacked beside her coffee—now lukewarm—she bit into the everything bagel and tasted salt, seeds, and the faint tang of poppy.