I felt an ache in my heart. I wished I had been the one to buy her the brownstone.
We ate our hot dogs on the fountain steps in Washington Square Park and watched two toddlers splash around in the water. One tiny blonde girl, about three years old, was laughing hysterically. I mean, really belly-laughing for, like, five minutes straight as her little brother splashed her.
“That kid is adorable.”
“Yep. Got any pot?” she asked, casually.
“Abrupt subject change, no?” I squinted at her for a moment. “Wait, are you serious?”
“Why not?” She reached up and wiped mustard from my lip with her index finger then stuck it in her mouth.
Jesus Christ, woman.
“I can get us some pot,” I said in a daze.
“Maybe next time.” She shrugged goofily, a flash of Grace from the past.
“Aren’t you worried one of your students will see you?”
“I was thinking we could go back to your place.”
“Uh, sure. We can.” I nodded vigorously, like an overeager schoolboy. “Yeah, not a problem.”
“Look!” She pointed to a young guy giving his girlfriend a piggyback ride, running in circles as she screamed joyously.
Grace smiled up at me and then her eyes filled with tears. Fuck, don’t cry, Grace. Please. I’ll die.
“I can still do that. I’m not that old,” I told her.
She started laughing as tears ran down he face. “Well, Old Man Shore, I’d let you try, but I’m wearing a skirt.”
“You were saying something about going back to my place?” I tried to pull off an innocent look.
“Yeah, if you want. I’d like to see your place.”
“You would?”
“Of course. I want to see where you live; I’m not offering to sleep with you.”
“Pfft. I know. . . . I wasn’t thinking that.” Though I was totally thinking that.
The subway was crowded during rush hour. Grace stood with her back to my front and leaned against me. I wondered if her eyes were closed. I bent and whispered near her ear, “We could have taken a cab or walked. I forget that we’re grown-ups now.”
“I like taking the subway with you.”
I pulled her closer against my body. It felt like all the years I’d lost with her never existed.
When we got to my building, the elevator opened to my loft on the fourth floor and Grace stepped out in front of me. She immediately looked up to the exposed-beam ceiling. I flipped on the lights. “This is gorgeous, Matt.”
“I like it.”
There was still a little bit of light left in the sky, casting a nice glow throughout the room. Grace walked to windows. “You can probably see the top of my house from here.”
“No, you can’t.” She turned and smiled. “Can I get you a glass of wine?” I asked.
“That would be great.”
She walked around my sparse loft as I went into the kitchen. The bedroom, kitchen, and living room flowed into each other within a large, high-ceilinged, open space, separated only by a few beams. As I poured the wine, I watched her run her hand across my white comforter.
“Your place is really nice. I like the rustic feel. Usually people go for modern in a space like this.”
“Call me old-fashioned.”
“I don’t think you’re old-fashioned.” She was standing near the wall, staring up at the picture that had won me so many awards.
“Passé?” I asked as I handed her the glass.
“Timeless,” she answered with a grin. I wished instantly that she was speaking of us. Weren’t we though? Timeless? Nothing could change what we’d had all those years before, even if the idea of what might’ve been lingered between us.
“Oh, well, thank you. That’s a nice sentiment.”
She pointed up to the picture. “But that . . . that’s powerful. Children and guns . . .” she shook her head. “How tragic. Were you scared when you took that?”
“No, not scared. Sometimes the camera feels like a shield. In the beginning, when I was on location like that, I took a lot of risks.”
“Do you think you’ll win another Pulitzer?”
“It’s kind of a once-in-a-lifetime thing, but I do want to go back into the field.”
“I bet some of the best photos are happy accidents.”
“Such is life.” I stepped toward her and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I want to kiss you.”
She took a quick sip of her wine. “Um . . . do you ever go to any shows around here?”
I chuckled. “You’re an amazing subject-changer.”
“I don’t think I can say no to you much longer, and I really want . . .” she swallowed and looked around.
“What, Grace?”
“I really want a do-over.” The conversation was making her nervous; her chest was heaving in and out.
“What do you mean?”
“You were my best friend.” She choked back tears and looked away.
“Please don’t cry.”
When her eyes met mine again, they were intense, blazing. “I’m trying to tell you something, Matt.”
I took her in my arms and held her against my chest. She wanted to take it slow, the way we had done before—all of those amazing moments in our dorm just being together, dancing, singing, playing music, taking pictures. That’s the problem with adults. There’s no taking your time because you think, even at the relatively young age of thirty-six, that your days are numbered. You think you know everyone inside and out, heart and soul, after talking to them for five minutes.