On Second Thought(71)

A nudge from my boss.

“Anyway, Eric,” I muttered, “we hope you’ll do the honor of staying with us.”

Eric cocked his head. “But why would I?”

“Gosh. I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe you owe me. I was the one who wiped your fevered brow, remember?” He’d had one fever. One. “I cleaned up your puke after the bad sushi... I mean, after your chemo. I wrote on your scrotum so the doctor would be sure to take out the correct testicle.”

Jonathan choked.

“You were very good to me, Sunshine,” Eric said, and I wanted to break my martini glass and stab a shard into his neck. He never called me Sunshine in real life. Never. “But I don’t operate in a world of debt anymore. I have to do what’s right for me. I know you don’t want to take advice from me, Ainsley, but I think you have to try harder to—” he paused for dramatic effect “—live life large.”

“Good God,” muttered Jonathan.

“And you should release those toxic feelings, babe. They’ll eat you alive.”

The rage that had been building in me rose like a fireball. I slammed both hands on the table, rattling the glasses. “You know what, Eric? You’re unrecognizable to me. To me, who’s loved you for eleven years. I’d give anything to see that terrified, weepy, shaking guy who cried for three days straight after his diagnosis instead of the ridiculous, self-centered, smug * I see before me.”

“I’m sorry you’re feeling so victimized,” he said. “I choose not to move through life that way. Getting cancer was the worst thing that ever happened to me, and yet it taught me so much. There’s only the now, only answering the inner voice.”

“Let’s go,” Jonathan said. “Thank you for your time, Eric.”

I stood up, shaking with rage. “Getting cancer wasn’t the worst thing that ever happened to you, Eric. Getting over cancer was. Admit it. You loved having cancer. It gave you permission to worship yourself, and you haven’t stopped yet. You’re breaking your parents’ hearts, and you broke mine. I don’t even know how you look at yourself in the mirror.”

Eric took his phone out, clicked a button and spoke into it. “Getting over cancer was the worst thing that ever happened to you. Worshipping yourself. Breaking parents’ hearts.” He clicked again, then looked up at me. “Thanks for my next blog.”

I lunged.

Luckily, Jonathan grabbed me around the waist, stopping me before I made contact. “We’re leaving,” he said, dragging me back a few paces.

“Then she attacked me,” Eric said into his phone.

“Attempted to attack you,” I said. “Lucky for you, someone stepped in, because God knows, I could take you.”

“And threatened me, even though I’m still in the recovery phase.”

“No, you’re not!” I yelled, in case there weren’t enough people looking at me. “You recovered six months ago, and it’s driving you crazy!”

Jonathan towed me away. “Let’s go before we’re thrown out, shall we?” he murmured.

“Did you hear him?”

“Inside voice, and yes. Come on.”

The air was cool and rich with the smell of New York—that strangely sweet tang of subway, food and exhaust. “Let’s walk,” Jonathan suggested, and I stomped down the street, my thoughts just an angry, pulsating red smear. Turned on Fifth Avenue and headed uptown, plowing through the crowd.

Powered by fury, my legs ate up the blocks, arms swinging, bag hitting my hip, my leopard-print shoes biting my heels, cramping my toes.

I hated him. Who the hell was that? What had happened to the gentle, funny, loyal man who hugged his parents and told me on more than one occasion that he’d be nothing without me? Where was he?

Who was that other guy, that pretentious ass who dictated my words into a phone so he could blog about me?

How the hell were we going to get over this?

I got to the edge of Central Park and jerked to a stop, unsure of where to go now.

“Here.”

Jonathan. I’d almost forgotten about him. He held out a handkerchief.

Oh. I was crying.

“Come,” he said, taking my arm. I sucked in a jerking breath and let him lead me.

He stopped at the first carriage, where a big brown horse stood, bottomless eyes and velvety nose, breathing its warm breath on my hand, which was shaking. Jonathan took out his wallet, handed the guy some bills and muttered something.

Then he handed me up into the carriage and got in beside me. The driver clucked to the horse, and we started, turning into the park, the horse’s massive hooves clack-clacking on the pavement.

“Ainsley, I’m sorry,” Jonathan said. “I should never have asked you to do that.”

I wiped my eyes. I needed to blow my nose, but this was his handkerchief, and it was kind of gross—oh, screw it. I blew my nose. “It’s fine.”

“No. It’s not. I apologize.”

The rhythm of the carriage was soothing, the pull and jerk of it. I swallowed and looked off to the left.

New York City is a good place to come to forget your misery. So many people, so many ages and races and stories. Virtually everyone had had, was currently nursing or would have a broken heart. There were a thousand stories worse than mine.