I tense, knowing I need to say something soon about my history. Like, in the next few minutes. But I like this lightness better.
“Also, I’m thirty-two,” she says, then bumps her shoulder against mine.
As we wait at the platform, my eyes stray to her again, taking in her purple flats, her jeans, and her short-sleeve blouse with its vibrant floral print. “You look quite pretty.”
Her eyes roam up and down my frame. I’m in jeans, too, and a simple black polo shirt.
“So do you.”
“Pretty?” I ask with a sly grin as the train arrives.
“Boys can be pretty,” she says.
I laugh as we step through the open doors and find two seats. “Of course they can. But I’m not a boy.”
“I know.” She wiggles her brows. “Do I ever.”
And yep, this makes it hard, too, to bring down the mood. The dirty flirting makes me want to stay in this zone.
“So, The Rookery,” she prompts after the train pulls away. “Why is it your London?”
“It’s a little off-the-beaten-path over in Streatham Common. It has an interesting history. It’s the vestige of a private garden from an eighteenth-century spa. It doesn’t get too crowded. And it’s lovely, so I think you’ll like it.”
As I tell her more, my pulse builds speed, my skin prickles, and all at once, I realize I’m nervous. I want her to like the gardens. I want it desperately. I want Jo to fall in love with this city.
But I want to know what she loves too, so I ask her more about New York, then listen as she tells me about Abingdon Square Park, and a bench there by a tree she likes to read under, and then about a quiet cobblestone street in the Village, and about her favorite theaters along the Great White Way.
“Your New York sounds wonderful,” I say.
“Have you been?”
“A few times.”
“Maybe you’ll go again someday,” she says with the tiniest of grins.
“Maybe I will.”
When we exit the station, we bound up the steps in tandem, and that feels a little like déjà vu again.
But not quite right. I’m not thinking of the past. My mind tugs me back to the church I found a few weeks ago, to the pictures I took, to the way I felt in that hidden alley.
That’s what this feels like—full of possibilities.
We reach the gardens and go in. Spring is a perfect time to visit, the greenery, lush and dreamy. Jo lets out a delicious sigh, soaking in the flowers, the paths, the foliage.
“Stop it,” she says. “Just stop it.”
“Stop what?”
She sweeps an arm out, gesturing to everything. “This is an unfair tactic, showing me something so yummy.”
Her reaction thrills me. “Ah, I told you my London would work its magic.”
She spins in a circle, taking in the stone path and the burbling fountain. We wander through, reading the plaques about the mineral springs that used to lie underground the grounds.
We stop at the fountain, and I ask if she wants a picture of herself in this spot.
“Will you be in it?” she asks.
“To show your friends?”
“Yes. Would that bother you?”
“Will they ask who I am?”
“They will. They’re nosy and protective and they love me,” she says. That clearly means the world to her.
“Good. And yes. I’ll be in it.” I want her friends to ask about me. I want her to talk about me.
But I also want her to know me, and right now, she doesn’t truly know all of me.
Why I am able to be here with her.
Why I can’t stand work outings.
Why books are my closest companions.
When she lifts her phone to take the picture, I know it’s time. It just simply is. I reach for her wrist, curl my hand around it, and stop her. “I was married for twelve years,” I say.
She blinks, jerks her gaze back. “Oh.”
“I’m not now.” I stumble, the words awkward.
“I hope not,” she says, nervously.
I swallow roughly, trying again. “She died of a stroke. It was swift and entirely unexpected.”
Her expression transforms, her blue eyes swimming with sadness. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Heath.”
“Thank you,” I say automatically, but also with relief.
“How are you doing?”
A small smile tugs at my lips. “I’m fine. Truthfully. It was four years ago.” I shrug as I let go of her wrist. “Really, it seems a lifetime ago.”
She purses her lips and nods like she’s absorbing that last detail. “I have to imagine it would feel that way.”
“It does. I’m not longing for that life anymore. I’ve grieved. I’ve accepted the loss,” I say as simply as I can. “I want you to know that, and to know how true that is. And I’m telling you because I felt like I was keeping something from you.”
She’s quiet at first, licking her lips. “Were you?”
“No,” I say . . . but then I nod. “Yes.”