Page 51 of Guy's Girl
They hug, then Tristan leads them inside and gestures to the different parts of the house with his wineglass. When he remarks offhandedly about how much the Mr. Brainwash on the second-floor landing is worth, Clay threatens to sew Tristan’s mouth shut with dental floss. Adrian watches it all unfold with fondness, reminded of countless nights around the coffee table in Sullivan Street.
“And this is the kitchen.”
Tristan’s voice draws Adrian’s attention to the cavernous room into which they’ve just stepped. Marble floors and high wood ceilings frame a massive grey-and-white-peppered island, around which are dozens of cabinets, double frosted glass refrigerators, and a Bertazzoni stovetop so shiny it looks fresh off the boat from a professional kitchen in Emilia-Romagna. Knowing Tristan, it probably is.
“Well,” says Adrian, taking in the adjoining living room, with a couch so big it could comfortably seat twenty-five. “It’s not terrible.”
As he does one last spin, his gaze catches on the pair of figures seated close together on a lounge chair beside the pool. Ginny and Finch.
Adrian’s left fist twitches.
Clay follows Adrian’s gaze outside. “Ah,” he says. “Yes. The happy couple.”
“So, they’re...”
“No. Finch is still with Hannah.” Clay shakes his head. “But none of us know why. He’s clearly smitten with Ginny.”
“Clearly,” says Adrian.
Clay glances sideways at Adrian, as if he wants to say more, but doesn’t. And Adrian is grateful, because Ginny chooses that moment to look over from her place beside Finch and spot Adrian through the French doors. Her eyes pop wide. She untangles herself from Finch’s legs, hops to her feet, and runs over to the French doors. When she pushes them open, her shoulder-length hair is floppy and wild, her face all rosy cheeks and sparkling teeth. Adrian thinks that no one has ever looked so genuinely happy to see him.
But then—
But then his eyes lower, and he sees her body, and ice-cold water fills his insides.
Ginny has lost weight since the last time he saw her. Her cheeks are freshly dug mounds, their bones the pointed spades left behind. Her collarbone presses so tautly to her skin that it looks like it’s trying to escape her body entirely.
He doesn’t know where the weight went; she had none to lose in the first place.
It happens in an instant. The minute her eyes land on Adrian, every belief, every certainty she held just moments before—I’m over him, I feel nothing, how could I ever have thought I felt anything in the first place—washes away.
In its place...
Free fall.
Adrian looks good. Forget that—he looks fantastic, like an entirely different human being. His chest and arms have filled out. His hair is longer, mussed from the airplane. Gone are the bags under his eyes, the sickly pallor tainting his otherwise perfect skin, leaving his face pearly and soft, like freshly poured sand. It must be the new job. The transition away from banking. It’s as if a long-flickering light bulb within him was finally replaced.
It takes all her effort not to stumble or pull up short when she sees him. She plows forward, a rickety smile pasted to her face as if she isn’t suddenly overwhelmed with panic.
He’s here. Adrian is here.
And he’s far more beautiful than she remembered.
“Adrian!” she exclaims, voice too high. “Hi!” She throws her arms up and over his shoulders, even though he’s at least a foot taller than she is. When she pulls back, she holds on to his arms, scared she might teeter over from light-headedness. “I can’t believe it’s been almost a year since I last saw you.”
“I know,” he says.
She releases his arms. “Crazy that it takes leaving the country to hang out with someone who lives right down the street. But that’s Manhattan, I guess.”
He isn’t quite smiling. His eyes keep flicking down to her body as if looking for something. She knew she ate too much on the flight over, but she threw most of it up in the tiny airplane bathroom. Did it not work? Did she gain even more weight than she thought?
“I guess,” he says.
She fights the urge to fold her arms over her chest. “Anyway,” she says, bustling over to the kitchen island, where a cutting board is set out with avocado, onion, garlic, and cilantro. “I was about to make some appetizers. You hungry?”
She can still feel his eyes on her. “Starving.”
Something about the way he says that word makes her blood race through her body. His gaze is a heat lamp, warming every part of her bare flesh.Relax, she tells herself.You will be fine. Continue as if nothing is amiss, as if you still feel nothing for him and this strange sensation will fade of its own accord.
