37. Elise

37

ELISE

On the way to a late lunch with my brother, I reread the texts Christian and I sent this afternoon, trying to find any hidden meaning in them.

Christian: Hi. How was your flight? Is Manhattan everything you wanted it to be?

No. You’re not here , I wanted to shout.

Elise: It’s fabulous! Always good to be home.

Nothing is fabulous when you have to fake your emotions.

Christian: Great! Glad to hear. When do you return? Can I take you out to dinner when you’re back?

Why? Why? Why? To tell me you want to keep fucking me every Friday night? That you vastly preferred things when we were part-time lovers only, and why not return to those glory days?

Elise: Sure. Dinner sounds great. I’ll be back on Friday .

Friday. Why do I have to return on a Friday?

Christian: Can I see you then?

Elise: Or Saturday. I might be exhausted when I return.

And I don’t want to look overeager.

Christian: Fine, but if you find yourself un-exhausted, let me know. I’d love to see you.

My pants. You’d love to see my pants.

I shove my phone to the bottom of my purse as the cabby swerves to The Lucky Spot in Midtown. It’s a popular bar, my brother told me, and it recently began serving lunch.

I pay the driver and head inside, grateful I already dropped my bags at my hotel.

My bespectacled brother, Ian, waits at a table, and as soon as he sees me, he stands and waves. My heart lights up with relief. Family. I need family right now.

I rush over to him and throw my arms around his shoulders, clasping tight. “So good to see you.”

“Well, I didn’t expect this kind of greeting.”

I don’t let go. I hug him tighter, my chin on his shoulder. It’s only when I realize his shirt is wet where my cheek rests that it occurs to me I’m crying.

“Elise,” he says softly. “What’s wrong?”

I separate from him, inhale deeply, and fix on a cheery grin. I wave a hand in front of my face. “Oh, nothing. Long flight. How are you?”

We take our seats, and he narrows his brown eyes. He tilts his head to the side. “You’re crying over a long flight? It’s eight hours, and you only ever fly first class.”

“Not true,” I say, straightening my shoulders. “I flew coach to Copenhagen.”

My tears crawl up my throat once more. But I catch them before they spill and shove them back down.

“What is going on?”

I tell him everything. “And then I fell in love with him,” I say, plastering on a fake grin. “Wasn’t that a fantastic idea?”

He laughs lightly and pats my hand. “It’s not as if falling in love is the worst idea in the world.”

“Ugh. It is. Love is euphoria and misery cooked into a stew. It’s the worst thing ever invented.”

He arches a brow over his glasses. “Is it?”

The waiter arrives and asks if we’ve had a chance to look at the menu. Ian shakes his head, but when I say I’ll have a house salad, he opts for a chicken sandwich.

Once the man leaves, Ian peers at my neck. “You found it.”

I touch the necklace. “I’m so glad to have it back. It’s my little piece of New York.”

“You can take the girl out of New York, but you can’t take New York out of the girl.”

“Do I seem very New York to you?”

“You’re tough as nails, so I’d say yes.”

“Oh, please. I’ve cried more times in the last twelve hours than I have in a year.”

He smirks. “That’s my point. You’re so tough, so strong. You’re working so hard to protect yourself from getting hurt again. But what if this guy wound up in the same boat as you?”

“What do you mean?”

Ian leans forward, a conspiratorial tone to his voice. “I mean that, at face value, everything you said to him and he said to you leads reasonably to the conclusions you’ve drawn. But do people really say what they mean?”

“Are you saying he meant something else?”

“If you didn’t spell out your feelings, why would you assume he had?”

“Because his brother?—”

Ian smiles and wiggles his eyebrows. “Bingo. His brother said something. Not Christian.”

“But his brother has to know how he feels!”

“I didn’t know everything till you told me.”

“You live across an ocean. They live together. Erik has been staying with Christian since his wife left him.”

Ian shrugs. “Doesn’t mean Christian told him how he felt.”

I stare at him and speak plainly. “Nor did he tell me, for that matter.”

He laughs. “You’re making my point exactly.”

“And what’s that?”

“You’re so tough, and you’re doing everything to erect skyscrapers around you so you don’t get blindsided again. Newsflash—it doesn’t hurt any less if you have walls. Once someone gets around them, it still hurts if they don’t feel the same as you.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s helpful.”

He smiles and reaches for my hand. “You’re already in deep.” He takes a beat then shrugs happily. “But it also feels pretty damn good when someone you love feels the same.”

“I don’t think he does.”

“Men don’t usually want to talk about us unless they feel something,” he says, sketching air quotes as he tosses Christian’s words back at me.

I’m not talking about paperwork. I’m talking about us.

My stomach roils, and the prospect of waiting till Friday or Saturday to find out what he wants to discuss sounds like an eternity.

Ian lets go of my hand. “Enough about boys. I have something for you.” He reaches into his pocket and removes a blue velvet bag, then slides it over to me. “Picked it up at a little shop.”

I open the bag to find a silver chain with a dangly Eiffel Tower. I laugh and put it on, letting the icon of France sit next to my taxicab. “It’s perfect.”

And it gives me strength. It reminds me that no matter what happens with Christian, I have my brother an ocean away. Back home in France, I have great friends, a wonderful life, and a fabulous business I’ve rebuilt.

That’s why my heels are touching the New York sidewalk later that afternoon. Because I made it through a dark time. I turned my agency around, and it’s thriving again, thanks to new deals with accounts like the Luxe.

Whatever happens with Christian, I’ll be fine, walls or no walls.

I’ve got this.