Page 5 of Still the One

I look over at the table where Alan’s sitting. He’s waving at me. There’s no sign of Jamie.

“I think I can handle your husband,” I say.

“When it comes to Isabel Adler, he’s next-level intense. It’s kind of endearing.” Charles doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

“I suppose I don’t have to ask what the first dance song was at your wedding,” I joke, giddy at the prospect of Alan hearing which song Sandra and Tyrone’s first dance will be to.

Alan gets up to greet me and hugs me tightly. “I barely slept a wink because of the mere one degree of separation. One.” He holds up his finger. “One is not zero, but there are so many options.”

“This is what I mean,” Charles says. “He’s lost it.”

“Okay.” I hold out my hands and Alan takes them. “What can I do to make you snap out of this? I can’t have you going gaga over Izzy all weekend. It’s crazy enough that I’m here with Jamie. I need you to defuse the tension between us.”

“Tension?” Alan tilts his head. “What tension?” He isn’t that far gone that he can’t crack a joke any longer.

He squeezes my hands. “Can you get me in a room with Isabel Adler?”

“Babe,” Charles groans. “It’s too much. Besides, you wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

“Oh, I would. I would rise to that occasion like you have no idea.” He focuses on me again. “How well do you know her? Do you see her a few times a year? Or do you and her actually hang out on the regular?”

“I’m more friends with Leila, but yeah, Izzy and I do hang out sometimes.” I make a mental note to call Leila after breakfast. She’ll want to know how my reunion with Jamie went. I might not tell her about this, though.

“I don’t really know how to process this yet,” Alan says on a sigh.

“Lucky you’re stuck in this resort with two lesbians, then,” I attempt another joke. “We’re very good at processing.”

“I’m not so sure about that, darling.” Alan comes back to himself for a moment. “Last night, it looked to me as though you and Jamie have some serious processing left to do.”

He’s right—but he’s also wrong. Maybe Jamie and I should have a conversation, but we can just as easily choose not to. Our lives won’t be changed by it and I, for one, am no longer after some sort of closure. Some things might get said inadvertently—but isn’t that always the case? What she did will always be a part of me, and I’m okay with that now.

“Back to Izzy.” I look him in the eye.

“I know what I sound like, and, for the record, I am exactly that: the biggest Isabel Adler fan you will ever meet. I swear to god, Mac. I’d give anything to meet her.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” I can’t make this man I haven’t spent time with in years any real promises.

“Thank you so much. That’s all I ask. Like, maybe there’s a dinner party you could invite us to now that we’ve become reacquainted? I’ll cook. It would be my honor to cook for you and Leila and Isabel.”

“He is an excellent cook,” Charles deadpans.

“Maybe we can even invite Jamie,” Alan says, as though this dinner is a done deal already. “How would you feel about that?”

“You’re pushing it.” I drop his hands from mine. “Jamie is… the past. I’m not looking to be friends with her or anything like that.”

“How about two fabulous gays as old and new friends at the same time?” Alan bats his lashes.

“Let’s see how the rest of this weekend goes,” I only half-joke. Although it is lovely to see Alan, and to meet his husband. They’re both delightful company—maybe Izzy and Leila would agree.

“Seriously, though, Mac.” Charles pours me a glass of water. “How do you feel?”

“I don’t know. It’s a bit of a whirlwind.” I take a sip. “I’m not going to lie. It is weird to see Jamie again, the woman I’ve purposefully avoided for so long. She was such a big part of my life.” Outside of work, Jamie was my life. For a full decade, we spent all our free time together, basking in each other’s company, and dreaming up an amazing joint future. I loved Jamie so much; she was a part of me. And when a part of yourself gets abruptly ripped away, it takes a long time to heal. “I can’t pretend I didn’t love the hell out of her, nor can I pretend that what happened between us didn’t.” I look around the room. “Where is she, anyway?”

“Probably sleeping in while she can,” Alan says. “She’s always up so early when she’s working.”

I nod as my mind travels back twenty-five years, to the loud blare of Jamie’s alarm clock at an ungodly hour. To her apprenticeship with Loaves of Love, Brooklyn’s most famous bakery, where she always seemed to have the early shift.

“Isn’t she the big boss now?” I ask. “Doesn’t that come with better hours?” I reach for a piece of bread in the basket on the table. When we lived together, Jamie always had bread on the go, a sourdough starter to tend to, some rolls to put into the oven. I’ve never met anyone since who could wax so lyrical about the crumb of a loaf.

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