That’s why I don’t hold high hopes for the Indian restaurant she has lined up. Big fan of chana masala here, but I’m not sure it screams serve me on a paper plate in the park.
As I reach into my makeup bag, I scroll to the bottom of the email.
The last restaurant with an opening is called Gabriel’s.
I startle as I read the name and, unexpectedly, my breath catches.
That name.
I freeze, one hand on the mascara wand, the other holding my phone. Even now, years after my valiant attempt to erase that man from my history, his name alone does something to me.
I’ve dated since him. I’ve had a few serious boyfriends. But there’s still just something about that man. Maybe that’s the curse of experiencing the best sex of your life at age twenty-one. At the time, I figured that sex with Gabriel was so great because I didn’t know better. Now, I’ve learned that sleeping with him was mind-blowing because…sleeping with him was mind-blowing.
Those three nights in Spain were magical, passionate, and beyond sensual. I’ve tried to implement Gabriel amnesia, but he still lingers in the corners of my mind. Letting go of the mascara tube, I take a breath and tell myself a name is just a name. It’s a mere coincidence that this eatery on my list shares the same name.
Except…my Gabriel was a cook. A struggling line cook in a small bistro in Barcelona that summer, planning to move to Manhattan for a job here.
I drop my forehead into my hand as a fresh wave of foolishness crashes over me. What if he’s been here all these years? What if he came to New York and simply didn’t want to see me? What if we’ve been sharing the same island for the last decade? What if he was married when we were together? What if he went home to his wife, his girlfriend, his lover?
I forced myself to stop playing this what if game ten years ago when he didn’t show for our rendezvous. I booted him from my brain and refused to linger on him, and especially on all the possible reasons why he left me alone.
Now, he’s all I can think about. I need to know if this Gabriel is my Gabriel.
When I google the restaurant, I let out an audible groan.
I blink.
Blink again.
Try to still my shaking fingers.
He’s here. He’s in Manhattan. After a decade, I’m going to come face-to-face with the man who stole my heart and my body.
I set down my phone and scoop up my dog. “Can I send Lacey instead?”
She licks my cheek in reply.
“Is that a yes, Shortcake? As in, you think I should play hooky and spend the day with you and make Lacey do my dirty work?”
This time she administers a longer tongue-lashing.
“Most of the time I’m completely content with the fact that you don’t talk,” I tell her. “But today is not one of those days.”
The mere possibility of seeing him again sets off a storm of warring emotions and confusion inside me. I don’t know what to do about this meeting, what to say to him, how I should act. The one thing I’m certain of is that I need a two-way conversation, so I call my friend Delaney as I pace around my small living room.
“Hey there,” she shouts over the background clatter of construction. “If you can’t hear me it’s because they’re jackhammering one frigging block away from my spa, which is completely conducive to a restful day of relaxation. Not.”
I laugh. “Let me guess. You’re walking to work.”
“You got it,” she says, her normally pretty voice blaring so loudly I have to hold the phone several inches from my ear.
“Speaking of guessing, want to guess who I just found out is on my work schedule today?”
“Tom Hardy? Scott Eastwood? Chris Pine?”
“Henry Cavill,” I say, since he’s her favorite celebrity. “But seriously, I’m supposed to have a meeting with…” I stop, since I can still hardly believe what I’m about to say. Then I use the nickname we bestowed on Gabriel many moons ago over a bottle of cabernet. “My international man of mystery.”
She gasps, and it’s loud enough for me to hear her over the racket. “Are you serious?”
I nod. “One hundred percent.”
“Okay, hold on,” she says, and then ten seconds later, the background noise is sliced away and it’s blissfully quiet. “I stepped into the ATM lobby near work. My first massage is in ten minutes, so give me the details.”
I dive in and tell her everything I know. “What do I do? Do I go? Do I send Lacey instead? Do I just…not show?”
But as I say the last two words, I know I won’t do that. I’ve been on the receiving end of not showing, and I won’t stand him up.
“Simple," she says, with authority. “You go.”
My stomach drops. Pressing a hand to the wall for balance, I ask, “Are you sure you didn’t mean to say I should spend the day working hard at the shelter so that Lacey can have more responsibility overseeing our charitable events?”
Delaney cracks up. “Yes, I’m completely sure I did not say that. Especially since, correct me if I’m wrong, but this is your job, not hers?”
I heave a sigh as I nod. Backing out isn’t my style anyway. This is my event and my responsibility. It’s not something I can push off on an assistant who’s still learning the ropes. Besides, with one cancellation already, I need to make sure Picnic in the Park comes together. The buck stops with me.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I say, resigned. “So, um, what do I do? I have no clue how to waltz into his restaurant like he didn’t totally devastate me when I stood waiting at Lincoln Center for a man who never showed.”