“？‘A little nudge to give each other a chance,’ you say?” Taking a step backward in the direction he’ll head for his practice, Jamie grins. “Hmm. Sounds like it just might be time to take a page out of your own book.”
I scowl at him. “I liked you, Jamie. We had a true bromance, a good thing going. And now you gotta throw my own behavior in my face.”
He laughs. “Don’t worry, we’ll take it easy on you. Just a fun, bonding group outing, something that might move you and Kate a little farther along the path to peace.”
“Have you met that woman? Peace is about as familiar a concept to her as a savings account.”
“Give me some credit.” Jamie takes another step back into the flow of morning commuter foot traffic. “I’ll make sure it’s in your interest to play nice, for both of you to. You’ll be right there with her, on the same side.”
I narrow my eyes. Kate and me? Side by side?
Sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.
? SEVENTEEN ?
Kate
Christopher’s office is different than I expected. No massive, chilly, corporate skyscraper with a bird’s-eye view, pedestrians turned to insignificant specks on the ground.
From three floors up, people are still people, yet somehow more vulnerable from this perspective—a sea of ducked-down heads and hunched shoulders against the cold, shrunk to miniature size, delicate and numerous. I wonder if this is intentional. If Christopher meant for his employees to see and be reminded that there are people out there, on the other side of every choice we make.
I turn away from the tall, nearly floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city block, taking in the view from his desk.
Office doors here are open, so energetic voices carry down the halls that lead to Christopher’s office. Luscious green-leaf plants and plush, dense carpet soften the hard edges of the space’s mid-century furniture and severe, geometric layout.
Spinning in Christopher’s desk chair, I curl my hands around its worn leather armrests until the world is a blur that looks as mixed-up as I feel sitting here, waiting for him.
The walls of his office are a warm, cozy color dancing between white and taupe—the color of a sleepy Sunday, a rainy afternoon nap. His desk seems old but well maintained and tidy, polished walnut that reflects the sunlight pouring in. No papers on the desk, only a calendar to the left with a word of the day, which I didn’t see coming, and to the right, a beautiful black-and-white photo of his family that makes my chest ache.
Either they used the world’s best family photographer or it’s a candid shot, because it’s so damn hard to get people to relax and be themselves when they’re posing for you. I’ve perfected the art of telling people I got the shot, then snapping it as soon as they relax, but that doesn’t always work. Sometimes you have to stay and be patient, find that moment they loosen up and joy comes back and their personality shines through. It took me years to hone that skill.
Gio’s in profile, clear proof of where Christopher got his tousled waves and sharp jaw, deep laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and a wide smile as he looks down at his wife and son. Nora’s curly dark hair is a halo around her head, her amber eyes, just like Christopher’s, sparkling and warm. She sits with her arms wrapped around Christopher, her chin on his head as both of them smile up at Gio.
I sweep my thumb along the edge of the frame, sadness twisting my heart. I can’t remember Gio’s and Nora’s faces without a photograph’s help anymore, which I suppose shouldn’t surprise me—I was seven when they died. I wonder if Christopher can still close his eyes and see them. I wonder why he never talks about them, why, once they were gone, he never did.
Selfishly, I feel a pang of gratitude for my parents, for the fact that I could hop on a train and hug my mom right now if I wanted, feel her softness and warmth and smell lavender in her hair, let my dad squeeze me tight and breathe in his peppermint scent and hear him call me Katie-bird.
My gaze slips to the right, to the next and only other photo on his desk besides his family’s. Another family photo, taken years later. My family.
Curious, I scoop it up, then lean back in Christopher’s chair. I set my thick-heeled boots on his desk, cross my feet at the ankles, and sway from side to side as I examine the photo.
It’s an oldie, taken at Christmas. All of us stand in front of the tree at my parents’， wearing some variation of warm sweaters, comfy pants, and slippers. Dad smiles, his eyes shut because they always are in pictures, his arm wrapped around Christopher, who’s in his high school–hunk glory, already as tall as Dad and grinning arrogantly, his dark wavy hair in its almost-to-his-shoulders phase that he thought made him look super cool.