Meet Me in Manhattan (True Vows) (22 page)

She searched the room with her gaze, eventually spotting him.
She worked her way to his end of the bar in strong, decisive
strides, and he realized she wasn't nervous at all. Her gait intimidated him as much as her beauty and poise.

Her smile didn't intimidate him, though. It was young, sweet,
eager. She seemed truly happy to see him. A big difference from
that time in the airport, he thought as he smiled back at her. As
long as she kept smiling, he'd be able to think of her not as the
girl of his dreams, the one that got away-pick a cliche, any
cliche-but as a chic, together woman.

Who was heading straight toward him. Who had spotted the
empty stool next to him and bee-lined to it. As if she was genuinely glad to be there, with him.

"Hey," he greeted her, as she settled onto the stool. His gaze ran
the length of her and he blurted out his reaction. "Wow."

"I know. Wow." Her smile grew even wider and warmer, and
then she started babbling about how she didn't have any money
with her, she'd left her wallet at home, she'd thought about going
back to get it but she didn't want to be late-hell, she was already nearly half an hour late-and she'd been at the gym, and ...

"Don't worry about it," he said, taking those words to heart.
She shouldn't worry about not having any money with her. He
shouldn't worry about sitting with her in this bar. She was a
friend-a gorgeous woman, yes, but also a friend. Someone who'd
known him when he was a kid, when he was a jerk, when he was
lost and struggling. He wasn't lost and struggling anymore, and
Marissa didn't think he was a jerk most of the time.

This was good. Seeing Erika was good. Sitting next to her,
catching a whiff of her perfume ... It was all good.

Talking to her was good, too. There had been a lot of passion in
their relationship, plenty of emotional peaks and chasms, but there
had also been friendship. They used to talk about everythingtheir families, music, work, animals, their hopes and dreams. And
here they were, having a beer together and talking. To Ted's surprise, talking to Erika after all these years proved to be easy.

She told him about her job. He told her about his job at East
River-and he recognized that the pleasure came not from
impressing her with his fancy title and his exalted responsibilities
but simply from sharing with her the things that comprised his
life. He didn't have to impress her. This was Erika. Someone who
knew him, knew his strengths and his weaknesses, knew his history. Someone whose voice was like a beloved song, one that
evoked memories of all the times he'd enjoyed that song in the
past but also could be appreciated for its beauty in the present.

Beyond friendship, though ... He wanted to kiss her.

He'd arranged to see her because he'd hoped to straighten out
his head and make sure he was completely over her. And maybe
he was over that old love, the wild, tangled, jumping-off-a-cliff
love they'd had so many years ago. The attraction he felt toward
her now was entirely different. It was the attraction of a man to a gorgeous, smart, radiant woman.

A woman as familiar as an old song, but as new as a melody he
was hearing for the first time.

"So," he asked, "are you seeing anyone?"

"I'm seeing lots of people," she said casually.

Her answer pleased and dismayed him. Pleased him because
she was apparently not involved with anyone. She was free, unattached, available.

Dismayed him because he was not free, unattached, or available. And he shouldn't be thinking about how he wanted to cup
his hands around her smooth, dewy cheeks and draw her face to
his, and kiss her and kiss her and kiss her until the bar they were
in vanished and the voices of all the other drinkers and diners
faded into the rainy night sky and all that existed was Ted and
Erika and their endless kisses.

Instead, he had to answer her question about whether he was
seeing someone. He had to answer honestly, because he had never
lied to Erika and he wasn't about to start lying now.

"I'm sort of ... well, yeah."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt as if he
had lost his footing. He remembered those times when he'd been
learning to surf, down in the tropical heat of Costa Rica, with
that crazy stoner Bob bouncing on a board next to him, instructing him on how to sense the wave, how to time its approach, how
to start paddling with your hands and then hoist yourself to your
feet and ride it in. How many times had he misjudged the wave?
How many times had he managed to stand on the board and ride
it a few thrilling feet, only to have the damned thing slip out
from under him?

That was how he felt now: that something was slipping out
from under his feet, and he was about to plunge into a surging, frothing wave. Bob had also taught him never to fight the wave
but just to let it toss him around until it tired itself out, at which
point he would rise to the surface. He always did, but sometimes
he'd had to hold his breath for so long he was certain his lungs
would burst. Sometimes the ocean just kept playing with him,
spinning and tumbling him, and he was sure he would drown.
And he would open his eyes and see the sky just above the surface
of the water, the air so close, his life so close-and he would fight
the tide and force his way up, toward that light.

Then he would be alive again, breathing once more. Wheezing
air into his lungs would revive him, and his vision would clear. He
would feel the hot sun sizzling on his wet shoulders and scalp,
and he'd grab his board and climb back onto it, wondering
whether he could trust it not to slip out from under him again.

At that moment, seated so close to Erika, he wanted to climb
back onto the board. But he was still under water, being tossed and
agitated like a T-shirt in a washing machine. He couldn't, shouldn't,
mustn't want to kiss her. Not when he was in another relationship. Not when he was supposedly in love with someone else.

"This has been great, Fred, but I'm afraid I've got to hit the
road," he said, surprising himself by resorting to the old nickname he used to call her.

She seemed surprised too, whether by his use of her nickname
or his abrupt announcement that he had to run, he didn't know.
But if they'd stayed there any longer, he would have given in to
the thundering urge to kiss her, and that would have been wrong.
Reckless. Like trying to surf through a riptide.

While he settled up with the bartender, he and Erika exchanged
a bunch of platitudes about how lovely it was to have gotten together.
He dared to touch his hand to the small of her back as they wove
through the crowd to the exit. Feeling its graceful curve made him want to gather her into his arms. But then, he'd want to gather her
into his arms even if he hadn't touched her.

He had to get away from her. He had to go home and straighten
things out. He needed to plant his feet on dry land until he regained
his equilibrium.

Outside, rain fell in a gentle shower from the purple-black sky.
She thanked him yet again for the drink. He considered ribbing
her about her having conveniently left her wallet at home, but he
wasn't in a joking mood.

His yearning trounced his good sense and he pulled her into
his arms. God, she felt good. More than before, he knew he had
to get away. "Take care, Erika," he said.

"You, too."

Was that a good-bye? A have-a-good-life kind of farewell? He
didn't want to analyze it. Instead, he released her, took a cautious
step back, and smiled at her. Her responding smile was breathtaking. Raindrops shimmered on her cheeks like clear, tiny pearls.

Then she turned and strode down the street, looking so elegant, so poised, so together. It took all his willpower not to chase
after her and say, "Damn it, Erika, let's try again and see if we can
get it right this time."

As she turned the corner and disappeared from view, he
thought he heard another door click shut. But maybe, just maybe
that noise was the sound of a key twisting in a lock, turning the
bolt so that the door might open again.

ERIKA LAY ON HER BED in her studio apartment, staring at the
ceiling. What was wrong with her? Why had she stood in the rain
weeping as if she were at a funeral? She'd had a beer with Ted. It
wasn't the first time, and now that they were both living in the
New York City area, it probably wouldn't be the last time.

Hell, the next time they got together, maybe he would bring his
significant other.

A choked sound emerged from her, and she tried to convince
herself it wasn't a sob. Surely she couldn't be crying over Ted. Not
now. Not when their relationship had died sixteen years ago.

It hadn't just died. She'd killed it.

And maybe that was why she'd bawled like a mourner at a
funeral. The funeral had been for her first love.

Her only love. All the men she'd dated since college, all those
eligible bachelors her friends had set her up with, all the colleagues at her various jobs over the years who'd leaned across her
desk and murmured, "Why don't we continue this discussion
over drinks after work . . ." None of them had ever touched her
heart. None of them had ever made her cry.

Ted did.

All right. She'd killed their relationship-but if she hadn't, it
would have died, anyway. They'd been too young. She hadn't
been ready to make the kind of commitment Ted had demanded
of her, and if he were honest he'd admit he hadn't been ready,
either. He'd been caught up in the romance of it, the feverish
excitement. But if she'd accepted his proposal that long-ago summer when they'd been teenagers, he would ultimately have grown
to hate her. She would have tied him down, prevented him from
finding out what he was meant to do. The job at East River-his
"calling"-would never have called. How could he have taken the
journey that brought him to that wonderful position, to the wonderful life he was living now, if he'd had Erika hanging like an
albatross around his neck?

She'd done him a favor by breaking up with him. One of them
had had to take that awful step, and she'd been the one to take it.
But it had benefited him as much as her.

Maybe more than her. He seemed so happy now. So poised.

So sexy.

Another of those weird choking hiccup sounds caught in her
throat. She swallowed, tasting the salt of unshed tears, and
pushed herself to sit. Her hair was still damp from her trip home
in the rain, and it was drying in tangled waves. She shoved a
heavy lock of it back from her cheek, decided the moisture on her
skin was from her hair and not from crying, and reached for her
phone. Allyson's number was on speed dial, and she pressed the
buttons and waited.

"Hey, Erika," her old friend greeted her. "What's up?"

"I had a drink with Ted this evening," Erika said, skipping past
the niceties and diving straight into the heart of things. She and
Allyson didn't require small talk.

"Ted? As in Skala?"

"How many Teds are there in my life?"

"Right," Allyson said. "There's always been just one. So, you
had a drink with him, huh."

"A beer at Fanelli's."

"Nice." Allyson sounded a little snarky, but also amused.

"He's in a relationship. He's been with her for a long time."

"Well," Allyson said, sounding less snide than cautious now.
"Good for him. I think. Did you meet her?"

"No, he left her home." Yet another sob rose into Erika's
throat, and she couldn't keep this one from escaping. "He's the
one, Allyson. He's always been the one."

Now Allyson sounded truly sympathetic. "Don't confuse what
you were feeling sixteen years ago with who he is now."

"That's the thing. Sixteen years ago, he was a kid. We both
were. Now he's a man. He's solid, he's grown up, he's got a career
... he's everything I wasn't ready for sixteen years ago, everything
he wasn't ready for."

"Honey, there are lots of other solid, grown-up men with careers
out there. I've introduced you to a few of them myself."