ERICA LOVES NEW YORK AT night—the city relaxes a little, people’s pace slows, the streets are filled with laughter and lovers, the neon casts a comforting glow. Greg lives on Riverside Drive and Erica’s rental is on Fifty-Seventh between Ninth and Tenth. He walks her home in an easy silence. Several times their shoulders touch and she feels heat at the spot. And that scares her. She hasn’t navigated the minefield of attraction since before her marriage a decade ago. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Her life was going to be all work and nothing but. In a year maybe, but not now. And not with a colleague. She has to nip it in the bud. But the feeling of his closeness when she breathes, when she moves, is exquisite, and it makes her feel alive.
“Are you okay?” Greg asks softly. “Sometimes my curiosity gets the best of me.”
“I guess we both have wounds that are still raw.” Walking through the crowds creates, ironically, a feeling of intimacy between them. They’re in their own private bubble surrounded by the soothing sea of humanity. It makes Erica feel safe, being with Greg like this. She decides to come clean. Well, clean-ish. She lowers her voice and leans into him.
“My drinking was escalating. My ex-husband began an affair with a family friend. He filed for divorce. There were ugly accusations on both sides. We got into a custody fight over Jenny. I got sober and he got into therapy. When you hired me, I didn’t want to pull her out of her school, which she loves, and I knew my life would be so work-focused and my hours so erratic and I would probably be traveling a lot, so I gave Dirk sole custody for a year. I have visitation rights. So far it seems to be working, except that I miss her so much . . . Well, I’m not going to admit to you or anyone else that I sometimes cry myself to sleep.”
“Was Jenny traumatized by the divorce?”
“Yes, she was. And is. And I have a lot of guilt about that. But we’re moving forward. She’s doing pretty well all in all. My lawyer got the court records sealed. I think we just need some time.” Erica feels a sense of relief: her story is on the table. Even if it’s not the whole story. Even if she left out the darkest details.
Greg walks with his head down, taking it all in. Then he says, “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
His words are so simple, his tone so sincere—Erica has an urge to take his hand in hers and kiss it, hold it to her cheek. She’s saved by geography.
“This is my building.”
They stand facing each other—his eyes are so soulful, he’s a kind and intriguing man. She wants to know him, all of him.
“Thank you for dinner,” he says.
“My pleasure.”
“I had a nice time.”
“So did I.”
Some subterranean force, some wave, cosmic and undeniable, pulls their bodies toward each other. No! Erica turns a half step away. There will be another time for this. A look of disappointment flashes across Greg’s face but is quickly gone. He understands.
Erica walks past the doorman, takes the elevator to the ninth floor, goes down the hall and into her apartment. Not even stopping to take off the beautiful dress, she sits in front of her computer and googles hostas.