Page 35 of The Tryst

There, I review Finn’s proposal. I’ve got to focus on these terms and not let anything cloud my decision-making.

Not a photo of Lola that, god willing, might arrive soon.

Not on those convos.

Not on my own wild thoughts of that woman.

I spend thirty minutes reading the terms again, but when my son’s ringtone trills from inside, I jump up and rush to answer.

“Hey there, kiddo. What’s going on?”

“Hey, Dad. Not much. Just trying to unpack.”

I return to the balcony, phone pressed to my ear. “You hate unpacking.”

“With a passion,” he says.

I smile, remembering how he’d live out of boxes for weeks whenever we moved. Which was a lot.

“So I’m your procrastination?”

“Lucky you,” he deadpans.

“Lucky me, indeed.”

I hear him shuffle around the apartment he’s subletting for the month and picture him opening boxes. I want to ask if he’s thought more about my offer, but he does best when he comes to me. I have to be strategic and wait for my pitch.

Instead, we chat about baseball, and whether the New York Comets can beat the San Francisco Cougars until, finally, he says, “I think I’m in. Like, on a trial basis, if that’s okay?”

I punch the sky. “That’s great.”

Later—much later—as I’m reading a book on my phone in the dark, a text arrives with a picture attached.

I suck in a breath through my teeth as I slide open the message.

It’s only the side of her face, barely even a profile shot. But it’s clear what she’s doing.

She understood the assignment perfectly, and I don’t look away for a good, long, satisfying time.

* * *

A few weeks later—after a signature from me and a signature from my brother—I send a very direct text to Lola.

No flirting, no teasing, no pics. Just a request.

Nick: Can I call you?

Lola: Of course.

My wingtips echo in my nearly empty flat as I pace, waiting for her to pick up my call. I’ve got a meeting to attend in an hour, so I’m still dressed for business.

“Hey,” she says, and her voice is like dopamine. I’m feeling good everywhere from that sensual, feminine sound.

“Hey, beautiful,” I say.

“Hey, you,” she says, then laughs, embarrassed. “I guess I said that already.”

Ah, hell, she’s so endearing when she’s a bit awkward. “Yeah, but I like hearing your voice.”

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