The Seven Year Slip

MY AUNT USED TO tell me that summer nights in the city were made to be impossible. They were as brief as you needed them, but never long enough, when the roads stretched into the darkness, the skyscrapers climbed into the stars, and when you tipped your head back, the sky felt infinite.

“So . . .” I began, because the silence between us was becoming a little awkward, “did you plan on what to say after you asked me to dinner?”

He flashed me a bashful smile. “Not really. I’m pretty bad at planning.”

“Ah.”

We walked another block silently.

Then, he asked the worst possible question—“How’s your aunt?”

The question felt like a punch in the gut. I put my hands in my pockets to keep them from shaking, and I steeled myself to answer. “She passed away. About six months ago.”

“Oh.” He rubbed the back of his neck, ashamed. “I—I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t expect you to.” We stopped at the next intersection, and glanced both ways before we crossed, but there were no cars coming either way. “It’s been seven years.”

“And you look like you haven’t aged a day.”

I leaned back on my heels, and started walking backward in front of him. “Do you want me to tell you my skincare routine?” Because I doubted he’d believe the truth. “I could give it to you in crystal-clear detail.”

“Are you saying I look old?”

“Distinguished is a much better spin on it.”

His mouth dropped open, and he pressed a hand to his chest with a gasp. “Ouch! And here I thought we were trying to get off on the right foot.”

“You were,” I reminded, unable to bite in a grin. I turned on my heels again and waited for him to catch up with me. “I’m joking, by the way.”

He pressed his hands against his face, as if he could smooth out the crow’s feet around his eyes. “I feel like I need to get Botox now . . .”

“I was joking!” I laughed.

“Maybe plastic surgery.”

“Oh, please, and ruin your perfect nose?”

“Am I balding, too? Maybe I can just get a new face altogether—”

I grabbed him by the arm to stop him. “I like your face,” I told him in good humor, and before I could stop myself, I reached up and cupped his cheek, my thumb tracing over the laughter lines around his mouth. A blush rushed up his throat to his cheeks, but instead of leaning away, he closed his eyes and leaned into the palm of my hand.

My heart stuttered brightly. The skin on his cheek was rough with fine stubble, and as I looked at him—really looked—there was so much the same about this man I didn’t really know, that it almost felt like I did. But for everything that was the same, there were small bits that were different. His eyebrows were groomed, his hair trimmed neat. I ran my thumb down his nose, feeling the crooked bump there.

“When did you break your nose?” I asked, finally dropping my hand.

His lips twitched into a grin. “It’s not nearly as cool of a story as you’re thinking.”

“So you didn’t break it in a bar fight?” I asked, mock aghast.

“Sister’s wedding about a year ago,” he replied. “She threw the bouquet. I was standing too close to the people trying to catch it.”

“And you got smacked by one of them?”

He shook his head. “By the bouquet. Had a little silver clasp on it. Smacked me right in the nose.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “You’re kidding! Did you at least catch the flowers?”

He scoffed. “What do you take me for? Of course I caught them. My sister and all her friends were livid.” We started walking again, and Washington Square Park was just ahead. There was a food truck on the far side, but I couldn’t make out the name of it yet.

“So, technically,” I realized, “you’re supposed to get married next.”

“That’s why they were livid, yes. I haven’t been much for commitment.”

“Your Instagram tells me as much.”

He gasped again. “I’m honored that you researched me!”

I pointed to myself. “Publicist. It’s my job.”

“Sure, sure,” he settled, and then gave a one-shouldered shrug. The kind I remembered—and it still infuriated me the exact same way. “Maybe I just hadn’t found who I was looking for yet.”

I glanced over at him. Studied the lines of his face, how the streetlights cut the shadows of his face sharp. “And who are you looking for, James?”

“Iwan,” he corrected softly, a thoughtful look flickering across his face. “My friends call me Iwan.”

I inclined my head. “Is that what I am?”

I wasn’t sure what kind of answer I wanted—that, yes, I was a friend? Or that, no, we shouldn’t cross professional boundaries? Or—

Do I want him to say I’m something more?

That was a silly thought, because I’d seen the type of women he had dated, and not a single one of them was like me—overworked nerdy publicists with art history degrees who spent their birthdays drinking wine out of flasks in front of van Gogh paintings.

“Well,” he began, “actually—”