Page 64 of The Seven Year Slip

“When did you break your nose?” I asked, finally dropping my hand.

His lips twitched into a grin. “It’s not nearly as cool of a story as you’re thinking.”

“So youdidn’tbreak it in a bar fight?” I asked, mock aghast.

“Sister’s wedding about a year ago,” he replied. “She threw the bouquet. I was standing too close to the people trying to catch it.”

“And you got smacked by one of them?”

He shook his head. “By the bouquet. Had a little silver clasp on it. Smacked me right in the nose.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “You’rekidding! Did you at least catch the flowers?”

He scoffed. “What do you take me for? Of course I caught them. My sister and all her friends were livid.” We started walking again, and Washington Square Park was just ahead. There was a food truck on the far side, but I couldn’t make out the name of it yet.

“So, technically,” I realized, “you’resupposed to get married next.”

“That’s why they were livid, yes. I haven’t been much for commitment.”

“Your Instagram tells me as much.”

He gasped again. “I’m honored that youresearchedme!”

I pointed to myself. “Publicist. It’s my job.”

“Sure, sure,” he settled, and then gave a one-shouldered shrug. The kind I remembered—and it still infuriated me the exact same way. “Maybe I just hadn’t found who I was looking for yet.”

I glanced over at him. Studied the lines of his face, how the streetlights cut the shadows of his face sharp. “And whoareyou looking for, James?”

“Iwan,” he corrected softly, a thoughtful look flickering across his face. “My friends call me Iwan.”

I inclined my head. “Is that what I am?”

I wasn’t sure what kind of answer I wanted—that, yes, I was a friend? Or that, no, we shouldn’t cross professional boundaries? Or—

Do I want him to say I’m something more?

That was a silly thought, because I’d seen the type of women he had dated, and not a single one of them was like me—overworked nerdy publicists with art history degrees who spent their birthdays drinking wine out of flasks in front of van Gogh paintings.

“Well,” he began, “actually—”

27

Yo Mama’s Fajitas

“Iwan! is that you?”a man cried from the food truck, startling us both out of our conversation. We’d somehow ended up in front of a bright yellow truck with a highly stylized logo on the side that readYo Mama’s Fajitas.A line curved down the sidewalk, mostly college kids and young people taking classes over the summer at the NYU campus nearby.

Iwan...?

Then did that mean—

A larger man waved from the window of the food truck, and James’s face lit up at the sight of him. “Miguel!” he cried, throwing up a wave. The man abandoned his station and came out of the back of the truck. He was a burly Hispanic guy, with curly dark hair pulled into a bun, the undersides shaved, tawny-brown skin, and a smile larger than life—like you could tell he cracked some really great jokes. They hugged each other quickly—complete with a secret handshake and everything.

“Hey, hey, I thought I wouldn’t see you ’til the weekend!”Miguel greeted him. “What’s the occasion? Here to ask for a job?” He wiggled his thick black eyebrows.

“Ready to come work in my kitchen?” James volleyed back.

“In that expensive-ass new restaurant of yours? Fuck that,” Miguel replied.

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