Chapter Two
Fifteen minutes later, I’d liberated a bottle of wine from the mini-bar. I clutched my iPhone with an intent to text. Texting while intoxicated, never a good idea. I wish a cop had been there to cuff me—it would have saved me from what came next.
To Nick: “You dumped me for Tim. I’m lonely.” I might as well have added, “Love, Your crazy stalker.”
No response. I waited five minutes while I finished a glass of wine. I refilled my glass. I scrolled through Emily’s three hundred texts asking where I was and responded to her with “Nick!!! So sorry. Talk to you later.”
I sent another to Nick. “R u there? R u still with Tim?”
“Hey,” was his reply.
Another text from Nick dinged seconds later. “We need to talk.”
Good talk or bad talk, I wondered. Talk as a euphemism for not talking?
I responded to Nick, “K. Where, when?”
“Monday, office.”
Gut punch. Rally, Katie, rally. Don’t let the moment slip away. There’s still a chance. “No fair. Now? Pick a place.”
“Bad idea. Been drinking.”
“I can handle it. Rm 632.”
No answer. Think think think think think think think. He didn’t say no. He didn’t say yes. I could text back and ask for a clear answer, but it might be the wrong one. Assume it’s yes and get yourself together, girl.
I inspected the spartan hotel room, the dismal tan comforter graying from too many times through industrial washers, the tan drapes discolored from the room’s “smoker” years, a framed mass-production print of a riverboat hanging on metallicized wallpaper. It didn’t show much promise for a romantic interlude. I cleaned up the best I could anyway, the room and me, and tried to steady myself for sober thought and behavior.
No Nick. I paced. I fussed. I checked for texts. And then, suddenly, I knew he was there, felt him with my extrasensory Nick perception.
I peered out my peephole. Yes, there he was, doing the same thing as me on the other side of the thick slab of wood. I couldn’t open the door, though, or he would know I was standing there watching him.
He raised his hand to knock. He lowered it. He turned to walk away; he came back. He clawed his hand in a scrubbing motion through his hair and closed his eyes.
He knocked. I held my breath while I said a quick prayer. “Please God, help me not screw this up.” Probably not the most well-conceived or -crafted prayer I’d ever uttered. I opened the door.
Neither of us spoke. I stepped back and he walked in, clutching a bar napkin in his left hand. His right hand raked through his hair again, a nervous tic I had never noticed before this evening.
I sat down on the bed. He sat in a chair by the window.
“You said we needed to talk,” I prompted.
He focused on his crumpled napkin for a long time. When he looked up, he motioned back and forth between the two of us and said, “My life is way too complicated right now. I’m sorry, but this can’t happen.”
These words were not the ones I had hoped to hear. Maybe they were approximately the ones I’d expected to hear, but I’d remained hopeful until he said them. My face burned. Countdown to meltdown.
“By ‘this,’ I assume you’re referring to some kind of ‘thing’ between you and me? Of course it can’t. I’m a partner at the firm.” I heard my voice from far away. Superior. Distant. “I know I can come across as a flirt, but I’m this way with everyone, Nick. Don’t worry. I’m not coming on to you.”
I could almost see the handprint on his face from the slap of my words.
“I heard you talking to Emily on your cell phone when you got here this afternoon.”
This sounded ominous. “What are you talking about?”
“I walked past your room. Your door was propped open. I saw you. I heard you.”
I protested, “How do you even know it was me?”
“I know your voice. You were talking about me. I heard my name. I’m sorry I eavesdropped, but I couldn’t help it. I stopped and listened.”
I started to cut in again, but he plowed on.
“You said,” and, oh, how I didn’t want to hear what came next, “that you couldn’t believe how attracted to me you were. That you felt guilty because you thought about me more than work or what happened to your parents . . .” Nick stumbled over his words, struggling to get something out. “You told Emily you couldn’t help that you were in love with me.”
Oh God. Oh my. All that hot blood drained out of my face. I had said that on the phone to Emily. She’d called to make sure I was coming straight down to the session, and I’d turned the conversation to Nick. It was such a normal thing that I’d forgotten about it. Hell, it was so normal that she’d probably tuned it out. Suddenly I knew how drunk I was, and the room teetered.
I forced a glass-breaking laugh. “Yes, I mentioned your name, but that isn’t what I said.”
“Yes, it was,” he interrupted. “I’m not a moron. I know what I heard.”
“Well, you’re misinterpreting it,” I insisted. “I’m not after you, Nick. For all I know, you’re still married. And we work together. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I’ll try to not to do it again.”
“You didn’t make me uncomfortable.” He stopped and dragged his hand through his hair a third time, staring down at the napkin again. The damn thing had writing on it. “It’s just . . .” He sighed, and didn’t go any further.
“Just what?”
No answer. I wish it was only alcohol that made me lash out with sarcasm next, but it wasn’t.
“Why don’t you consult your magic napkin to see what you should say?”
His face darkened. “That was rude.”
I was just gathering steam. “Well, it seems like you came in here with your speech all written out. ‘Put poor lovesick Katie in her place.’” I sucked in a breath and spat out, “I can’t believe you had to make notes on a bar napkin.”
“I’m not as good as you with words, Madam Lawyer. I wanted to get this right. Don’t make fun of me for taking it seriously.”
“Sorry for making you go to so much trouble.” I wasn’t sorry at the moment, and I suspect my tone made that quite clear. “By all means, finish reading your napkin.”
He stood up. “There’s nothing else on my napkin that we need to talk about.”
Too late, I saw how awful I was acting. “Nick, I’m sorry. Forget I said that. I’ve had too much to drink. Shit, I drink too much lately, and I’m totally going to cut down. I hope this won’t set our friendship back, and that we can go on normally at work. You know how I am. I’m way too forward, and I have a big mouth.” I trailed off from my useless babbling and fought to keep eye contact with him.
My thoughts jumbled. How had I misread him so badly? I had always believed that deep down he was as attracted to me—not merely on a physical level—as I was to him. That if I gave him the right opening and nudge, he would sweep me off my feet and into his magic carriage, away to happily ever after.
How ridiculous that was. I wasn’t Cinderella. I was Glenn Close with the boiled bunny. And he was Michael Douglas searching for a way to escape.
I didn’t know how to make it better. His eyes grew more hostile by the second. Without another word to me, he stomped out with that damn wadded-up napkin.
~~~