Page 316 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 1

Tilting her head, the tears glisten making her eyes look like precious gemstones. “Promise me, Harrison.”

It’s an easy promise for me to keep, so I reply, “I promise.”

I come to bed just over an hour later. An hour of staring at the glittering city of LA had me wanting to make this right with her. She wants security. A place to call home for a family. She wants New York.

Although I want LA, I don’t want to lose her. We have a lot to work through, the details of how our relationship will move forward. But it will be best discussed in the daylight and on full stomachs.

I climb into bed next to her sleeping body. She didn’t tell me she was going to sleep but I understand we were standing our grounds in separate parts of the house. The pregnancy is taking a toll on her already and I know she needs more sleep.

Though her back is to me, I slide around her, wanting our bodies to mold together like they do at her apartment. Maybe then she’ll feel what she can’t see—that it doesn’t matter where we live as long as we’re together.

My mind is too busy for sleep and one of the memories that flashes is when I went to go pick up my clothes from the drycleaners after returning from Catalina . . .

I hangthe hanger on the hook in my car. It’s weeks overdue, but with my sister being in the accident and niece still in the hospital, my laundry from Catalina wasn’t a priority. My mom dropped it off though and I was down to my last day before they donated them. I don’t mind the donation, but I was partial to the shirt I was wearing with Tatum.

She liked it.

That meant I would keep it in hopes of wearing it for her again. I made a promise to her, made her my mission, and unlike her pact, I intended to keep it.

Once I get home, I carry the plastic-wrapped clothes into my closet and rip off the packaging. A Ziploc dangles from the neck of the hanger. I open it to pull out a white piece of paper.

Probably one of the women working at the cleaners slipping me her number. It happens at businesses quite a bit.

I unfold it and read:

Tatum

Her number written just below.

Standing there smiling like a goofball,I add the number to my phone. “She broke her own pact. For me.”

Once Madison and my niece are home, settled, I’ll plan my quest to win Tatum over.

When the dust settles.

The sun hasn’t risen,but I need to hit the water to clear my head before tackling the day. I slip out of bed and find my trunks. I pull them on hopping on one foot and then the other down the hall. I shove a banana in my mouth and grab a bottle of water as I head for the back door.

It takes me a minute to scroll the surf report to figure out the conditions before I decide which board I want to ride. With my board in the back of my old pickup truck, I text a good friend who’s in town for a few days from Hawaii:Sorry I missed yesterday. You out in the water this morning? I’m heading over.

When I see the three dots on the screen, I laugh. He’s always up early for a surf. The message reads: Evan Ashford -Down at the usual.Just arrived.

He generally surfs in the same place, so I drive my truck down to meet him.

Easy to spot, he’s built for the sport, has that Hawaiian tan, and a million-dollar grin. He comes toward me. “Good to see you, brother.”

“You too, man.” I reach in and dig my board from the back. “How goes it?”

“You know, busy. Wife, family. Business.”

“You’re still managing to squeeze some surfing in?”

“Trust me, Mallory would make me. I’m a bear of irritability if I don’t kneel to the ocean altar at least two times a week. I miss the days when I could surf all day. But I won’t complain. Life is good. What’s going on in yours?”

We head over to the sand and rub wax all over the boards. I’ve known Evan a few years, not before he settled down, but I’ve heard some stories.

I say, “I’m out in New York with my license to get some business. Your old stomping grounds, right?”

He looks out at the water as the sun rises. “High school days. It’s been a long time since I called that place home.”

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