Tear You Apart Read online

  When the cab pulls to a stop in front of Will’s building, I shift a little, moving to give him the room to get out without awkwardly bumping into me. I murmur something that sounds like “goodbye” but tastes like “hello,” all bright and summer-yellow on my tongue. We’re both turning, turning, he’s getting out of the cab, the door is open, the rain and cold are coming in.

  Will kisses my mouth. Short, hard, an inelegant and unglamorous, unerotic peck on the lips, the sort you’d give the prom date you didn’t really want but settled for when your crush turned you down. Three seconds, maybe less, and he’s gone, the door closing behind him and the cab already pulling away, leaving Will standing on the curb and my mouth open in protest.

  Wait is the word on my tongue. Unacceptable. Terrible. Disappointing. It was supposed to be better than that.

  And then, sitting back against the seat in stunned dismay, I press my fingertips to the place where he kissed me and think, He kissed me. Oh, God. He kissed me on the mouth.

  It’s not until I get home that I realize I’m still wearing his jacket.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I should be working from the Philadelphia office today, but I’ve made the trip into New York on the pretense that Naveen and I need to talk about some invoices. He’s still ignoring me. I’m pretending I don’t notice. We haven’t had a true conversation in weeks. It’s the longest I’ve ever gone without talking to him since that last year of college. Then we didn’t speak for six months and got back in touch only when he wrote me a long, sincere letter begging me to forgive him. We had to do it old-school back then, I think with a faint smile. No email. No texting. Long distance calls too expensive. I still have the letter in a box with all my other mementos. I haven’t read it in years, but could probably recite at least bits of it from memory, that’s how many times I’d read it before I replied to him.

  I’ve brought Will’s jacket, folded neatly and in a plastic grocery bag. It sits on the edge of my desk, unobtrusive but always in the corner of my eye. I wait until Naveen is with a client, an interior designer who often purchases entire lots of art with which to fill her customers’ foyers. Sarah Roth charges exorbitant rates and never seems to care about the subject matter of what she buys, exactly, only that whatever it is follows the color scheme and “tone” of the place she’s decorating. Her hair is never the same color twice. She’s pretty amazing, and I envy her style.

  In Naveen’s office, I scroll through his computer’s address book until I find Will’s number. I could’ve asked Naveen for it. He’d have given it to me, if he bothered to speak to me, which he still seems bent on refusing to do. The soft rise of laughter bubbles outside the door, turning my head. It’s going to take more than a letter to get me back in Naveen’s good graces, and to be honest, I’m not sure I’m ready to make such an effort. He can hold a grudge a long time, and what I’d said was hurtful. Truth, but hurtful.

  I punch Will’s number into my phone before I can stop myself. Not a call—that would be too forward. Too insistent, somehow, on taking up his attention. What if he’s busy? With someone? But an email takes too long, if he doesn’t check his regularly, as I don’t unless I’m expecting something important.

  But a text message, that’s just right. Not too intimate or demanding, yet immediate. He can answer when it works for him. My fingertip taps out the message and I hit Send before I can regret it.

  I have your jacket.

  Then I wait. Unable to concentrate on the busywork I’ve made for myself, I pace. I drink coffee from the machine down the hall, cup after cup. And finally, just as I’m getting ready to go for lunch, my phone hums.

  Meet me?

  Oh, yes. Anywhere, I think, but don’t type. We arrange to meet not at a coffee shop—neither my bladder nor my nerves could’ve handled it—but at the Museum of Modern Art, close to where he’s been shooting some pictures. I take a cab. The ride’s longer than expected, due to construction. We text the entire ride. Simple conversation, weighted with what we aren’t saying.

  How was your day? What are you working on? Have you seen this movie, read this book? What’s your favorite band? Where did you grow up?

  Which do you like better, the ocean or the mountains? Will asks.

  The ocean, I reply at once. I love the ocean more than anything else in the whole world.

  It’s my turn then. Have you ever touched an elephant?

  I don’t know why I asked him that. I’m restless, irritated by the driver’s seeming inability to get me where I want to be without encountering every single traffic snarl in downtown Manhattan. It came out of the blue, suddenly, as necessary for me to know as his favorite flavor of ice cream, or the color he likes best.

  His answer doesn’t come right away. I picture him pondering it, second-guessing his decision to meet me even if it was ostensibly to get back the jacket he’d lent me. I imagine him scratching his head, fingers sliding through that wheat-brown hair to make it stand on end, and I lean back against the seat as heat filters through me at the image my mind built.

  No.

  The answer surprises me. I’ve touched elephants at the circus, when you can pay twenty dollars for a ride on their smelly broad backs around the sawdust-covered ring. Once at the zoo during a special behind-the-scenes tour. Once at a Ren faire, where “Lady Wrinkles” would take from your palm treats you could buy from her handlers. Elephants are amazing, beautiful creatures, and it hasn’t occurred to me that Will might never have been close enough to touch one.

  “We got another block to go,” the driver says roughly, looking over his shoulder. His brows are bushy and wild, his lips moist. His teeth very white. “You want to get out here and walk? It’s gonna take another twenty, thirty minutes in this traffic.”

  “I’ll get out. Thanks.” I pay him quickly, not giving myself the chance to take advantage of the delay.

  I am not dressed for walking. New York women totter along the sidewalks in impossibly high shoes, never breaking stride. I dodge puddles of dubious origin and wobble on cracked pavement in my modest three-inch heels and wish for sneakers. I’d spent an hour in front of my closet trying on different outfits. This shirt with that skirt, this blouse, that dress. Jewelry. More time spent on my hair. I didn’t want to look as if I was trying too hard. Now I wished I’d spent even more time, paid better attention to the lining of my eyes and mouth. I’d ended up dressing for a day in the office, not for meeting a lover.

  Oh, God.

  I see him before he sees me. He’s smoking, which shouldn’t surprise me but somehow does. He leans against some scaffolding—it’s everywhere in New York. The city is forever putting on a new face. Looking away from me, Will takes a long, deep drag before tipping his head back to let the smoke seep from his nostrils toward the sky. He’s wearing dark jeans and a midnight-blue henley shirt with the sleeves pushed up on his arms. A series of braided leather bracelets tangle around one wrist. He is so beautiful that I’m frozen in place, buffeted by the never-ending press and rush of people in a hurry.

  There’s a moment when I could turn around and walk away. Catch another cab. I could be back on the train and on my way home in an hour. I can delete his number from my phone.

  But I can’t erase the memory of that kiss.

  That stupid fucking mouth-on-mouth.

  He turns, gaze scanning the crowd but his expression blank. Then he sees me. And everything about him lights up.

  Will stubs out the cigarette against the side of a trash can and tosses the butt inside as I cross the street to get to him. “Elisabeth. Hi.”

  “Hi.” I hold out the plastic bag, though the weather’s turned much warmer and he wouldn’t need it now. “I brought your jacket.”

  “Thanks.” He takes the bag without looking inside.

  We stare at each other, and I can’t stop my smile. I am suddenly and