We leave the park and head through the streets to meet up with her parents, chatting about the type of poetry she’d write if she were a famous poet someday.
“And I’d make sure to take my time,” she adds.
I linger on the notion of time, wondering how much I have with Delaney. What will it take to win her over? How many days or nights will she give me? But I also wonder what I’m trying to accomplish. Sometimes, I focus so much on the doing that I don’t always think about the why. Do I want to go back to the way it was with us or start something new entirely?
And the most important question of all is this—how do I get any of that without hurting her again?
When we meet Clay and Julia at a café for lunch, Carly climbs into her dad’s lap and throws her arms around him. He nuzzles her face, then Carly gives her mom a kiss on the cheek.
Later, when the meal ends and Julia and Carly head off to the ladies’ room, it’s just Clay and me at the table.
I meet his eyes. “You were right.”
“I usually am. But about what this time?”
“It was regret fueling me with Delaney. Not just curiosity. Not just the possibilities.”
He nods knowingly. “Thought it might be.”
“I was an ass when I ended it with her. I fucking regret it. And I want her back.”
He holds up a hand. “One question first. Is it still regret that’s driving you?”
I flash back to this morning in her mailroom, to earlier in the park, to last night at the bar. Yes, I acknowledged my regret, but that’s a damn good thing. Regret can make you change. “It’s that, but it’s also something more. Something deeper.” I tap my breastbone. “Something in here.”
I don’t name it. Not yet. Instead, I give him a quick overview of what’s transpired in the last week. “Tell me what to do next,” I say, wanting, needing his insight. The man is older, wiser, smarter.
Clay chuckles deeply and leans back in his chair. “How much time do you have to win her back?”
“That’s the question. I don’t actually know.”
He sets his elbows on the table and looks me square in the eyes. “Look, there’s no roadmap. There’s no set of instructions to follow. You hurt the woman before, but she seems to be giving you another chance. Let’s start with this—don’t be an asshole. The world is full of pricks and selfish fuckers and far too many man-children. Then, you’ve got the guys who are so goddamn self-absorbed you wonder if they were raised by coddlers, and then you’ve got men who have so little fucking backbone they can’t wipe their own ass.”
I shudder, and he points at me, that intense look in his dark eyes. “You’re not any of those, Tyler. You’re a man, and you behave like a man. The number one rule that most men today forget is this —don’t be an asshole. The world is full of assholes. Be a man.”
17
Delaney
* * *
Nicole marches along the cobblestones, stops in front of me, and shoots me a dagger stare outside Jen and Dena’s Wig Emporium in Greenwich Village. A mannequin head sporting a leprechaun green bob cut peers at us with unblinking eyes.
Nicole parks her hands on her hips. “What do you have to say for yourself, missy?”
“I’m in the market for a fun new wig?” I offer tentatively, hoping to deflect a lashing from one of my closest friends even as I brace for it.
The only saving grace will be strength in numbers, since Penny’s on my team. But she’s not here yet, and these bodiless heads in the display window aren’t going to save me from Nicole’s ire. I gird myself for the verbal whipping.
Her green eyes narrow. “Let’s talk about why we’re getting two wigs.” She taps her toe on the sidewalk, the leather boot beating a rhythm of frustration. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
She opens her mouth wide, but words seem to fail her. I smirk. Nicole is rarely speechless. But the dialogue desertion doesn’t last long. “You have some serious explaining to do.” She pokes my shoulder. “How did one drink turn into a morning jog, and then another date? A date we need to go wig shopping for, of all things?”
I break down her question into the easily manageable parts. “I try to run every morning, and you’re allergic to six a.m. starts. So Tyler went with me, and then we ran into a client in the park, and she invited us to her party.”
Yes, there. Blame it on Gigi.
Nicole huffs and wags a scolding finger at me. “Now you’re trying to talk circles around me, when all I’m trying to do is protect you from getting hurt.”
“Nicole,” I say plaintively. I know she means well. I know she’s only pissed because she’s looking out for me in a super protective, mama bear, slash-anyone-who-comes-near-her-cubs way.
She heaves a sigh and then softens. “‘Laney-girl, exes are bad news. Do I need to remind you of the top five reasons you should never get back together with an ex even if he blows your mind in bed?”
That was the title of one of her recent columns. I read it, but I didn’t memorize it. Seems I didn’t need to, though, because she holds up her index finger, and I’ve got a feeling she knows this quintet cold.
“Number one. You broke up for a reason.” She stares me down.
I hold out my hands, admitting that much.
“Number two.” She counts off with two fingers. “He hurt you like a son of a bitch.”