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The morning light woke Casey with a sharp headache and a dry taste in her mouth. She rolled over on the couch and pinched her eyes shut. At least Ben had made her down a glass of water as soon as they got to the restaurant, and the spicy Thai noodles had kept her hydrating the rest of the night, keeping a full-blown hangover at bay. She didn’t want to think of how much worse her head would feel if she’d stayed at the gallery, drinking.
The gallery—there was no way she was going back there, except to pick up her work. She and Ben had talked about it long into the night. It was great to have a show, but that didn’t obligate her to anything. She could get good reviews, she could get bad ones. She could even sell a few paintings if she was lucky—and if there had been any truth to Geoffrey’s flirtatious updates throughout the night, then there was a good chance she had been. But she didn’t have to live in New York to be an artist. If being an artist was even what she wanted.
“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” Ben had said, smiling at her with admiration in his eyes. “It’s obviously working out.”
She didn’t have the strength to list all the much more obvious ways in which it wasn’t. What was she doing in a cramped Thai restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen sharing dumplings with a man she had been prepared to give her whole self to, who once made love to her on a mountain top and made her heart sing, who now sat across from her fanning his peppery tongue like it was totally normal and okay to pretend they were friends after he’d broken her heart?
Instead she’d shrugged and asked Ben if he wanted to split the last chicken skewer. She’d fight him for the last drop of the peanut sauce, creamy and spicy and a little bit sweet. The restaurant was tiny, only eight or nine tables and a narrow passageway between them. But Ben was right, it was delicious. The flames flared up in the kitchen from the pans, open to the cramped dining room redolent with herbs. They ordered the whole fried snapper and Casey greedily licked the delicate flakes from the bones. For all the benefits of Bonnet, good Thai food wasn’t one of them.
At least the food and the gallery had given them things to talk about. Because when she asked Ben what he’d been up to, she could see him squirm. He was keeping his cool, but then seemed unable to meet her eyes. He had everything he could have wanted, including a fabulous apartment and a job that chefs with a decade on him in years and experience would kill for, which he said was keeping him busy and teaching him more than any school ever could. So what was that other look in his eyes, the thing he clearly didn’t want to say? Was he even happy here?
It had felt so easy to be with him again, falling into the same closeness that had captivated them almost a year before. And yet she couldn’t shake the sense that there was something he was avoiding. She lay on the couch, squinting at the grey city light through the window, and tried to figure out what it was.
Remembering how good the food had been the night before brought her thoughts to focus on breakfast. Specifically, to a memory of a cranberry-walnut muffin, light and buttery as it broke apart in her hands, steam from the campfire wafting from a warm paper bag. At any other point, the recollection would have made her heart ache. But this morning, it filled her with something different. Something almost like peace.
If there was one thing Casey knew about Ben, it was that he was all about good food. New York must have been a heaven for him, with so many new places to try and traditions to draw on. For the first time, she recognized the appeal for him. She saw how wrong it would have been for him to give that up for Bonnet, where Pam’s griddle and Mrs. Geller’s roast were the best thing going in town.
Even if he had come to Bonnet after he graduated, he never could have stayed away from the city. Suddenly she understood, as clearly as if it had been written in neon lights on a corner deli sign. Ben needed to stay in New York.
And that was okay.
She sat up on the couch, stretched her back, and listened for signs of life from the bedroom. Neither Hannah nor Jen were stirring yet. She had taken the subway back after dinner with Ben and let herself in, stripping off the tight dress and tearing the stockings even more in her haste to get them off. Her pajamas were a blessing and she’d fallen asleep instantly. It was even later when Hannah and Jen stumbled home—they must have gone out after the opening. She was glad they were still sleeping. She didn’t want to face their disapproval for how she’d taken off the night before.
That whole part of the evening was still a blur, a drunken wash of emotions too hard to make out. She replayed again her long goodbye with Ben when they’d reached Atlantic Terminal and transferred from the express to their respective local trains. He’d hugged her on the platform, to the roar of the subways clattering by and the high-pitched shouts of a gaggle of teenagers barreling down the stairs.
“Thank you,” she’d said, meaning for dinner but even more so, for coming to the show even though he’d been stung that she hadn’t invited him. And most importantly, for whisking her away when she needed it most.
“Anytime,” he’d said, giving her one last hug and then abruptly drawing away. His train had pulled into the station and he waved goodbye through the closing doors before the tunnel swallowed him up and he was gone.
She wasn’t really expecting anything more to happen—it was only earlier that evening that the mere sight of him had reduced her to tears. But he was the one who’d insisted on tracking her down, who pulled that ridiculous stunt in the bathroom that still made her giggle, who suggested they leave the gallery together, and who asked her out to dinner after that. He was the one who obviously wanted to see her, after leaving her in the lurch all those months ago. It had certainly felt as if he wanted to be with her. It was a date in every sense.
Except that it ended with nothing more than a lingering hug. He hadn’t invited her back to his two-bedroom apartment, even when he knew Casey had been sleeping on a couch all week. He didn’t even graze her cheek with a kiss.
Somehow, despite the way such a disastrous evening had ended up almost exactly right, she’d still wound up here, her hair frizzing out in a mess that refused to stay straight a second longer, her back aching from all the nights on the couch, her head pounding through the fog, and her feet screaming bloody murder at what she’d put them through.
But for all that she’d longed to fall into his arms, she knew it was for the best that she’d come back alone. She didn’t want to jump into anything right away.
The way they immediately clicked again despite so much time apart had reminded her of something he’d once said. People don’t waltz into her life every day with the exact combination of humor, compassion, and grace that make her weak in the knees. She refused to believe that he hadn’t sensed it too. The way they fell in step with each other, even after all they’d been through.
Squinting at the morning light struggling through the window, Casey knew what she wanted. She wanted Bonnet, but she also wanted Ben.
She slipped into the bathroom and quietly dressed. Then she scribbled a hasty note to Hannah and Jen and slid out the door, hoping it wasn’t too early—or too late.
She had to act fast, before she lost her resolve and talked herself out of one of the most important moments of her life. Because as her headache receded under the hard, slate February sky, she was determined. There was more she had to say to Ben beyond what last night’s simple thank-you covered. But it had to be said in person, and it had to be said now. She was going to go over to his apartment and tell him point blank that she wasn’t letting him go.
Ben had walked away from what they had, but she had rolled over and accepted his verdict, as though a relationship didn’t involve two people working things through. This time she wasn’t giving up without a fight.
Her certainty grew every step of the way. There was no reason either of them had to choose between the chemistry they shared and the places they wanted to live. They would have to find a way to make it work, the way everybody everywhere gritted their teeth and made it happen, no matter where they called home.
She knew where Ben lived from their earlier conversation, and while she wasn’t sure of the apartment number, she’d figure it out from the buzzer. She could have driven or taken the subway, but it was only a few stops and she wanted to walk. She stopped at a café on Fifth Avenue for a large French roast and picked up two almond croissants to go, hoping to find out whether Ben had perfected his recipe yet.
The coffee was bitter and she added too much cream to compensate. She missed Bonnet suddenly, with a warmth and longing that wasn’t just the liquid steaming in the cup. In the middle of Brooklyn, stepping aside for a jogging stroller pushed by a blonde mother in yoga pants with tattoos up both arms, she knew without a doubt that Bonnet was home for her. New York was an interlude, a bad dream that sometimes recurred but always ended with her escape.
The streets were getting busier as she walked briskly down the avenue, noticing all the façades that had changed in the two years since she’d been gone. Turnover here was fast, and there were more restaurants and a handful of new cafés along the streets she used to know well, walking with Nick and talking through his ideas for the book that seemed like it was never going to materialize—until it did. A pet store had taken over what used to be a tiny Mexican joint they would get takeout from on the nights she taught late. The old tile and carpeting store now sold wine. Her former hairdresser was still there and she scurried by, irrationally guilty about her split ends, all the evidence of her failed straightening experiment knotted back in a messy bun.
Now she turned off the avenue and onto a tree-lined street filled with historic brownstones, marveling at what an incredible location Ben had. For the city, this section was quiet and slightly removed, a shaded oasis in the middle of concrete. The buildings were rich brown with elegant details—a trellis up the side, a wrought-iron gate, ornate doors with frosted windows.
Based on Ben’s description, it was easy to find his building in the middle of the block, heading up the hill toward Sixth Ave and, beyond that, the leafy entrance to the park. It was exactly the type of location someone would choose who was familiar enough with the city to know the right Brooklyn zip code, but not someone who actually had to live there and so paid attention to things like subway locations. It wasn’t exactly far from anything, but it was still a short walk to get to two different local lines, both of which made for long commutes.
Casey pushed open the gate and climbed the steps, admiring the small garden in front. She was peering into the double windows etched with a decorative design, scanning the names on the mailboxes to find which buzzer to ring, when a woman came up the steps behind her.
She was a petite brunette with a short pixie haircut, chunky layers fanned asymmetrically around her bird-like face. Her herringbone coat was unbuttoned, revealing a black top somewhere between a dress and a sweater that fell with a cowl around her delicate neck.
She smiled and Casey smiled back, stepping aside so the woman could reach the buzzers. Four floors, eight apartments—no reason she couldn’t be visiting somebody else in the building.
But there was only one person at that address who was inundated with visitors that morning. Casey saw the name on the mailbox—Mailer, B. 4E—right as the woman pressed the very same buzzer. She’d been so busy imagining the delight on Ben’s face when he let her in that it took her a moment to realize that the gasp she’d heard was coming from her.
And that sick feeling suddenly washing over her? That was her stomach, which had suddenly dropped to her knees.
The intercom clicked. “Hello?”
“It’s me!” The woman beamed at the intercom, as if Ben would hear her smile.
“Be right down,” he called.
The intercom clicked off. The woman tugged on her coat, adjusted her hair. Casey should have left right then and there, but somehow her feet wouldn’t move.
Because Ben wasn’t upstairs in bed sleeping off the late night, regretting having been too gentlemanly to pursue any untoward advances in Casey’s drunken, emotional state.
Nor was he pining away in the hopes of seeing her soon, desperate for her to share all her newfound discoveries with him.
Instead he was bounding down the stairs, headed right for pixie girl glowing on the stoop with a stardust look in her eyes that Casey unfortunately knew all too well.
It all happened so fast, but time slowed inside Casey’s crumbling heart until she could see every painful detail unfolding, replaying endlessly in her mind until she wished the screen would go blank. He was mid-stride out the door when he caught sight of not one but two women waiting for him, and in that instant his face passed from surprise to confusion to a flicker of something else—nervous and not at all thrilled.
There was an awkward moment when the girl pushed by Casey, thinking she was some stranger in the way, but Casey couldn’t be inches from Ben and not act familiar. She gave him a puzzled frown, and that was when Ben masked the play of emotions flickering over his face with a smile.
“Casey,” he exclaimed. She clutched the bag in her hand tight enough to smoosh the croissants. What was going on?
He turned toward the pixie dressed in black. “Lauren, great to see you. This is Casey. Casey, Lauren.” Lauren extended her hand, her mouth smiling but her eyes hard and flat, eyeing Casey as though protecting the stoop from invasion.
No, it wasn’t the stoop she was guarding. It was Ben.
“Hi. Nice to meet you.” She paused, then added in case it wasn’t clear enough, “Ben and I had a brunch date planned for this morning. Unless you two—” She left the question dangling, eyes darting uncertainly between them.
“I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by,” Casey said quickly. “I didn’t realize Ben had...plans.” She shot him a look.
“Casey’s an old friend who’s in town,” Ben said carefully. “She has an art show up at a Chelsea gallery. And Lauren’s friends with Braise—you remember him? From the campsite? She moved here a few weeks ago and...and Braise put us in touch.” He nearly swallowed the end of sentence he was speaking so fast.
Right, Casey thought. Good old Braise, always looking out for a friend.
No wonder he hadn’t invited Casey over last night. No wonder he’d kept things so chaste. In Ben’s mind, they were friends catching up. All the nonsense he’d rattled off about how beautiful and talented and special she was? Those were just nice things to make her feel better about the show. Things a friend would say—nothing more.
Because he had a date this morning. He had plans. He had a whole life here, and it had nothing to do with her anymore.
Casey bit back everything she’d hoped to say to him, her mind racing to come up with an excuse for why she was there.
“I wanted to invite you to the show,” she said, picking up on Ben’s cue. “Both of you,” she added, though it made her stomach burn.
But in the same way she’d pinched herself into Hannah’s clothes last night, she was an actress playing a part, and she had to keep it together. If she read her lines properly, eventually it would all be over.
Assuming she could make it out of their sight before she collapsed.
This girl was clearly Ben’s age—not to mention tiny, pocket-sized, a perfect put-together vision of Brooklyn chic. Casey felt gargantuan beside her, all hips and thighs and frizzy hair the color of carrots in dirt. Ben may have once said he liked hips and thighs and bright curly hair, but towering over this twit like some colossal giant, Casey saw the truth clearer than she had since Ben first walked into her office, brandishing Nick’s book. The two of them were never going to last.
Either he’d lied to her, or more likely he’d come to his senses, realized he could have any woman he wanted, and immediately found someone so much better than she.
“Oh, wow.” Lauren’s eyes lit up, apparently satisfied that this frumpy older artist wasn’t a threat. “We’d love to go, wouldn’t we, Ben?”
The “we” made Casey want to throw up, but Ben didn’t look like he was faring much better. He’d completely neglected to respond to Lauren’s question.
“Ben?” Lauren asked again. She laughed. “Obviously he’s useless before coffee.”
“I bet,” Casey murmured, in no way showing that she knew exactly what Ben was like before coffee, during, and after.
“What?” Ben blinked. “Yes, I mean, of course we’d love to go.”
That “we” again. There was an awkward pause.
“Well, we were just heading to brunch,” Lauren prodded.
“Right,” Ben said carefully. And then, “I’m sorry Lauren, could you give us a minute?”
“Of course.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “Listen, if you want to cancel or reschedule or something, we can do this another time.”
“I only need a minute. Casey?” He fished out his keys like he was going to open the door for them step inside. But Casey didn’t need another minute of this. Or another second. She didn’t think she could take it anymore.
“Actually I’ve got to run,” she blurted out. “It was great to see you. Have a nice brunch.”
She raced down the stairs before she could change her mind, flinging open the gate and hearing it close with a satisfying bang.
She heard Ben call her name behind her, but she was already powering down the street. Let him keep his brunch date. He didn’t have to worry about Cassandra Webb getting in the way anymore.
Maybe it wasn’t that kind of date. Maybe he was just being nice to Braise’s new friends in the neighborhood. At least he and Lauren hadn’t come out of his apartment together—a thought that made her nearly trip over her own two feet as she raced to catch the light before it changed.
But he and Casey weren’t together, she reminded herself. And they hadn’t been for months. It would have been perfectly normal for him to be dating someone new. He wasn’t doing anything technically wrong.
She just really, really didn’t want to hear about it, or see the look in his eyes as he tried to let her down easy, and she felt like a fool.
She practically ran all the way back to Hannah and Jen’s, crossing her fingers that they weren’t awake. Tiptoeing in, she quickly stuffed her clothes in a bag. She left the two dented croissants on the coffee table, along with the key. Her previous note, saying she had ducked out for breakfast but would be back later, she crossed out and wrote simply, Heading home early. Thank you for everything. XO.
“Casey?” A muffled yawn came from the bedroom, but she quietly shut the front door and scrambled down the steps, pretending she hadn’t heard. It wasn’t until she was on 87, watching the high-rises of the Bronx give way to the trees along the Hudson and then flat open farms, that the fist squeezing her chest began to let up.
Her phone had been buzzing nonstop with Ben’s texts and calls, but she turned it off. She had two eyes and they worked perfectly fine. She knew what she’d seen. There was nothing else he had to explain.
By the time the familiar mountain peaks edged up over the horizon, jagged green biting into a long stretch of blue, she had the radio on and was singing along, the remains of a bagel with cream cheese and a peppermint tea by her side, having given up on coffee until she got back to her press. It was as much of a homecoming as she could hope. She was practically giddy with relief when she took the same turn off that had led her into Bonnet two years ago. The difference was, now she knew where she was going. Now she knew she just had to go it alone.