Great Big Beautiful Life(88)

Creases form at the insides of his brows. “Yeah,” he admits. “More lately.”

“Really? Why?” I say. “She finally getting to the good stuff?”

He gives me a look.

“I’m just kidding. This isn’t a trap.”

“I know.” He slips his hand through mine, our knuckles locking together. After a minute, he says, “Almost everything she tells me, I find myself imagining her telling you.”

“So competitive,” I tease, bumping sideways into him.

“I just wonder how you’d react,” he replies. “What you’d say. How you’d write it.” After a beat, he adds, “I think about your Bella Girardi profile, and realize you’re probably getting entirely different stuff than I am. Asking different questions.”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I’m not really asking questions. I’m mostly just letting her talk.”

He gives me a strange look.

“What?” I ask.

He shakes his head, the grooves in his forehead smoothing out. “I just think we’re having different experiences.”

“How so?” I ask.

“In a week,” he says, “I’ll tell you.”

“A week?” I cry. “That’s two days before she’s going to choose one of us. Aren’t you worried I’ll scoop you?”

“Fine,” he says, “a week and two days. We give her our pitches, and then I’ll tell you everything I legally can.” He stops walking, withdrawing his hand from mine only to offer me a handshake.

“You want me to say the same thing?” I ask.

“That’s up to you,” he says.

“I can really talk,” I remind him. “If I try to recap everything, you’ll get sick of me before I’m halfway through.”

He grabs my hand, yanks me into him, and kisses me there in the middle of the dark path.

“That’s a pretty good strategy,” I whisper happily. At the ridge that forms in his forehead, I specify, “For when I’m talking too much.”

“I’m not trying to shut you up, Alice,” he says. “It’s just that somehow, almost everything you say makes me want to kiss you.”

I laugh, but my heart is whirring like a helicopter attempting liftoff. I lace my hands against the back of his neck and grin up at him like the lovestruck fool I’m quickly becoming. His own expression remains serious, and I just know he’s thinking about next week, the week after, the week after that, an entire indefinite future with us on opposite sides of the country.

Despite learning early on the merits of being present, of focusing only on the moment you’re in rather than dreading all the ones that might follow, my grasp on this nearly perfect moment slips a little too.

“Come on.” I start back down the path. “Let’s go eat.”

Rum Room is packed, but the patio is entirely empty, so the host inside at the stand tells us to take whichever picnic table we want.

We choose one at the back edge, where we’ll be more or less tucked out of sight, and set up our computers opposite each other. I know I should be working on my proposal, but I’m having trouble concentrating.

Stay in the moment, Alice, I chide myself. Worry about tomorrow when it gets here.

Easier said than done.

“Let’s do something fun this weekend.” I bat my laptop screen down for a better view of him.

His left eyebrow curves upward. “Such as?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But we have Sunday off. Let’s do something.”

Some unspoken word balances on his bottom lip.

“What?” I press.

“I just…” He considers carefully. “I wondered if you’d try to see your mom again.”

Oh. Right. I think it over. “Next weekend.” Then I’ll either have good news to share with her, or be done holding my breath and able to tell her I wrapped up my work here and am heading back to California.

He nods, eyes back on his screen, but again, there’s something he’s not saying.

“Hayden.”

“It’s none of my business,” he replies.

I frown. “Don’t say that. I want you in my business. I’m inviting you into my business.”

His smile is half formed and far from long lasting. He’s still tiptoeing.

“I promise,” I add.

“I guess I still don’t understand why you don’t want to tell her how you feel.” He hurries to tack on, “I want to understand. But I don’t.”

Now that I’m feeling less defensive, this line of questioning feels less like an attack. “I am who I am,” I explain. “I like the things I like. I’m good at the things I’m good at. And my mom—she’s her. Telling her that it hurts my feelings that she’s not interested in my work won’t change how she actually feels. She’ll just act different. And I don’t need that. I don’t want her to pretend to think what I do has value. That would feel so much worse to me.”

He nods, tight lipped, but I can tell it’s an I understand, not an I agree.

“So that’s it,” I say.

“Got it.” Under the table, his hand grazes over my knee. I think he means it to be calming, affectionate. But it sets me on fire.