Can I See You Again? (4 page)

It's a typical clear evening in La Jolla. I roll down the window and inhale the smell of the ocean and the sounds of bell-ringing beach-cruiser bicycle riders. Happy-hour crowds spill into the sidewalks of open-air restaurants as we drive along Mission Boulevard, which curves and bends with the shoreline toward Antonio's, a boardwalk bistro in Pacific Beach.

Maybe it's the fact that I'm on my way to Sean or the excitement I feel about our joint adventure, but I allow the fresh air to blow away my anxiety regarding Jo, and I settle into a good mood. All around me are groups of friends laughing and couples holding hands. The streets are alive and colorful. The moisture in the air soothes my skin. I feel sorry for people still at work, boxed inside four walls with stuffy air and stuffy people. Or worse yet, those not in love. Outside, on the streets, savoring the evening, enjoying each other, is the place to be. I love this town.

Stopping at a red light, I watch a wave of pedestrians crossing toward the beach, no doubt heading to catch the notorious green flash, a vibrant spot on the horizon visible for a second or two before the sun dips good night into the ocean.

Halfway across the walk, a tan blond-haired girl with cut-off denim shorts and a turquoise bikini top flips her long hair and laughs at the shirtless surfer-looking guy beside her. He grabs her by the hand and they jog barefoot toward the curb, with a six-pack of Rolling Rock beer and a blanket folded over his other arm.

My mind drifts to the countless evenings Sean and I have spent at the beach, his hand on the small of my back, guiding me across this very street with our own blanket and cooler in tow. We've lounged away seasons of sunsets sipping wine and wiggling our toes in the sand while he read depositions and I reviewed client files or edited my manuscript.

But among those many evenings, there's one in particular, a night three and a half years ago, six months into our dating, that stands tall above the others.

“Watch this,” Sean had said, pointing at the horizon. “Don't blink or you'll miss it.”

“We've seen the flash before.”

“Just watch.” He slid his arm around me.

I can still feel the strength of his hand on my shoulder. The tumbling in my stomach as he stroked his thumb up and down my summer-kissed skin. The tiniest friction from his stubble when he leaned over to kiss my shoulder and whispered for the first time, “I love you, Bree.”

I forgot what I was supposed to be looking at. The flash might have been the brightest, most expressive of the entire year. I didn't see it. I stared into Sean's eyes and repeated the words.
I love you.
Any other day, I would've been concerned with who watched, judged, but at that moment, I didn't care. The world around me stilled and I kissed him. My focus
was
him. My green flash was this man.

We shared a bottle of wine, then made love in a secluded spot by the pier. More than his tender words or strong hands
blanketing my skin, or maybe
because
of them, an awareness saturated my body like a wave soaking deep into the sand. The first time in years that I allowed myself to
feel
. My parents' death sucked joy, anger, curiosity out of me. I had nothing left. Sean wrapped his arms around me and somehow my pain and guilt seemed less consuming if we shouldered it together. On that night, a balmy Thursday evening in July, I felt a flicker of possibility. The chance at a life not threaded with regret and shame.

My vibrating phone jars my thoughts. I read a text from Nixon.

Hope Sara likes coffee.

Meet for coffee and I'll strangle you. Go for dinner . . . cheapskate.

Okay . . . but if the date sucks, you're footing the bill.

Unable to stop the smile shaping my lips, I type,
Then don't let it suck.

If all goes well in the coming days, he'll share a romantic dinner with an art curator. A woman of poise and intellect. Beauty and brains. A complement to him. Sara may very well be the woman who breaks down Nixon's all-business-no-time-for-love approach to life. She may be the one to peel away his layers and soften his resolve.

And who knows? Maybe their love story will become a feature in the newspaper article. Or better yet, a chapter in . . . dare I say it . . . my self-help sequel. Maybe soon I'll be ordering a second sugar-pearl KitchenAid mixer.

As I catch a glance at the manila folder peeking out from my purse, the possibility of
my
evening hits me. Sean and I are signing papers, coupling our money, binding our
future
? We have had
the talk
. A number of times. Even stopped at the engagement ring section of jewelry stores, dog-eared pages of
wedding dresses in bridal magazines, and scrolled through the
Ten Most Romantic Honeymoon Destinations
on Yahoo's travel website. Hell, we've dated longer than some marriages last, and the only reason we don't live together is that we agreed that with his civil litigation firm gaining traction and the attention my book and my company have demanded the last few years, it hasn't been the best time. But now my debut is all but stacked on the shelves and his law firm is a solid contender.

I inhale a deep breath, trying to settle the anticipation swirling through my head.

Did meeting with the advisor and discussion of a joint account trigger something within Sean? Is he ready for a shared last name? Monogrammed checkbook covers? A forever plus-one on RSVPs?

“Ma'am?” The driver motions that we've arrived.

“Oh, yes, thank you.” I step out of the car and nearly prance along the sandy and sunny boardwalk toward Antonio's with a bubbly excitement for the evening ahead. There's nothing better than being in love.

Once I'm inside the dimly lit restaurant with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, complemented by the smell of grilling steak, garlic, and fresh fish, the familiar hostess says, “Mr. Thomas is already seated.”

“Thank you.” Before joining him, I pop into the restroom and comb my fingers through my hair, pinching my cheeks so they flush pink. I smooth my dress, pleased with my toned belly and sculpted thighs. Hot yoga has paid off.

Ready and eager to find Sean, I walk past the classy bar with its dark wood trim and glass shelves lined with polished liquor bottles and head toward the dining room decorated with rich linen tablecloths and waiters decked in bow ties. Antonio's is where Sean and I came for our first date. It's where we've come for each birthday and anniversary thereafter. It's the place we
bring his parents when they're in town. It's the place we celebrated Sean's first won trial and my book contract, sitting at the same curved leather booth by the window, sharing unhurried conversation and a bottle of Chateau Montelena Cabernet Sauvignon. Sometimes two.

Antonio's is our place.

Comfortable.

Warm.

Familiar.

So why is Sean gulping whiskey like a dehydrated Death Valley hiker sucks down water?

Experts say we lose our hearing bilaterally at a rate of two or more decibels per year. The average person is partially impaired by age fifty-four. Perhaps mine is deteriorating faster. Perhaps I have the eardrums of an old woman who spent her working years as an airport traffic director, never wearing the brightly colored ear protectors. I tug at my earlobe. That's it. It's the only possible explanation. I'm growing deaf. I mean, Sean didn't actually
say
what I think I heard, right?

I force a little laugh. “What did you say?”

He sits across from me sporting a white button-down shirt, slightly wrinkled at the bend of the arm. His tie rests a touch to the left and his suit jacket is slung over the booth. Sean pushes his empty glass aside—one of three, I now notice—and taps his finger on the stack of documents I placed on the table. “I'm sorry. I don't know how else to say it. But this isn't working.”

“What isn't working?” I pray to God he's referring to his TAG Heuer carbon composite watch, a thirty-five-hundred-dollar present he bought himself a few years ago after he won
his first trial, or maybe a misspelling in the paperwork's wording, but in my heart, I know that's not true.

“Us, Bree. Everything. This.” He sweeps his hands across the table as if to imply that our complimentary sourdough bread basket is also part of the problem.

“I . . . I don't understand.” My words are thick and confused, like the night I caught Dad sliding a dollar under my pillow, my baby tooth clutched in his other palm. “Where is this coming from? It makes no sense. We're good. We're happy. Aren't we?”

Though the truth is revealed in his creased brow and clamped jaw, the gentle shake of Sean's head squashes any remaining doubt.

I close my eyes tight and try to breathe.

This can't be real. This can't be happening.

But no matter how many times I blink my eyes clear, I still see the certitude on Sean's face.

This is happening.

“I'm not ready to sign papers. I'm not ready to link our . . .”

“Our what? Our futures.”

“Yes.”

“But
you
wanted to pool our money. This was your idea. You sent me flowers the morning of our appointment. You said to meet here tonight.”

“Yes, I know. But ever since we met with the advisor . . .” He pauses and runs his fingers through his hair. I'm momentarily elated, noticing his widow's peak has widened. The crown of his head will be bald by fifty. Something I overlooked in love. That, along with his small hands. “I didn't expect the appointment and the relevant discourse and the commingling of funds and these papers to . . . I don't know . . . change things for me. I feel stifled.”

“Stifled?”

“Yeah, claustrophobic.”

“So you're breaking up with me?”

“I'll admit the timing is less than ideal, but I decided if we came here tonight, to our first date spot, it'd be cyclical somehow and the best way to prove that this isn't about you. It's me. It's all my doing. Hell, you're perfect for me.”

“You're breaking up with me, because I'm perfect for you?” For a lawyer, he's got seriously flawed thinking.

“Bree, I'm so sorry.” He clasps my hand. “If you'll let me explain—”

“What else is there to explain? You love everything about me but don't want me in your future, and please will I get the hell out of your life.” I flick his hand away and stare into the eyes that until this moment were seductive and gravitating, definitive and sound. Eyes that I'd assumed would always be mine. “You've explained enough.” I slide out of the booth, waving the documents in the air. “And you want to know the most pathetic thing of this evening? I thought you might propose.”

“Bree, wait.”

I march out the door, dragging my dignity like a dead tree branch behind me.

The predictions held true. The clear sky has turned cloudy and started to rain. As I hurry along the boardwalk, my tears blend with the weather and within seconds, La Jolla's beautiful night has turned into a thick, sticky, soaked mess. Like me.

I've wished many times in my life that I weren't afraid to drive. Wished the accident didn't haunt me, stunt me. Because Sean calls after me and I'm forced to stand in the doorway of the women's public restroom, frantically texting for an Uber car to whisk me home, as rain bounces off the concrete, splashing my shoes and calves.

I spot the Uber car and quickly scramble into the backseat,
shivering and apologizing for the pool of water saturating his leather seat.

He turns on the heat. “You okay, ma'am?”

No.
“Take me home, please.”

Half an hour ago I thought I'd done it. Climbed the summit of love. Trekked past the loose and jagged rocks of dating and uncertainty. Crested to the solid ground of comfort and trust. And now, I find myself slid down to the mountain base. My ass cut and bruised. The snowcapped peak of my future has disappeared behind the billowing clouds.

I grit my teeth, forcing myself not to cry in this man's presence, but a few minutes into the drive my shoulders collapse and my tears flow faster than the raindrops splatting the car windows. My head spins with questions.
Four years together and now I'm suffocating you? Why, Sean, why?

Standing in my entryway ten minutes later, I strip off my wet clothes, head into the living room, and crank on the gas fireplace.

As the fire flashes to life, warming my cheeks, knees, and toes, I wrap myself in a blanket and head toward the fridge, finding another one of Sean's notes stuck above the fridge's ice dispenser.

Horseradish.

I trace my fingers over his letters. As I stop on
d
, something clicks inside me.
Of all the dumb-ass habits.
I snatch the note from the fridge and rip it into shreds, admitting to myself that I've always hated his little reminders. Why can't he remember a damn thing without writing it down?

I pop the cork off a bottle of Champagne I keep chilled for our special evenings and take a long, comforting swig.

Halfway—okay, three fourths—into the bottle, I lie spread-eagle on the floor, deciding my life without Sean will be good. Damn good. No more reaching for my toothbrush only to discover it's wet. No more annoying Fox News piercing the
promise and hope of the crisp morning air. No more scattered bits of shaved black hairs in my bathroom sink.

It's then I notice another Post-it stuck to the baseboard underneath my end table. Damn things are like cockroaches. But my breath catches in my chest as I read Sean's words.

L'Straut Jewelers . . . ask Bree.

L'Straut Jewelers is the most sought-after jewelry store in San Diego. It's where he bought his watch. It's where we playfully tried on several engagement rings, marking our favorites. It's where they recorded my ring size.

A proposal?

I'm not sure if this discovery makes me feel better or worse. Both, I suppose. Though I'm not clear when he wrote the note, somehow I'm grateful knowing that the four years we spent together, regardless of what happened tonight, were genuine. He loves me. Or at least did.

I scramble up the stairs and climb into bed. Three cinnamon-scented candles flicker on my dresser, but I still smell Sean. The scent of his spring-fresh shampoo lingers on my sheets.

I can hear him, too. I can hear him curse when he scrapes his shin, inching my dresser away from the wall after my diamond teardrop necklace slipped behind it. I can hear him whistle the theme song to
The Office
as he fastens his belt or ties the laces of his polished shoes. I can hear him snore, vibrating the mattress the tiniest bit when he breathes in and out.

I pull the covers over my head and bury my ears into my pillow, hoping the doctors are right, hoping my hearing will fail and I won't listen to myself crying to sleep.