The Seven Year Slip

AFTER I TRIED TO go back four—no, five—times, I finally gave up and realized that the apartment wasn’t going to send me back to him today, and decided to go run some errands. I locked the door and shoved my keys into my purse as I headed out of the building. I didn’t want to stay right now, with the feeling of Iwan’s hand still in mine. At the front desk, Earl closed his latest James Patterson novel and waved to me. “Oh, hello, Clementine! Summer really blows up thunderstorms in a blink, don’t it?” he said as I came up to the revolving door and looked out into the dreary gray rain. I was glad I didn’t look that hungover, though I felt it in every bone in my body. “You know, I remember when you and your aunt would come down the elevator and race into the courtyard and come back in soaking wet.” He shook his head. “It’s a wonder you never caught your death out there.”

“She always said dancing in the rain made you live longer,” I replied, though it was silly and certifiably untrue. It was a nice thought, even if it turned out to be false.

“I’ll have to try it someday,” he replied with a laugh. “Maybe I’ll live forever!”

“Maybe,” I conceded, and leaned against the desk to wait out the storm. Whenever rain would begin to drum on the windows, wherever my aunt and I were—it didn’t matter if we were home, or in some foreign place—she would grab my hand and pull me out into the rain. She would stretch out her arms and tilt her head back to the sky. Because that’s what life felt like, she’d always say.

That’s what life was for—

Who else could say they danced in the rain in front of the Louvre?

“Come on, my darling Clementine,” she urged, coaxing me into the downpour in front of Paris’s famous museum, the great glass pyramid our dance partner. Then she raised her hands over her head and closed her eyes as if to channel some divine power. She struck a pose and began to shake her shoulders. “You only live once!”

“What? No, stop,” I begged, my shoes squeaky, my pretty yellow dress already soaked through. “Everyone is looking!”

“Of course they are, they want to be us!” She grabbed me by my hands and threw them up, and spun me around the cobblestones, a waltz against sadness, and against death, and grief, and heartache. “Enjoy the rain! You never know when it will be your last.”

That was the thing about my aunt, she lived in the moment because she always figured it’d be her last. There was never a rhyme or reason to it—even when she was healthy, she lived like she was dying, the taste of mortality on her tongue.

I used to love the way she saw the world, always as one last breath before the end, drinking in everything as if she never would again, and maybe I still loved bits of that.

I loved how she spent every moment making a memory, every second living wide and full, and I hated that she never thought—never once entertained the idea—that she would have another dance in the rain.

The confused looks of the tourists in the courtyard of the Louvre melted into wonder as she pulled them—all strangers—one by one into the storm. A violinist who had sought shelter under the brim of a newspaper stall lifted their instrument to their shoulder and started playing again, and kids ran out to join us, and soon everyone was spinning around in the rain.

Because that was my aunt. That was the kind of person she was.

The melody of an ABBA song sang over the violinist’s strings, a yawp about taking chances, about falling in love, and we danced, and the next day I’d caught a cold and spent the rest of the week in the apartment we’d rented, surviving on brothy soup and club soda. We never told my parents that I’d gotten sick, only that we’d danced in the rain.

I never told my parents the bad bits, anyway.

Maybe if I had . . .

The rain began to let up as Earl said, “Oh, I think you’ve got something in your mailbox.”

My mailbox. It felt so jarring to hear. It was supposed to be my aunt’s, but I had the keys now, and any letters addressed to her had gone unanswered for the last six months anyway. She didn’t get much mail anymore, after I’d closed her bank account and credit cards, but sometimes there would be a piece of junk mail, so I went over to the row of golden mailboxes and took out my key.

“What is it?” I asked as I opened it.

He shrugged. “Just a letter, I think.”

A letter? My curiosity was overtaken by dread. Perhaps a letter returned to sender, address unknown. Perhaps it was junk mail in disguise. Or maybe—

I unlocked the mailbox and took it out. It looked like junk—like everything else that came for her—until I noticed the handwritten address in the corner.

From Vera.

My heart leapt into my throat. Vera—my aunt’s Vera? The Vera from her stories? Black spots crept into the edges of my vision. My chest was tight. This was too real, too quickly.

“Clementine?” I heard Earl say. “Clementine, is everything all right?”

I tore my eyes away from the letter, and shoved it into my purse. “Fine,” I replied too quickly, and tried to steady my breathing. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t believe me, but the rain had let up and sunshine poured onto the street between the clouds, and it was my chance to leave.

“Have a good day, Earl.” I waved to him as I slipped out of the revolving doors and into the hot and muggy Saturday afternoon to take a walk, and try to clear my head.

THAT EVENING, I CALLED Drew and Fiona to dinner for an emergency meeting. Drew wanted to try this new Asian fusion place down in NoHo, but when we got there, the line was out the door and the wait to be seated was at least an hour. Fiona didn’t want to wait an hour, and Drew hadn’t thought it’d be so busy on a Saturday evening that we’d have needed to reserve a table, since it was new and no one had heard about it yet. Turned out, Time Out had written a killer review for the place a few days ago, so now everyone wanted to try the sriracha egg rolls.

“Maybe there’s somewhere else around here,” Drew muttered, pulling out her phone, but it was prime dinner time and I was sure almost everywhere would be relatively busy. The muggy afternoon had given way to a warm and summery evening, clouds rolling across the orange and pink sky like tumbleweeds.

“Maybe somewhere with outdoor seating?” Fiona asked, looking over Drew’s shoulder to skim Yelp.

I tilted my head back in the sunlight, waiting for them to decide where to go, since I wasn’t all that picky, and Fiona had the most dietary restrictions out of all of us. They were arguing over whether or not we should just cut our losses and skip over to another restaurant in the West Village since Fiona didn’t want to keep wandering aimlessly, when I spied a familiar bright yellow truck at the far end of the street, parked exactly where it had been last night—at Washington Square Park.

Catering to the summer college crowd, as usual.

I said, “How about fajitas?”

They gave me a confused look. Drew said, scrolling through her phone, “Where is that . . . ?”

“What’s the rating?” Fiona added.

I turned them around and pushed them down the sidewalk. “Trust me, where we’re going, we don’t need ratings.”

They tried to argue with me until they caught sight of the food truck and the line curling down the sidewalk. Most of the people in line were either students from NYU or tourists who found themselves down by the Washington Square Arch, drawn in by the smell of grilled meats and nineties pop songs.

“This place sounds delicious,” Drew said as Fiona found the food truck’s Instagram handle and took a photo to tag them. “How’d you know about it?”

I had dinner with James Ashton last night, who just so happens to be a not-so-old flame of mine—it’s complicated—and his friends own this truck is what I would have said if not for . . . everything. Though I figured if I did say that, then it would just open up a can of worms, and Drew would start asking questions about how I knew James Ashton, when I met him—things that I couldn’t exactly lie about because I actually met Drew and Fiona seven years ago, and they would have remembered a guy like James back then.

So a somewhat truth it was.

“Don’t get mad, but James actually showed me this place last night after the cooking class.”

Drew’s eyes widened. “The chef?”

I nodded and Fiona gasped, “Clementine!”

“It was just dinner! We were both still a little hungry, and my Uber failed to pick me up and . . . anyway, the people who own this food truck are his friends.”

Drew seemed a little hesitant, something I understood because, let’s face it, if the other imprints found out that I’d been spending time with the author outside work functions, it would look . . .

Well, there would be rumors, to say the least.

In PR, any publicity was good publicity, but not in this case. In this case, it would look highly unprofessional, and Drew knew I wouldn’t sacrifice my career that way. At least, I hoped she did.

As we waited to order, Fiona asked, “So, why did you call for an emergency meeting?”

“Oh!” I’d almost forgotten. I reached into my purse and drew out the letter. “I got this in my aunt’s—in my mailbox at the Monroe,” I quickly corrected.

“A letter?” Drew muttered, and then her eyes widened when she read who it was addressed to. “Your aunt?”

“Who’s Vera?” Fiona added.

“Vera was a . . . she and my aunt dated thirty-something years ago. My aunt never talked much about her, but Vera was very, very important to her.” So important that she chose to let her go instead—afraid that what they had could only get worse. Because people changed over seven years, and Analea and Vera were no different. It was like how Iwan had changed into James. How I would change in the seven years to come. “I don’t know what to do. Should I return it to sender or just keep it?”

“It’s dated only a few days ago,” Fiona noted. “I don’t think she knows your aunt is gone. Maybe you should tell her? In a letter back to her? Or, since you have her address, in person?”

“But what would she say?” Drew asked, and then shook her head. “I’d just return it to sender.”

“But what if they were in love?”

“Then why wouldn’t she know that Analea’s dead?”

I listened to them argue back and forth, looking down at the long and loopy handwriting that belonged to a woman I’d only heard about in my aunt’s stories. A woman who had gone through much of the same thing that Iwan and I were currently navigating. My aunt had told me her side of the story, and I’d just assumed that Vera had disappeared and gone to live her life, but this letter proved otherwise. They’d still kept in touch, years later.

Why didn’t my aunt ever say so?

“Clementine?” Drew knocked her shoulder against mine, a little worried. “We’re almost to the window.”

I quickly put the letter away again. “Right, right, thanks.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I dunno,” I replied truthfully.

Fiona wove her arm through mine. “Well, whatever you choose, we’ll be with you.”

That meant a lot, and I squeezed her arm tightly.

When we stepped up in line, Miguel’s eyes instantly lit up. He threw his arms up and said, “Hey! Long time no see! So good you came back for more, eh, eh?” He asked with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“Couldn’t stay away.”

Isa said, leaning out the window, “And who’re your friends?”

“Fiona and Drew.” I motioned to them, and they waved politely. “This is Miguel and Isa.”

“Pleasure,” Miguel said with a wave. “I love meeting new friends.”

“Lemon here told us a bit about you,” Isa agreed.

Drew and Fiona gave me a strange look. “Lemon?” Drew asked.

“A nickname,” I quickly replied. “Can I get a chicken fajita and . . . ?” I looked to them for their orders, and they said what they wanted. “And a bottle of water.”

“No beer?” he asked.

The thought of it made me green. I was still feeling the effects of last night’s drinking. Iwan could absolutely drink me under the table. “Water is perfect.”

“Fine, fine, bottles are around the side in a cooler,” he said, and I began to take out my card to pay, but Drew waved her hand to shoo me off.

“I’ve got it.”

“But—”

“Seriously, our treat. Two more bottles of water, though.”

“Gotcha.” He nodded, and keyed it into his tablet. Drew finished paying as I went around to the side of the food truck where Miguel said the waters would be. There was a man sitting on the cooler.

I froze.

He quickly righted himself. Even with a baseball cap pulled low over his curls, I recognized the crescent-shaped birthmark on his collarbone between the open neck of his dark Henley. Oh. “James?” I asked.

His eyes widened. “Lemon?”

“What are you doing here?” I asked, because if Drew and Fiona saw him, they would immediately assume that I took them here so that I could see him. And I was sure they’d never let me live that down.

He seemed perplexed. “They’re my friends! I hang out here sometimes.”

“Don’t you have a restaurant to run?”

“Usually . . . ?” he replied hesitantly. “I’m in the process of prepping my new restaurant for a soft opening. Isa and Miguel are going to help me with some last-minute touches later. What are you doing here?”

“I brought my friends to try your friends’ food.”

“Friends . . .” His nose scrunched as he thought—and then he sat up straight. “They’re here?”

“. . . Yes?”

Drew called from the front of the truck. “Everything all right, Clementine?”

I replied, “Fine! The cooler’s just—uh—cold!” And I waved my hand for him to open the cooler he was sitting on and get the waters out. “Why’re you acting so strange?” I murmured to him.

Miguel called, “Iwan should be back there. Get him to get them!”

James and I locked eyes. “Thanks!” I called back, as James muttered under his breath and plunged his hands into the icy water, and took out three bottles. He handed them to me.

“I’m not acting strange,” he replied, and then I realized what was off—

“Oh my god, you’re hungover—we didn’t even drink that much last night!” I replied. Well, he didn’t drink very much. The him seven years ago drank me under the table.

“You don’t look so great yourself,” he replied wryly. We both looked a little green around the gills, to be honest. He glanced behind me, debating on whether to say hello to my friends. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m in fighting shape to meet them right now.”

“You’ve already met Drew, it’s just her wife you haven’t.”

“Ah, the editor—yes, I think it might be best if she doesn’t see me hungover,” he reasoned with a nod. “Would that be okay?”

It was adorable that he asked. “You get one Get out of Jail Free card.”

“I’m taking it,” he replied somberly. “I’ll be sure to make it up to—” His words caught in his throat. Then, without warning, he reached toward me, brushing my hair to the side, and his pale eyes grew dark and stormy. He pursed his lips together, and I didn’t understand why until—

“Seems like you had a good night, too,” he joked.

And then I realized. “Oh my god,” I gasped, quickly reeling away, and pulled down my hair to cover the bruise there. Well, the hickey. I’d tried hard to cover it with concealer this morning, but it must have worn off throughout the day.

“Had another date after dinner last night?” he egged me on. “Was it hot?”

I gave him a silent look. He didn’t understand for a moment, and then his eyes widened, and he pressed his fingers against his mouth.

And all he said as he remembered was—

“Oh.”

I cleared my throat. “It was, in fact.”

“Was what?” His eyes were a little dazed.

I replied, “Hot.”

He groaned, then, and pulled his hands through his hair. “You can’t do that, Lemon.”

“You asked.”

He sounded absolutely destroyed as he replied, “I know. It drives me crazy.” His face pinched. “For me it was seven years ago, and for you it was last night.”

“Technically this morning, too,” I corrected.

He made a pained noise in his throat. “Of course, how could I forget?”

“I’m not sure, really. It was very good sex.” I inclined my head a little, studying this man standing in the shadow of his friend’s food truck, hungover for—what I suspected—was the same reason I was: each other. Though I was very certain I had more fun last night than he did.

He rubbed his face with his hands. “If this was to get back at me for turning you down last night—”

“Oh, don’t worry, you didn’t.”

“You know what I mean,” he growled. Right—he thought I went back to the apartment last night, and had sex with his past self to make his present self jealous.

I rolled my eyes. “Well, you’re wrong. The apartment does what it wants to when it wants to—it’s not my fault you want nothing to do with me now.”

He took a step closer, close enough I could kiss him, if I dared. “Nothing to do with you?” he whispered, incredulous. “I remember how you taste, Lemon, the sound of your breath as I held you.” I felt my skin getting hot even as I pressed a water bottle to the side of my neck and looked away. “I remember the way you counted the tattoos on my skin, the shape of your mouth, the way your body felt when you came for me,” he muttered, gliding his fingertips across my furiously red cheeks. “And I still fucking love the way you blush. It drives me crazy.”

My mouth fell open. Heart hammered against my chest. He didn’t look like James for a moment, but Iwan, my Iwan, looking out from a face seven years stranger. And I thought he was going to bend down, to steal a kiss, but he stepped away and quickly climbed into the back of the truck as Drew turned the corner.

“Hey,” she said, our food in her hands, “is everything okay?”

“Fine!” I squeaked, quickly turning around. The sooner we left, the better. “I got the bottles of water! We should go.”

Drew gave me a confused look. “Okay . . .”

“Onward! Let’s go sit by the fountain,” I said, quickly herding her and Fiona away from the food truck. I glanced behind me when we’d crossed the street, and saw James climbing out of the back of the truck. Then he pulled his cap low and left the opposite way.

Off-limits, I reminded myself, turning back to my friends. He’s off-limits.