I never have to wonder if he loves me, if he cares for me. If he’ll be waiting for me when I get home, lounging in his favorite chair, a book in those massive hands and his readers pushed down to the bridge of his nose. And even when the media paints me as ruthless and opportunistic, he still manages to see the woman within—the one he fell in love with despite all her reasons why he shouldn’t.
He’s the one thing I can always count on. The one person who’s become as predictable as the sun’s rising every morning, and its descent every evening.
That should be cherished. Celebrated even. And I do.
I did.
I look up at my husband, almost forgetting entirely what we were discussing over drinks and an artisan breadbasket. His probing stare tells me that he hasn’t.
“You’re right, Tuck. It was my idea . . . my list.”
Just as the words leave my lips, Bilal returns to our table to present our appetizers. I place a hand on his forearm before he turns away.
“If you haven’t fired that steak yet, I’d like to change my order,” I say before sweeping my amused gaze to my husband’s perplexed expression. “I’ve got a taste for something different tonight.”
Chapter Two
Despite my offer to have our driver drop him off at our condo on Park before heading down to Madison Square Garden, Tuck insists on accompanying me to the Ransom concert. It’s completely out of character for him for various reasons. For starters, Tucker despises the concept of digital music. “Music should be felt,” he’s always said. “You should be able to hold it, smell it, taste it. You can’t do that with some goddamn download.”
Considering himself a true purist, his record collection resembles that of a small vinyl shop, minus the choking dust and decaying scent of days gone by. He refuses to succumb to this generation’s need for instant gratification and will very gladly settle for his Sunday morning trips to various vintage music retailers. So to say that Tucker is a little behind the times when it comes to what’s new and notable is an understatement. Not that he minds in the least. He’d much rather trade Iggy Azalea and Hozier for B.B. King and The Beatles.
Also, NYC nightlife has never been his scene, even when we were younger. Back in undergrad, I’d try to drag him away from boring medical texts on the scarce nights he was off work on weekends and push him right into the heart of his unease—a nightclub. He’d be a good sport, but after watching him guard the wall for hours while I danced with my friends, I knew I had to accept that he would never be the partying type. Which was cool with me. I would much rather have the settling-down type. And eventually, the marrying type.
Even with all those reasons why Tucker probably would have preferred a prostate exam over attending the Ransom concert with me, there is one factor that should have surely sealed the fate of our evening.
Tucker hates my job.
Don’t get me wrong—he loves me. But he hates what I do. He hates that I have to constantly jump through hoops for a colorful array of celebutantes and entertainers. I guess one would say he does the same, just in a more personal, intimate capacity. He keeps secrets, while I expose them. And Tucker’s afraid that putting out so many social fires will one day leave me burnt and raw with bitterness. I can’t really blame him. He hears my bitching about the ridiculous demands and expectations of my clients. He sees how it physically wears on me to keep everyone happily relevant and in the public eye. I live in the land of the self-important, and I am their wizard. I swear most of these people wouldn’t wipe their own asses unless I advised them of its social benefits.
I suppose I should be happy that Tucker is taking one for the team, especially after he’s worked his own grueling, sixty-hour week. Yet, I can’t help but be suspicious of this sudden interest in my career. Or maybe it’s interest in Ransom Reed.
I gaze out the window of our town car, watching as the city lights stretch thin like illuminated lines of neon cocaine. Even with us slithering at a snail’s pace in bumper-to-bumper Friday night traffic, everything seems like a blur. The street vendors with their carts of peanuts and waterlogged hotdogs. Makeshift booths with peddlers selling everything from knockoff handbags to bootleg DVDs. Tourists of all walks of life capturing treasured moments through the lens of a Nikon. Annoyed locals brushing past stupid tourists as they fumble with their fucking cameras in the middle of the damn sidewalk.
This is my city. Always has been. And even though my Louisiana transplant husband would much rather rip me from Manhattan’s clutches, carry me down south, and knock me up faster than you can say, Gotcha, bitch, this will always be home. And the baby thing? Don’t even get me started on that.
We turn onto Fifth, giving us a view of Central Park. I smile at the memory of our first date at this very location. I had lived in the city for months yet had never been on a horse and carriage ride. I don’t even remember telling him that during one of our countless meetings. Talking to him had become so seamless; I could almost forget why I was there to see him in the first place. But he listened, he remembered. And that was the very second I knew I could let myself fall in love with him.
“Remember that time . . . ?” I whisper, my head still turned toward the window.
“I do,” he replies. He doesn’t even need to ask me to specify. He already knows what memory has stolen me away from reality. “I remember thinking you had the longest legs I had ever seen. And against the moonlight, your skin looked like porcelain and that white-blonde hair turned to spun silver. You were so beautiful. You wore black tights, a pleated skirt, and a sweater. I told you you’d get chilly and tried to give you my jacket but—”
“I said I knew I’d never be cold. You’d never allow it.” I turn to him and smile, enraptured by the memory of his warm body folded around mine protectively.
His fingertips slide against the soft leather of the bench seat and find mine in the dark. He’s still so warm, even after all these years. “Then afterward, you wanted to go to FAO Schwarz and play Chopsticks on the giant piano mat like Tom Hanks in Big.”
“I loved that movie. Must’ve watched it at least a million times as a kid. I couldn’t wait to grow up.”
“I know. And you did. Maybe too fast.”
I turn my gaze back to the cacophony of lights and sounds as we ride in strained silence with only our fingertips touching. Stardust touches my cheeks, turning my face from pale peach to iridescent periwinkle. I’m so lost in thought that I can barely hear the blare of horns and sirens on the other side of the tinted glass.
“That was a good day,” I remark after a long beat. “The best day.”
“It was,” Tucker agrees, letting his fingers slide over mine with just the barest of touches.
“We were so young. So free and adventurous. So . . . happy.” My voice breaks on the last word, knowing exactly what I’m implying. But he doesn’t withdraw. He simply twines his fingers through mine. Holding me. Keeping me warm and safe like he always has.
“We can be like that again, Bunny. We can go back to that.”
I turn my face to his to find that he’s closer than he was just moments ago. It’s dark but I can feel those knowing eyes on me, studying me. Stripping me naked and exposing all my scars.
“Can we?” It’s barely a whisper. If I say it any louder, maybe he’ll detect the uncertainty in my voice. Maybe he’ll hear the yearning.
“We can. Starting tonight. Starting right now.”
THE RIDE TO MSG is far too short, yet I find myself springing from the backseat as soon as the driver opens my door. I smooth down the bodice of my pearl white Gucci jumpsuit in an attempt to collect my bearings. That moment with Tucker—whatever that was—has left me open and raw, emotions brimming right at the surface of my stoic guise. I can’t have that right now. I need my head in the game, not crammed with bittersweet memories of how we used to be. Broke, but in love. Struggling, but happy.