Page 92 of The Tryst

“And did she?”

He holds up a finger. “One lesson. She snagged a refund on one lesson since I never got to the tango.”

“She got the tango refund,” I say, admiring her already from a distance. “But were you even going to tango at your wedding?”

“No, but she’s all about preparation. Covering your bases. She didn’t want to take a chance.”

“What’s your mom like? Besides, well, determined.”

“That describes her well. She’s no-nonsense. Direct. Very mom-like too. She worries about flu shots and sunscreen and whether I packed enough underwear for a trip.”

I burst into laughter, covering my mouth. When the laughter subsides, I say, “Still? She still worries about your underwear?”

He nods, grinning. “She sure does. And yours? What’s she like?”

That’s a loaded question. It’s one I’ve covered in therapy ceaselessly. But now’s not the time to focus on the push and pull between us. I home in on the good. “She’s always been driven and dedicated in everything she does. She works long hours, and is passionate about her work, and that probably rubbed off on me.”

“I’d say so. You’re intense and driven,” he says, already knowing me well. Then, like he’s seizing the chance of this conversation, he asks, “What drove you to start the videos?”

Instantly, I feel seen, and I’m not even sure why.

Maybe because he asked without an agenda? That must be it—his genuine interest in knowingmerather than the headlines. Nick never looked me up. He kept to his word. He wants to hear about me from me.

That impulse I felt to share a week ago awakens again. But it’s not quite as feral now since I know where it’s coming from—it’s coming from my heart. I want to be close to Nick, even though intimacy has always been terrifying. But it’s not scary with him. It’s comforting. It’s warm and hopeful.

With a gulp, I open the door. “I started doing the makeup videos after my dad’s death. I also started wearing makeup after his death. A lot of it,” I say, finally going there, to the place that marks my before and after.

With a somber nod, he says, “That makes sense.”

“And I did come to love it. It’s fun, it’s artistic—it’s like putting on a costume. But I think it was a mask at first. A necessary one.”

“One you needed to make it through the day?” he asks, getting it.Getting me.Showing me yet another reason why I want to be close to him. His kind and patient acceptance. His understanding.

“Yes, I needed it. Desperately. Like my mom needed Beautique. She poured herself into the company after he was killed,” I say, then almost apologetically I add, “She was crazy for him. His death was hard for her.”

“Of course it was,” he says, then takes my hand gently, encouraging me to say more if I want to. Or to stop. I can already read his touches. He’s saying without words that he’ll listen for as long as I want to talk.

Briefly I look away, staring at the other tables at Hugo’s, full of couples, families, friends, colleagues. Are they talking about loss? Are they digging into their wounds? No, they’re probably discussing stocks and social media.

I turn back to Nick, wanting to give him an out. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

Nick rubs a thumb along my hand. “We don’thaveto. But I want to…if you do.” His voice is gentle, but his intention is clear. He’s telling me he’s a safe space.

And I feel that deep in my heart—he is the safest space for who I am and who I was. I’m not simply my present. I am my past. With my free hand, I rub the daisy on my shoulder, drawing courage from it.

“She tried everything to deal with the loss, Nick. Yoga, meditation, therapy, Xanax, burying herself in work, obsessing over me. I think he was her obsession when he was alive. They went out every weekend on dates. Dinner, dancing, movies, just the two of them. They had this intense bond. He was so devoted to her. But he was still a great dad,” I say, my voice full of the missing I still feel every day.

“What was he like?” His attention feels like a strong, sturdy hug.

I hardly ever have the chance to talk about thebefore. No one asks about my father as a person anymore. He’s been an event rather than a man.

“He walked me to school every morning. When I was younger, we lived here, on the Upper West Side, but my school was across the park. So he’d walk me through Central Park every day to school. We’d walk past all these benches. You know the benches in Central Park?”

He nods. “Yes, you can give them as gifts. Or in memory of someone.”

“We’d read the names and the sayings on the plaques along the way. Some were sort of public secrets—likenow it’s your turn, and others were direct, likein loving memory. Some were proposals. Anyway, he loved the park. He used to donate for its upkeep.”

Nick smiles. “That’s nice that he did that—enjoyed the park and looked out for it.”

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