22. Erika
— ? —
Erika
He calls the day after the signing.
I almost don’t answer. I’ve gotten good at watching his name light up and letting it go dark.
But then I think about the book. The margins filled with his handwriting. The confession he laid bare in front of hundreds of strangers without flinching.
I answer.
“One evening,” he says before I can speak. “No strings. No expectations. Just dinner.”
“Kai.”
“I’m not asking for anything except a few hours.” His voice is steady, but I can hear the effort it takes to keep it that way. “Please, Erika. Just one night.”
I should say no. I should tell him that dinner won’t fix four years of damage, that sharing a meal won’t undo any of the thousand small betrayals that added up to the end of us.
Instead, I think about the margins.
“One dinner,” I hear myself say. “That’s all.”
“I’ll take it.”
“And no grand gestures. No buying out restaurants or hiring string quartets or whatever else you’re planning.”
A pause. “I might have to adjust some things.”
“Kai.”
“Fine. No tricks. I promise.”
By Saturday I have a story ready. This is closure, that’s the story, one evening to say goodbye properly, one last dinner before I sign the papers and move on with my life.
I’m lying to myself, and I know it, but I get dressed anyway.
The car that picks me up isn’t the usual black sedan. It’s a vintage pickup, powder blue and slightly rusted around the edges, with Albie behind the wheel looking mildly uncomfortable in the cramped cab.
“Mrs. Channing.” He climbs out to open the passenger door. “Mr. Channing asked me to tell you that he’s aware this isn’t standard transportation.”
“Where are we going?”
“He said you’d ask that.” Albie’s mouth twitches. “He also said to tell you it’s a surprise, and that he promises it’s not a trick.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“No, ma’am. I don’t imagine it is.”
I climb into the truck, and the vinyl seat creaks beneath me. The cab smells like old leather and something faintly sweet, maybe air freshener, maybe just age. Albie pulls away from the curb, and I watch my neighborhood slide past the window.
“You’ve been driving him around a lot lately,” I say after a few minutes.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How is he? Really?”
Albie is quiet for a moment, navigating a turn. “He’s trying, Mrs. Channing,” he says finally, to the windshield, and that’s all he says, and it’s the most he’s ever said to me about anything in five years of driving me places.
“Trying doesn’t fix what he broke.”
“No, ma’am. But it’s a start.”
The drive takes us out of the city, up winding roads into the hills. The sun is setting by the time we reach our destination, painting everything gold and amber, and when Albie pulls over at a scenic overlook on Mulholland, I see what Kai has done.
The taco truck. Our taco truck, from the corner near campus where we used to eat three times a week because it was the best food within walking distance of a lecture hall.
The same faded paint, the same hand-lettered menu, the same owner leaning out the serving window with a grin on his weathered face.
It’s parked at the edge of the overlook, string lights wrapped around the serving window, the city sprawling below in a grid of amber and white.
Kai is standing next to it, hands in his pockets, looking more nervous than I’ve ever seen him.
“You tracked down a taco truck,” I say as I climb out of the vintage truck.
“Our taco truck.”
“It’s been years.”
“The owner remembered us.” He gestures toward the window. “Said we were the couple who sat on his truck bed for three hours talking about books.”
“We lived like we were broke.”
“We were happy.”
The words sit there between us, heavy with everything we’ve lost.
I walk toward the truck, and the owner leans out with a smile that crinkles his entire face.
“Look at you two. All grown up.” He shakes his head. “I always wondered what happened to you. Used to see you here every week, and then one day, nothing.”
“Life got busy,” Kai says.
“Life always does.” The owner hands me a paper plate loaded with carnitas. “Same tacos. Same salsa verde. Some things don’t change.”
We sit on the truck bed, legs dangling over the edge, paper plates balanced on our knees. The tacos taste exactly like I remember, lime and cilantro and that secret salsa verde, and for a moment it’s like no time has passed at all.
“I finished your book,” Kai says between bites.
“You mentioned. With extensive margin notes.”
“Did you read them all?”
“I read enough.”
He’s quiet for a moment, watching the city lights flicker on below us. “There’s a scene near the end. Where she’s standing on the balcony, looking at the life she built without him, and she realizes she’s not angry anymore. Just sad.”
“I know the scene.”
“Is that how you feel?”
I take a bite of my taco, buying time. “I don’t know how I feel. That’s the honest answer. Some days I’m furious. Some days I’m just tired. And some days I miss you so much it’s hard to breathe.”
“I miss you every day.” His voice is rough. “Every single day, Erika. I wake up reaching for you, and you’re not there, and it takes me a minute to remember why.”
“You know why.”
“I do. That’s the worst part.”
He doesn’t say anything else, and neither do I, and the salsa verde is exactly as good as I remember and I can’t taste it.
We finish the tacos in silence, watching the sky deepen from gold to purple to black.
The owner packs up and drives away with a wave, and then it’s just us and the view and five years of history pressing down, and without the truck the overlook is just a turnout on a road, gravel and a guardrail and the two of us, and it feels like more than it did with the truck there.
“Come on,” Kai says, standing and offering his hand. “There’s one more thing.”
I take his hand without thinking, and the warmth of his palm against mine sends electricity up my arm. He leads me back to the vintage truck, and we drive deeper into the hills until we reach a gate I recognize.
Griffith Observatory. “It’s closed,” I say.
“I know.”
“Kai, you promised no grand gestures.”
“This isn’t a grand gesture. This is a bribe to the security guard.” He grins, and it’s the first real smile I’ve seen from him since the park. “Totally different.”
The observatory is empty and echoing, our footsteps loud in the darkness. Emergency lights cast strange shadows on the walls, and every sound seems amplified, the click of my heels, the rustle of his jacket, our breathing.
He leads me through the main hall, past exhibits I’ve seen a dozen times on crowded afternoons, now eerie and still in the darkness.
The planetarium dome looms above us, and I can just make out the projector in the center, waiting to fill the ceiling with stars, and I think about how many people have sat under that dome on first dates, holding hands in the dark, and how I never did, because by the time I met Kai I already had the real sky on a rooftop and didn’t think I needed the fake one.
“I used to dream about bringing you here after hours,” Kai says quietly. “Back when we were dating. I’d look up the closing time and think about how romantic it would be to have the whole place to ourselves.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I was twenty-three and trying to look like every other kid on campus. Couldn’t exactly bribe the security guard back then.”
“And now you can.”
“Now I can do a lot of things.” He glances at me. “Most of them don’t matter. This one does.”
We step out onto the observation deck, and I lose my breath.
The city is a spilled jewelry box below us, and above, the stars are clearer than I’ve ever seen them, the sky vast and endless.
“I told you I loved you for the first time on a roof like this,” Kai says quietly. “That shitty apartment complex near campus. We snuck up there after your finals and watched the sunrise.”
“I remember.”
“You were wearing that terrible yellow sweater.”
“It was vintage.”
“It was hideous.” He’s not smiling now. “I thought you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I still think that. Every time I look at you, I think that, and I can’t believe I ever stopped saying it out loud.”
My pulse is loud in my ears.
“Kai…”
“I’m not asking for anything,” he says quickly. “I know I don’t deserve it. I just wanted you to know that I remember. All of it. Every moment. And I’m sorry I stopped acting like those moments mattered.”
We’re standing so close now that I can see the pulse in his neck and the effort it’s taking him to keep his hands where they are.
He raises his hand, hesitant, and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His thumb traces along my cheekbone, feather-light, and my breath catches.
I lean into his touch without meaning to. I put my hand on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath my palm.
He leans down. I rise on my toes. For half a second I can feel the warmth of his mouth an inch from mine, and every part of me that isn’t my brain has already decided, and my eyes are closing, and I want it the way I wanted the champagne in my kitchen and the couch between us in my living room and every other thing I’ve told myself no about for two months.
And then I catch myself.
I pull back, shaking, and my hand falls away from his chest.
“I can’t,” I whisper. “I’m not ready.”
“Okay.” His voice is rough, but he doesn’t push. Doesn’t argue. Just lets his hand fall to his side and takes a step back, giving me space to breathe.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “You don’t owe me anything, Erika. Not forgiveness. Not a second chance. Nothing.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
“Because I love you.” Simple, and certain. “And because even if you never take me back, I want you to know that someone sees you.”
My eyes are burning. I blink hard, refusing to let the tears fall.
“I should go,” I manage.
“I’ll call you a car.”
He pulls out his phone, and fifteen minutes later a black sedan idles at the observatory entrance with Albie behind the wheel, and I don’t ask how he got here or where the pickup went, because Albie has always been wherever Kai needs him to be, and tonight that’s apparently the bottom of a hill with two cars.
At the car door, I turn back.
Kai hasn’t moved, a silhouette against the stars.
“I’m not done fighting for you,” he says quietly. “I’m just getting started.”
The car pulls away, and I watch him in the side mirror until the road curves and he disappears, and Albie doesn’t say anything, and I’m grateful, and about halfway down the hill I realize I’ve been holding my own hand in my lap like it’s someone else’s.
I press my hand against my chest, feeling my heart race, and tell myself that none of this changes anything, and I say it twice, in case the first time didn’t take.
But my lips are tingling where his almost touched them, and my skin is warm where his thumb traced my cheekbone, and I’m not sure I believe myself anymore.