30. Anna

30

ANNA

T he text arrives while I’m running way beyond my normal pace on the treadmill in my gym, sweat dripping onto the belt. Because eight hours of shit tennis is not enough in a day, apparently. Am I so angry about the terrible practice today that I have to punish myself more? Ilov is being so patient with me, and I’ve got to leave for Australia in three weeks for the buildup to the Australian Open, like a big fat dead end to this whole car crash.

The evening ahead yawns in front of me, with a nutritionist-designed meal and … and what, Anna? What are you doing tonight to take your mind off the awful men and the competition and the tournaments and all the other shit ricocheting around your head on a never-ending loop?

I sigh and press the message icon on my phone:

How’s Pepper for walks today?

What? This is what he texts me? After I told him what a distraction he was and after I made an ill-judged comment about our relationship being stupid and he stormed off—that’s what he comes back with? No rage or disparaging comments or arguing, just a question about my dog ?

I haven’t walked Pepper today, apart from a short visit outside this morning to do her business. I’m exhausted. And who’s fault is that, Anna? I slow the belt down to a walking pace, and as if she has some sixth sense Adam has texted, Pepper whines and scratches at the door. She heard the treadmill, you lunatic; she’s not psychic.

Adam’s always so calm, about everything. If he’s going to be a grown-up, perhaps I can be one, too. My fingers fly over the screen:

Are you offering?

His response is almost immediate:

I’d love to. Should I pop over and pick her up now?

Is that it? So, he’s presuming I’m not going on this walk with him? Huh.

Give me thirty minutes.

I can’t meet him looking red-faced, sweaty, and frustrated. This might be some ruse to talk, to revisit the conversation we had on the street.

But when Adam turns up, he doesn’t take off his coat or make himself at home or even throw questions at me. No, he stands in the hallway, looking ridiculously cute in a puffer jacket and a woolen cap, which he proceeds to take off for a moment to run a hand through his toffee-colored curls. Gah. I don’t need to be thinking about his curls, his soft hair, or anything else.

Pepper goes berserk, jumping up at him and wagging her tail like a maniac as his long fingers rub all down her body. I don’t want to think about that either. As I stand with the leash and poop bags in my hand, part of me wants to jump all over him, too. I haven’t seen him for a week, and dammit I’m hollowed out all over again seeing his thoughtfulness and the way his eyes narrow on you when he listens.

“How are you doing?” he asks, looking up from where he’s crouched down on the floor.

I can’t help myself: I make a face. When he raises his eyebrows, I say, “Practice isn’t going so well at the moment.” He nods and doesn’t say anything more. “It’s always ups and downs to tell you the truth,” I add. “I’m sorry that I implied that you …”

God, I’m the one that’s going there. He shakes his head and holds up his hand.

“It’s fine, Anna. I get it. We veered way off our original agreement, and neither of us wanted that. I’m over it. I’d like to think we can still be friends, though.”

He’s over it? Something red hot shoots through me. Men. I swear you have sex with them and the only thing that’s engaged is their libido, whereas for you … Nope. Not going there. I’m not thinking about emotions or how his body ground me into the floor of the gym and the bed and … Goddammit .

He takes the leash from my fingers and leans in and squeezes my shoulder. I inhale his burned, woodsy smell and almost keel over. I’m so light-headed. No doubt because I haven’t eaten.

“You’ll get there, Anna.”

I stare up at him, and his eyes pinch a bit at the corners.

I press my lips together. “Thanks for coming here and offering to walk Pepper. I’d like us to still be friends, too, but I don’t think we should be seen in public together. The press interest caused so many problems.”

He nods. “That makes sense.” Then he smiles and studies Pepper who’s still wagging her tail at our feet. “Come on, Missy,” he says, “let’s head out and rock a New York evening.”

Suddenly, I want to be out with him rocking a New York evening. I want to tuck my hand into his elbow and hear everything he has to say about selling online, small electronic boards, and Tom Gauld’s latest cartoon. He disappears into the elevator, turning around and giving me a salute as the doors close. The dork . A smile curves over my lips. I’m not sure what the empty feeling in my stomach is, but I don’t like it. I head into the kitchen, wrench open the fridge door and stare at the row of plastic boxes left there by my nutritionist.

Hunger. That’s what the empty feeling is.