Chapter 2
Heath
Sometimes, it feels like I’ve spent my whole life in bars with men like Jude.
He’s not bad company. Actually, he’s the opposite.
If Manhattan real estate were a person, with hand-stitched leather boots, a jacket from a hard-to-find tailor, and a laugh that sounds like a power tool, it would be Jude.
He acts the part of a venture capitalist with the flair of an aging movie star.
He’s all bravado and charm. I respect that, the way you might respect a poisonous beetle: striking to look at, but best kept behind glass.
Bemelman’s feels like a monument to people like Jude.
The lampshades glow butter-yellow, and the walls are covered in murals that, in this light, seem dreamlike.
Piano jazz drifts from the corner. I let Jude buy us a pair of whiskies, but I’m not letting him invest in my app.
Not yet. We sit at a low table, gold leaf flaking off the edges like falling snow, and he spends ten minutes telling me why he should fund my next round instead of someone with less 'skin in the digital game.
' He gestures a lot as he talks. I nod and make the right encouraging noises. When I catch the bartender’s eye, he tips his chin at me as if to ask, 'Need rescuing? ' I almost smile.
I do not need rescuing. I just need a goddamn minute to think, to breathe, to remember why I wanted to start over as a one-man company in the first place.
Jude’s voice is an instrument, meant for selling.
I let him play for a while, watching the way the couples at the next table lean in together, three inches apart at most, talking like there’s nothing else happening in the world.
I envy them. I always have. My relationships never made it past the second or third movement; the music died, and we found ourselves staring at sheet music for a symphony we didn’t know how to play.
“So,” Jude says, dropping his hand onto my sleeve, “what are you afraid of, Heath? You want to work on this thing for three years, perfect it, then what? Die in your sleep with an open laptop in your lap? If it’s the press you’re dodging, don’t.
The right story only burns for a week. Then it’s someone else’s turn. ”
I swirl the cherry at the bottom of my glass. “I’m not afraid, Jude. I just want to see if it’s worth building before I let the world set it on fire.”
“Dramatic,” he says, but he’s smiling. “Alright, chief. I’ll keep my checkbook zipped up. For now.” He signals the server, who glides over and delivers our second round with a solemn wink in my direction.
Above the piano, a woman’s laughter trills—high, clear, a bell in the fog.
I glance up. There, in the gilded mirror, I catch the sharp cut of a suit jacket, the line of a woman’s jaw.
She’s entering at the side door, a man trailing her, but she’s the kind who naturally leads.
Her hair is dark, but the light catches it, revealing copper at the ends.
She says something to the host, and for a second, her eyes scan the room.
I mark the moment she sees me. Nothing in her expression shifts.
But she knows. I’m looking at her, and she’s looking back.
Jude follows my gaze and grins. “Is she your type?” He gestures. “I could introduce you.”
“You know everybody,” I say, reflexively. I don’t say yes. I don’t say no.
I can’t stop watching her. She guides her companion to a table two down from ours, drops her bag on the banquette, and slides into the seat. He’s already talking. She scans the mural—rabbits, hedgehogs, canaries. All painted in a lost palette of the thirties. She looks like she’s memorizing them.
Jude keeps talking, asking if I plan to travel or stay in New York this season.
I tell him I’ll spend a week in London first, then take a train north to Edinburgh, where my brother lives.
We’re meeting at the house our grandparents left us, out in the middle of Leith.
I turn to Jude. 'You ever been to Scotland? '
“I don’t travel,” he says. “Not unless there’s a reason.” He gives me a pointed look, as if to say, "Remember that about people."
I drain my glass. The warmth of the rye crawls into my muscles, softening the impatient ache of being alive.
I watch the woman in the mirror, but she’s gotten clever.
Now she stares directly at me, bypassing the reflection, like a person who’s never been afraid to ask for what she wants.
Her companion is oblivious. He checks his phone, bored or nervous, a man losing an argument with reality.
I imagine walking over and saying something bold and simple. I imagine her reply—sharp, sparring. I know it’s fiction; for all I know, she’s married, this is their anniversary, breakup, or business meeting. But still, I can’t stop wanting to know.
But for the first time in a long time, I feel the static charge of wanting to know.
“We should go,” I say, standing. “I’ve got a meeting in the morning.”
Jude looks surprised but pleased. He picks up the tab, says, “You know where to find me when you’re ready.” He claps my back, leaves me at the door.
I linger by the coat check, shoulders hunched, thumbs moving quickly across my phone screen as if I’m cracking a secret code.
The woman now sits in profile, her jawline sharp in the amber light, her hair falling in a dark curtain that glows at the edges.
I watch as she lifts a slender hand and tucks a stray strand behind her ear, revealing a small gold earring.
Her eyes, pale blue, flick up to meet mine through the haze of piano notes and quiet conversations.
This time, she smiles, just the corner of her mouth lifting, like a secret message sent across the crowded room.
It’s nothing. It’s everything. It’s a collision of atoms that shouldn’t meet, a possibility as dense as a black hole. It feels like a beginning I’ve been circling without realizing, like a moth drawn to the bright center of a flame.
The words come up on their own, rising like bubbles through dark water, echoing in my head as clear as a bell at midnight: I’ll find you.
It’s crazy, but the thought keeps nagging at me, breaking through the hard shell of my daily life.
Wasted longing drifts and piles up, gathering like dust in forgotten corners.
I step into the lobby. Light from the crystal chandeliers falls thick and precise across the marble floors.
The night is crisp. The October air is sharp, full of woodsmoke and possibility, and for the first time in months, the air feels less like armor and more like a silk sheet on bare skin.
I walk home with a steadier pulse, hope for a conversation I haven’t had yet humming in my bones. Maybe it will happen. Maybe it won’t. But I’ll keep showing up, first in this city, then somewhere else, even in another time if I have to. I’ll keep saying yes until something finally says yes to me.