I stare out the window in the back of the cab. Raindrops beat rhythmically against the glass, blurring the city lights beyond. Secluded in the shadows, I let silent tears trail down my cheeks while the driver yells at a sports announcer on the radio. I don’t pay attention to which game is on or which landmarks we’re passing by, oblivious to anything other than the abysmal failure that is my life.
Every harsh thought and nagging self-criticism crashes over me, pressing down on my chest, making it difficult to breathe. I feel like I’m drowning. Drowning in doubt. In disappointment. In the downfall of my grand delusions.
Why did I think I could do this? Moving to New York, the list, trying to evolve into a new me, a better me. It was all a mistake. A monumental, misguided, foolish mistake.
Maybe it’s time to stop pretending and embrace the inevitable. Maybe it’s time for Quincy the Quitter to do what she does best.
I exit the cab and stand frozen on the curb, letting the rain erase any trace of tears before I head inside, even though it’s too early for Brynn or Ethan to be back from dinner.
In the dimly lit hallway, I turn the key in the lock, and my heart twists. Over the last several weeks, entering this apartment has felt like coming home. And now, it might be for the last time.
I ease open the front door, surprised to hear music on the other side. Frank Sinatra warbles his iconic love song to the city, “New York, New York,” in an oh-so-ironic homage to my potentially final entrance.
In a moment of profound melancholy, I’m rooted to the floor, mentally noting the marked difference from the first time I laid eyes on Brynn’s apartment, shrouded in shadows and unfamiliarity. Now, every inch radiates warmth and hominess.
Raindrops dapple the large picture windows and amber firelight illuminates Wilson and Whiskers, snoozing side by side on the soft shag rug in the living room. My throat tightens. I didn’t think about leaving Wilson. And what about Whiskers? If I bring her back to LA with me, the inseparable pair will be an entire continent apart. Tears sting afresh as I consider everything—and everyone—I’d be leaving behind.
I quickly dry my eyes on my sleeve as I follow the scent of sautéing garlic and onion to the kitchen and find Ethan chopping bell peppers at the center island. The scene is at once comforting and confounding. What is he doing home so early?
He smiles when he sees me, and my heart physically aches at the sight. Somehow, I’d managed to endure my entire adult life without his smile being the first thing I saw in the morning and the last thing I glimpsed when we bid each other goodnight. But as I look at him now, studying the slanted arch of his lips, the playful spark in his eyes, I don’t know how I survived so long without it.
“Whoa.” He regards my damp, bedraggled hair and the béarnaise sauce stain on my sweater. “What happened to you?”
“Cooking class casualty.” I slide past him and shove the raw salmon in the fridge. “I got an A for effort and an F for edible.”
“That’s probably because you had the wrong teacher. I’ll show you how to make a frittata that’ll knock your socks off.”
“Famous last words,” I tease, but he isn’t deterred.
“Before we get started, you need to change into proper cooking attire.” He gestures to his plaid pajama bottoms and snug Star Trek T-shirt.
I crack a smile. “Your chef’s whites look an awful lot like faded PJs.”
“I like to run a comfortable kitchen, but don’t let it fool you. The food is still five-star.”
“Even if your sous chef has zero culinary skills?”
“We’ll see about that.”
Something in his easy smile makes me consider his offer. Although I’ve already checked off the cooking class, and technically never have to step foot in a kitchen again, if I so choose, I find myself changing out of my damp clothes and into the same flannel pajamas from my first night in the city, the ones with cartoonish mugs of hot chocolate and winking marshmallows.
When I rejoin Ethan in the kitchen, Frankie Boy is crooning “Let Me Try Again,” as if he’s taken it upon himself to sing the soundtrack of my life. I stand beside Ethan at the large center island, and he hands me a brown speckled egg.
“We need six whole eggs.” He taps the side of a large ceramic mixing bowl.
“And by whole, you mean the egg whites, yolk, and the shell, right?”
“Although they’re a good source of calcium, try to limit the amount of shell.”
“I’ll do my best.” Not feeling optimistic, I whack the egg against the narrow rim, and the thick, translucent goo and plump yellow center plop into the bowl, along with a smattering of shell. Figures. With a sigh, I reach in and gingerly pluck them out, one sticky fragment at a time.
“Here. Let me show you a trick.” Ethan places another egg in my palm. This one is a pretty muted-green color. “Instead of using the rim, give it one solid tap on the counter.”
I shoot him a skeptical glance, but he nudges my arm. “Trust me.”
Bracing myself for a slimy mess, I do as he says, but nothing appears to happen. I cock my wrist, preparing to try again, but Ethan places his hand over mine. A quick, sharp current zips up my arm, and I almost drop the egg.
“Hang on a sec.” He turns my palm over, still cradling my hand in his. “See the tiny cracks?”
Sure enough, there’s a web of sinewy fissures I hadn’t noticed before. I nod mutely, too distracted by his touch to speak.
“Hold the egg over the bowl and gently press your thumbs on either side to break the membrane,” he instructs. “Then slowly pull apart.”
Although I hear every word he’s saying, my limbs no longer function, as if the electrical current fried my mainframe.
“Here. It’s not as tricky as it sounds.” He positions himself behind me, so close the heat from his body radiates between us. It takes every ounce of my self-control not to lean back against him and soak it in.
With his hands over mine, he guides me through the motions, and the egg glides into the bowl without a single speck of shell to be seen.
“See. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Ethan steps away, and I immediately miss the warm, steady assurance of his presence.
He delegates the remainder of the eggs to me and starts chopping basil. The sweet, potent scent permeates the kitchen, and I suddenly realize I’m starving. When was the last time I ate? My thoughts drift from my own missed meals to why Ethan is here, fixing dinner when he should be out with Harper.
“I thought you were having dinner with Harper tonight,” I say casually, cracking the last egg into the bowl.
Ethan hands me a whisk. “That was her suggestion, but I prefer to meet in a coffee shop since it’s easier to set up my laptop.”
“Your laptop?” I pause midwhisk. Why would he bring his laptop on a date?
“Yeah.” He shoots me a curious glance. “How else am I supposed to show her my sample websites? Sure, they’re all mobile optimized, but you get a much better picture on a computer screen.”
“Ethan,” I say slowly, still bewildered. “Why would you show Harper websites you’ve designed? I mean, I understand you’re proud of them, but isn’t that a bit gauche for a first date?”
“It wasn’t a date. She wants me to build a website for one of her clients. What made you think it was a date?”
I stare into the bowl of frothy, overly whisked eggs, thinking back to Harper’s text. She sure made it sound like a date. Or had I completely misread it? Not wanting to bring her text into the conversation, I say, “Well, it’s not so crazy to assume it was a date, is it? I mean, Harper is pretty perfect, don’t you think?”
He shrugs. “I guess it depends on your definition of perfection.”
“It’s a fairly universally understood concept, Ethan. Obviously, I don’t mean she’s entirely devoid of faults. But she’s beautiful, talented, accomplished, successful.” For some reason, I’m ticking off her selling points like I’m trying to convince him to ask her out, and I can’t figure out why. It’s as if all my innermost insecurities have manifested in praise of another woman, a woman who’s the epitome of everything I’ve always wanted to be but couldn’t be more opposite. “Did you know she speaks five languages?” I blather on, unable to stop myself. “And she’s competed in a triathlon. Twice. I bet she already knows how to crack an egg, too. I doubt there’s anything she can’t do, which basically makes her prime girlfriend material.”
“I guess.” Ethan layers the fresh herbs, bell peppers, and feta cheese evenly on the bottom of the cast iron skillet, then pours the egg mixture on top. “If you value those things.”
I watch him work, his movements so nonchalant, so casual. There’s something about the way he so easily dismisses all the characteristics and achievements I hold in high regard that rubs me the wrong way, as if everything I’d been taught to revere in life is worthless. “And you don’t?” I ask, my tone challenging.
He slides the skillet into the oven, then turns to meet my gaze, his expression measured and thoughtful. “Honestly? It doesn’t matter to me if someone is good at everything. Are they kind? Compassionate? Do they love others well?” Using a dish towel, he sweeps the scattered shells into a pile to discard. “Perfection is a myth. We all have cracks, scars, and weaknesses. Just like we all have different strengths. But when you’re a team, when you can lean on one another and help each other grow, that’s when you’ve found someone special, someone worthy of forever.”
His words wash over me, at once cleansing and utterly confusing, so contrary to everything I’ve ever known. In my world, worthiness was earned with accomplishments, by being the best. Ethan’s sentiment, on the other hand, was simple and sincere, tempting, and, if I’m honest, almost too good to be true.
Silence settles between us, weighty and unwieldy, but I don’t know what to say. My thoughts are too jumbled, too precarious.
It feels like I’m standing on the edge of a precipice. I could jump, but I have no idea what’s beneath me, and more than a small part of me is afraid to find out.