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GAIL
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From where we stood gazing into the Central Park Zoo, Michael and I could have easily walked straight down Fifth Avenue, made a quick right on Forty-Fourth, and arrived back at the Algonquin, the hotel where we’d had our first kiss. I couldn’t help but think how wonderful reenacting that date would feel.
Part of me wanted to go. The sentimental part of me, that I usually tried to bury down deep, wanted to take his hand and make a beeline for our special place. We could crack jokes in the lobby and get dirty looks from the other patrons when our groping got too intimate. We would pretend we were there for business purposes, and the sex was purely accidental and purely meaningless. That small, sentimental part of me wanted to recreate every one of our early moments, exactly as they had existed before we hurt each other so badly.
But of course, the non-sentimental part of me, the part that ruled most of my days, would change so much. I would have told him about the money right off the bat. I would have explained that I had more issues than Vogue when it came to trusting men.
And I would have demanded explanations for each absence. So much of my agony could have been avoided if I’d stopped trying to pretend I was the cool girlfriend and just admitted how it felt when he disappeared.
It was one of those movie-set New York moments, air as crisp as a McIntosh apple and trees showing off their most colorful couture, all held together by the icy clear blue sky. I could sense Michael wanting to make a joke—I’d have been willing to bet that it was along the lines of “this weather is unbe-leaf-able” or how “grate-fall” he was feeling. Though I normally loved his jokes, even the stupid ones, for once I was glad that he was just letting this moment be.
We paused at the zoo entrance and watched a heavily powdered newswoman intone to a camera that the zoo was still investigating who or what was attacking the animals, and if anyone had information, they should report it immediately.
I felt Michael stiffen, but when I looked at him, his face relaxed and he smiled at me. I felt a gnawing inside me, and had the strangest feeling he had more to tell me about himself.
“Andrews, I want to ask you something really crazy,” I said. But before I could ask the question, I saw the newscaster notice us. She cocked her head to the side, and I could practically see the gears turning in her head. We moved away before she figured it out and walked silently for a few minutes.
“Nice day,” Michael murmured, looking up at the tree, his voice a study of nonchalance.
“Do you think she recognized us?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I think she thought we looked familiar. But she didn’t figure it out.”
I turned to look at her, and when I saw that she was back in front of the camera and not sending a news crew after us, I slowed my gait. The video of the incident with Beatrice had, naturally, gone viral. In the weeks since it happened, Michael and I had endured a fair amount of curiosity from the rest of the world, including both compliments and condemnation about how Beatrice had been treated, how the mentally ill were treated in America, and whether her stalking or my defending Michael was the more violent action.
It then morphed into debates about the literary merit of Michael’s books and the potential presence of Satan inside my store. On one particularly bad day, a group of Christian fundamentalists staged an exorcism outside the shop. Fortunately, they hadn’t been able to muster up too many protestors, and it fizzled out before noon. Iz had done most of the damage control with our social media while I’d stayed behind the counter.
Iz had told me she’d even found some erotic fan fiction online, a love triangle between a horror writer with a cannibal kink, an oversexed witch, and a naïve ingenue with a pixie cut, all set in our store. Ultimately, all the publicity had been good for us financially, so I couldn’t really complain. Though I could have done without the internet trolls rating our looks and the online polls debating who between me, Iz, and Beatrice Michael should fuck, marry, and kill.
Michael had far more experience with public attention than I did, of course, but it had rattled both of us. Now that we were spending time together again, I was even more cautious of people seeing us together.
“What did you want to ask me back there?” he asked after a few minutes.
“Nothing,” I said. “It was nothing.”
It was better that I didn’t ask right now. I wanted to enjoy this bubble as long as we could, together again, with New York at her finest. My fears and insecurities and absolutely wild conjectures could stay hidden for a bit longer.
And you don’t just come right out and ask a man if he’s a paranormal being. It’s not cool.
We veered left off the Bethesda Terrace, and he handed me his scarf when he saw me shiver. He moved slowly as he wrapped it around my neck, pulled my hair out of the folds, and knotted it in front. After pulling my coat collar up around the scarf, he stroked my hair and took my hand again.
We’d been cautious with each other lately, as if we didn’t know how to be together anymore. He took me out to dinner, walked me home, kissed me good night outside my building, and never once asked to come up. We’d spent my days off on walks like this one, rambling through our beautiful city, sometimes having long, meandering talks, and sometimes just holding hands as we wandered.
“I talked to my brother,” I said.
“That’s great!” he replied, and once again my heart exploded. How he could be this kind toward a man who had not been welcoming to him was beyond me, but Michael still insisted that family came first. “What’s new with Ben?”
“They’re having a family reunion of some sort in February. At my mother’s place.”
“You’re going?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m going. I don’t want to go. The only thing worse than dealing with my mother is dealing with all of her sisters. I guarantee you blood will be shed.”
“I could go with you,” he said, and I squeezed his hand.
“Thank you for that. I already asked. Evidently, this is an immediate family only party.” I shrugged and frowned at the pavement beneath our feet. “I still don’t know what the hell is happening. Something about finally dividing up my grandmother’s property or some other drama. Ben says it’s important that I am there in person.”
“How many sisters does your mom have?” he asked.
I groaned. Just thinking about it was exhausting. “She has four sisters, and between them they have seven daughters.”
He stopped and stared at me. “Any husbands?”
“None that stuck.”
“So Ben is the only male in your family?”
I nodded. “Kind of explains why he’s so coddled, doesn’t it?”
We walked slowly now, and he dropped my hand and put his arm around my shoulder. “I’m glad you’re going,” he finally said. “If only to spend time with your brother.”
“Me too,” I said, though I wasn’t entirely sure I believed it.
We stopped at the entrance to Bow Bridge where, as usual, a man was on one knee, proposing to a woman who was covering her face with her hands. We paused, waited until she tearfully accepted, and continued our way across.
“I love it when I see those,” Michael said.
“I know you do,” I laughed. “Stick around, there will be another one within minutes. And another one right after that. They line up over at the south end. You have to take a ticket and wait your turn to go to the top of the bridge and propose. If the woman refuses, the next man just moves up the assembly line. Everyone comes off this bridge with a ring. That’s a true story.”
He frowned and glanced at the bridge entrance before looking back at me and realizing I was joking.
“Not a fan of public displays of affection?” he asked. “Why am I not shocked?”
“Everyone in New York goes to the same four spots to propose. It’s just unimaginative. Their proposal pictures are basically stock photos. Those clones are more interested in spectacle than actually being in love.”
“I’d bet that most of them are in love.”
“That’s because you think the best of everyone,” I said. “It’s the nicest part of you.”
He stopped me at the top of the bridge, looked deep into my eyes, and got down on one knee.
“Andrews!” I hissed, “Are you kidding me?” All of the air left my lungs.
Michael bent over and tied his shoe.
It took me a minute to catch my breath, and I tried to smile at the crowd of onlookers ready to applaud the one hundredth proposal of the day. I was sure by their pitying faces that my expression was more of a sick grimace.
Michael stood up, buttoned his coat, and patted the stone bridge with the palms of his hands. “It’s getting late,” he said, his voice as casual as if he was talking about the weather. “Want to grab some dinner?”
My face was still flushed, and I started laughing at the sudden, horrifying realization that I had been ready to accept whatever he proposed.
“You idiot,” I said. And then I flung my arms out to the side and hollered, “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! I WILL have dinner with you, Michael Andrews!” The onlookers clapped gamely, though their confusion was still evident.
Michael pulled me into him and whispered in my ear. “Suppose someone wanted to propose something more long-term than dinner. Where would the right place be?”
“Where do you think it would be?”
When he looked up at the trees to ponder the question, I reached my hand up and touched the crinkled lines at the corner of his eyes. The cut on his face had healed without a scar, and it occurred to me that I would be happy to look at his face for the rest of my life.
The thought made me dizzy.
“I think you want me to think it’s somewhere creepy,” he finally said. “Like a morgue, or a dive bar, or your ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend’s apartment, or that sex museum on Fifth.”
“I wouldn’t object to any of those,” I said.
“You wouldn’t object,” he agreed. “But none of those would be right. Whoever proposes to you has to be smarter about it. It would have to be the opposite of a spectacle. He’d have to make sure no one was watching. He’d have to catch you off guard. He’d have to make sure you were totally absorbed in something you love.”
It was suddenly hard to speak. “So, where would that be?”
“A handwritten proposal, hidden inside a Jane Birkin vinyl at Generation Records in the Village. Right after you found it, he’d take you over to Murray’s for a cheese board and red wine. Then, he’d take you back to his place—wherever that is—and make love to you by candlelight.”
My mouth actually dropped open.
“Or something like that,” he said. “I haven’t really thought about it.”
“Goddamn,” I said, and my voice was husky. I cleared my throat and tried again. “That might actually work on me.”
Michael smiled. “Should we go eat?”
My heart pounded in my chest, but I knew if I didn’t say something out loud right that moment, I might not ever say it. For once in my life, I wanted to be the first to say it, no matter the consequence.
“I love you, Michael Andrews.” The grin started on the side of his mouth and then broke across his whole face, and I breathed a little easier. “I am wildly, completely in love with you. I know we almost fucked everything up, and I know we have a lot to figure out, but I want to say it anyway. I want you to know.”
“Well, well, well,” he murmured. “Look at you. Proclaiming your feelings publicly. On a bridge where everyone in the city proposes.”
“Don’t remind me that I’m a cliché.” I groaned and buried my face into his jacket, inhaling his familiar woodsy scent. “It’s this fucking bridge! I swear to the pagan gods above, this bridge is enchanted with some kind of love potion.”
“No,” Michael said. “It’s just a stone bridge. I don’t even think it’s the prettiest bridge in the city. But it’s the best one because it’s where the woman I’ve been in love with since I met her for a coffee first told me that she’s in love with me.”
And then Michael Andrews, the famous writer, leaned down and kissed me, the infamous occult shop owner.
It was a kiss like our first kiss, when he couldn’t get enough of me, and every touch set our bodies aflame. It was a kiss that taught me what it felt like to be loved. It was a kiss that made me forget every single person who had ever kissed me before.
It was, without any doubt, the best kiss of my life.