Page 99 of The Seven Year Slip

“Iwan?” His name was a whisper, afraid I was mistaken. Though, he didn’t look as put together as before. His auburn curls were wild, his shirt crumpled. But then he looked over at me, those pale eyes so lovely a gray, I knew how to paint them now—in shades of black and white and creams and golds and blues, pearlescent and soft. And then he smiled at me, that same crooked smile of the man I’d met in that small apartment on the Upper East Side, where time crashed together like opposing waves.

I had just opened my mouth to congratulate him on choosing Drew, the only right choice, trying to make it sound as sarcastic and playful as I could, while trying to disguise my regret, the cracks in an impending heartbreak, when he said, “Happy Birthday, Lemon.”

“What?” I gave a start.

He pulled up a small bouquet of sunflowers. “Happy birthday.”

I took them hesitantly. He’d remembered my favorite color. Of course he had, because he was still the same person—thoughtful and kind. Like he’d always been. For everything that changed, something stayed the same. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have said anything the other week—especially not at youropening.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, folding his hands together. We sat there quietly for a moment, looking at the paintings. Tourists migrated around us, the gallery a soft rush of murmurs.

“How did you know I’d be here?” I asked after a moment.

He gave me a sidelong look. “You said you would be. Every birthday.” He gave a small laugh. “You have no idea how many times I debated coming here any other year. Just sitting down beside you, wondering if—maybe—you’d recognize me.”

“From the cab?” I asked.

He nodded. “But I was always a little too afraid. And then when you walked into that book meeting...” He clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth and shook his head. “I tried to look so cool for you.”

“You accomplished that. Maybe a little too well,” I added.

He chuckled, and turned to me. “Would you... like to go to dinner with me? I know this restaurant down in NoHo. It’s changed a little recently.”

“I don’t know... Is it good?”

“It’s decent,” he replied, and then after a thought, he added, “I hope.”

A grin broke out across my face. I couldn’t help it. “Well, then, I guess we need to go see for ourselves,” I said, and he stood and outstretched his hand to me, and I felt a familiar kind of thrill curl through my body as I accepted his hand—the kind of feeling I got when I rushed after my aunt through airport terminals, fast and breathless, the world spinning.

It was the feeling of something new.

40

Chase the Moon

“Close your eyes,” hesaid as we got out of the Uber in front of his restaurant. The afternoon had sunken into a beautiful golden evening, and the light through the streets reflected off the windows of the restaurant, so I couldn’t see inside.

“Why? Are you going to kidnap me?” I replied, and he rolled his eyes and put his hands over my eyes so I wouldn’t look. “Do you need my safe word? It’ssassafras.”

“Walk forward—watch your step,” he added as I stepped over something, and into the restaurant. I heard the door close behind me. The restaurant was cold and quiet—we were the only ones in here, by the sound of our footsteps as he led me further inside.

“Is it a pony?” I asked. “Ooh—are you finally cooking mesplit-pea soup?”

“Can you just be serious for one minute? This is important. Stand there,” he added, placing me in an exact spot on the floor. I chewed on my bottom lip, trying not to smile too wide. “Okay,” he said, “three... two...”

He let out a deep breath.

“One.”

Then he took his hands away.

Soft rustic chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting golden light down across the deep-mahogany tables, most of them small, where lovely bouquets of beautiful violet hyacinths sat in glass vases, interspersed with softly flickering candles. The walls were a verdant sage color—not crimson, but crimson didn’t really fit him anymore, anyway—peppered with a menagerie of art pieces, all hung in varying frames and in different sizes across the walls.

He hurried over to a chair and scooted it out. “It’ll take a bit to break them in,” he said as I sat down, and he pushed me in, “but I think we have the time.”

“Is thisactualleather?”

“Pleather, but don’t tell the critics,” he added with a wink. Then he took a menu on the table, and handed it to me. It looked almost exactly like the menu I’d seen here nearly two weeks ago. Except there was one difference. Two, actually, and of course I said the one hewasn’treferring to: “You capitalized the name?”

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