Page 158 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 1

“We need to talk.”

17

Andrew

The timing couldn’t be better.

I’ve not been home long, but my mind is already wrapped up, wondering what Juni is doing and if she’d want to go on another adventure tonight. After being locked away in meetings all day, I’m tired, but I’d make an exception for her.

I pour a drink, get more comfortable in sweatpants and a T-shirt, and sit by the window.La bohémeplays softly in the background as I sip and listen. The music builds, crescendos, and falls again, reflecting my life in more ways than I care to admit.

The whiskey doesn’t soothe me, and the view is dull.

Even the soft material of my clothes doesn’t have me feeling more at home in my skin than spending time with her does. But none of that makes sense. She doesn’t fit into my plan, and I’m still not sure she didn’t weasel her way into it from the beginning.

Does it matter now?

I take another long sip and then stare at my phone. With the message box open, I think about what I’m doing and why. Why? It’s the one question I can’t seem to answer. I finish my drink and then let my wants take the lead:I was thinking we could hang out tonight?

With my thumb poised over the send button, I pause, not sure why I’m holding back. She’s different from the other women I’ve dated. Dalen is a Hollywood bombshell. She’s intelligent, comes from money, and has become a sweetheart over the years. That’s why we reconnected. It took a long time to get over her cheating on me.

The girls I dated in college were sweet but not driven in the same direction in life, one even telling me she couldn’t wait to introduce me to her parents back in Kansas. We’d just fucked for the first time (and last, I’ll add), and she was already making wedding plans.

I’ve dated women who had more ambition than I did—from sports agents to damage control PR reps for the latest scandals in LA to a restaurateur in the Bay Area. I saw potential for something more long-term with one of the Top 30 under 30 tech entrepreneurs in Seattle after our first couple of dates. The third time we went out, I learned she would never leave Washington State. That city is too rainy, too cold, too not LA. It was also only a pit stop in my journey.

Although I haven’t been here long, it’s long enough to know that I need to get out there. Maybe not like my mom would like or how Jackson dates—a man on a mission—but make a real effort to find more balance. That’s something I’ve not been good with. Now’s a great time to get it rectified. I delete the text and type a new one instead:Would you like to go out with me on Saturday night?

Before I press send, I rifle through my past, wondering how someone with a heart of gold like Juni fits into my future. Do I really have time to dedicate to someone else, or will she get hurt? I’d hate myself for doing that to her, but I’m not sure I have the control to make that decision.

Christiansen Wealth Management is priority number one. I delete the text just as one comes through:I was thinking I could come over.

I stare at the screen, trying to calculate the chances of her thinking the same thing as I was.

Chance of being bitten by a shark: one in four million.

Chance of being struck by lightning: one in five-hundred thousand.

Based on recent history:The chance of Juni and I thinking the same thing at the same time is incalculable.

So maybe it’s not by chance at all that she texted. Maybe the universe is playing her cards. As my dad would say about opportunity, “Open the door.” I text:Apartment 17 B.

Who am I to tempt fate?

There’s no need to stress. The apartment is still spotless from the cleaning crew that came yesterday. My clothes are comfortable. We’re hanging out, not going to the ballet. I pour another drink and then make myself at home on the couch to wait.

The knock on the door isn’t forceful but soft as if she’s suddenly become shy. Not wanting a spoiler, I don’t peek through the peephole. I just swing that door wide open.

But I wasn’t prepared . . . I never am for her, it seems.

She doesn’t have to try to be utterly breathtaking—she just is whether her hair is up or down, her clothes fitted or baggy, dressed up or casual. Those things are obvious. It’s her smile and her hazel eyes that shine brighter than the stars on a clear night that have her stealing my breath and staring at her face. And everyone else she comes in contact with.

She just doesn’t seem to notice or doesn’t care that all eyes land on her. I couldn’t help the chuckle the first day I saw the poor coffee shop schmuck who thought he had a chance with her. He probably didn’t even have chest hair yet.But it made complete sense. She’s different from every other woman. She was made to stand out.

The green of her eyes is brighter tonight. The other time I’ve seen that color take the lead was when she was laughing in the ice cream parlor and then inside the office when she brought me coffee.

The brown is showier, at least for me. Anger turns the golden centers to fire, and she struggles to hide the emotion, like when I called her a stalker or when Mary called me by my first name.

Juni may not be my girlfriend, but she has a jealous streak.

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