In a New York Minute(86)

“Nothing’s ever really done, Hayes.” She looked at me with sympathy. “You just have to figure out how to bring it back to life.”

*



As the week went on, and turned into two, three, and then four, I only felt more certain things were over. The seasons were shifting, September was blooming as only it could, the leaves still clinging to trees in all their bright-green glory, wringing out the last vestiges of brightness before the darkness of winter set in soon. Perrine called. Eleanor and Henry had me over for dinner. I bought something called a DockATot off their baby registry in preparation for their baby shower next month. We settled into our new office, began planning for our next round of fundraising. Investors on board, I hired three people for our new Seattle space, and we’d asked Tyler to go out and open the new office there early next year. I ran five miles almost every day, then six. Seven. Nine.

Time moved forward. But Franny did not respond to my texts, or my voicemails. Maybe it was for the best; I wasn’t even sure I’d know what words to say if she ever did pick up or write back. And yet I still kept thinking about her: what she was doing, whether she was happy, whether I’d ever get to see her smile again. But it was at home, in my apartment, that I missed her the most. And one day, her voice popped into my head. I could hear her, clear and sharp, accurately guessing all the things I had in my apartment and how sparsely decorated it was. So I went for it.

I hung a photograph Eleanor had taken for me of surfers cresting a wave in Montauk and a painting my grandmother did when I was little, a watercolor of her flower garden in August. I ordered a dining room table after digging through the file Franny had put together of all the vendors she’d used for our office. It was coming in two months from the same sustainable wood source upstate that she’d used for all our desks. I googled “indoor plants that are hard to kill” and made a list. Slowly, my space started to feel more like me, more like a place I wanted to share with people, even if the person I wanted to be there most of all was gone.

One night over Labor Day weekend, after an almost ten-mile run around Central Park, I wandered into my closet postshower, digging around for some sweats to throw on over my boxers and T-shirt. And there it was: my suit jacket. The suit jacket. It had been hanging there, untouched since Franny unceremoniously handed it to me at that morning show taping all those months ago. Dry-cleaned and pressed, pocket square tucked neatly in the front. It had felt like bad luck to wear it again, so I’d left it here, pressed between the wall and another navy-blue jacket, a relic of the moment that had set my life off course—or maybe, set it on course. I wasn’t sure anymore.

I reached for it, sliding it off the hanger and holding it in front of me, thinking of Franny for what felt like the millionth time. I brought it to my nose, hoping for some hint of her there, but all that was left was the faint smell of chemicals. Suddenly self-conscious, I stuck the coat back on the hanger, grabbing the pocket square so I could stick it in my drawer with the others. As I did, a small folded piece of paper fell out and landed on the floor.

Dear Stranger,

Just in case I don’t get a chance to properly say it today: thank you. I don’t know why you did it, but you were there to help me when I most needed it, and I truly appreciate it. (Please forget that story I told you about peeing my pants, though.)

Yours,

Franny Doyle



She had been here this whole time, had known what I needed to hear. And, god, how I wished I could figure out how to tell her: I did it because the second I saw her, I knew she was someone I wanted to be near. I couldn’t stop myself.

And then, just like that moment on the subway, I knew what I had to do. I dashed back into the living room, flipped open my laptop, and hammered out an email in seconds flat.

I know things are weird, but I’d love to talk. Could we meet for coffee?



I hit SEND before I could reconsider my words. I peeked over at some MLB scores, scanned Twitter, and went to shut my computer down, when I noticed that a reply had come through, only minutes after I sent my message.

Okay.



And then a minute after that, a second one.

Name a place, I’ll be there.



*



“I have to say, this was unexpected.”

Lola leaned back in her chair, fingers wrapped around her to-go cup of coffee. Her mouth was set in a smile, her white-blond hair tousled on her head. Next to her, Cleo sat with her chin in her hand, observing me through her glasses. She too was smiling, but it did nothing to quell my nerves.

“I really appreciate you both meeting me.” I fiddled with the silicone lid on my travel mug. “And I promise not to take up too much of your time.” I bit my upper lip. Let out a breath. “Okay, well. The first thing I wanted to tell you both is that I care a lot about her.”

“Are you asking us for Franny’s hand?” Lola said with a laugh.

“No. I know Franny doesn’t want anything to happen between us, and I get that.” I sat up a little straighter, put on my best business-meeting face. “I just wanted to find out how she’s doing. Make sure she’s okay.”

“She’s okay,” said Lola. “Hanging in there.”

“It’s nice of you to check in on her,” Cleo said with a kind smile, followed by a sip of her tea. “I think it’s been a tough month, but her mom seems to be doing much better.”