The Man I Love (The Fish Tales, #1)(135)

“What?”

“I only imagined talking to you. You and me. Just being us. In our little bubble, in our private universe. I’d just imagine the good parts. I never confronted you, not even in my head. We always said David only wanted what he couldn’t have. I think I only wanted what came easily. I didn’t fight for us. Not even in my imagination. I don’t fight, Dais. I walk away, shut it down, cut it off, bury it. I threw us away for…for what? I don’t know. All I know is twelve years later, you’re still in my head and I don’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop thinking about you. And I really would like to come see you and—”

“You think about me?” Her voice was blurred.

“Of course I think about you.”

“I think about you every day. I swear. I’m not trying to be maudlin or dramatic. But not a day goes by I don’t think about you one way or another.”

“I do too. Every day there’s something, some little thing making me remember. It won’t stop.”

“You see?” Now her voice was dissolving. She was starting to cry. In his ear, across two states, Daisy was crying for him. “I thought you forgot. I mean I just thought you left it. Got over me, moved on and forgot about it.”

“I never forgot. I can’t. It was the happiest I’ve ever been in my life and I don’t know how to get—”

“I’m sorry, Erik.”

There. Finally. His name. He closed his eyes. “I never got over it, Dais,” he whispered. “I just left it.”

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “Erik, I’m so sorry.”

He started to reply it’s all right, but he checked himself. It wasn’t all right. She wasn’t asking to be excused.

She just wanted to be acknowledged.

“I’m sorry.” This was her ugly cry. The gut-shredding weep he had only witnessed a few times. A fevered heat would be filling her face. Her fingers dug into the hair at her temples, her teeth and soul bared.

Hold still, Erik thought. Just listen. It’s all she wants.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” he said. The full weight of the truth behind the words. He knew as he had never known before.

“I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t do it to hurt you, please believe me.”

“I know you didn’t. I know now, Dais. I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. I believe you.” He was the old soldier now. Give it here. He waited, patient, letting her fill his hands, and holding it carefully. Believing it.

“Are you all right?” he said, when she had quieted again.

“I’m a mess.”

“You need to go get a tissue?”

“No, I have a dishrag.”

“I have a beach towel.”

She sniffed. “Brilliant.”

“I’m sorry, too,” he said. “I’m sorry I cut you off. I’m sorry I never gave you a chance. I want the chance. If you tell me it’s not too late and there’s still a chance, I want to come see you and talk about this.”

“It’s not too late,” she said. “And I’m ready if you are.”





A Better Way To Leave


“Give me your damn phone number,” Erik said before they hung up. “Whatever else happens, I am never not going to have your phone number. Ever again.”

“Will you use it?” she asked.

“I will call you tomorrow,” he said. “What time will you be back home?”

“By five. Four o’clock your time.”

“I will call you tomorrow, four my time.”

A pause. “Would you be offended if I didn’t hold my breath?”

Erik managed to putter Friday away in a mix of nervous activity and nervous clock-watching. He dialed her number on the meticulous dot of four.

She answered after two rings. “Crisis Hotline.”

“This is me always having your phone number,” he said. “How does it sound?”

She hung up.

Erik blinked at the dead receiver in his hand until it rang back a few seconds later. “Well-played, Marge,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she said, laughing. “I couldn’t resist.”

“It’s all right. I had it coming.”

They compared calendars and Erik proposed flying out on Wednesday, the fourteenth of December. “Or we can throw another day at it and I came come out the fifteenth. Your birthday.”

A pause shimmered between them, glazed with just a hint of discomfort. Her birthday was shrouded in such sexual connotations. Erik grimaced, hoping he hadn’t sent the wrong message.

“Come Wednesday,” she said. “And if we’re alive for my birthday I’ll make a cake. Or a cyanide soufflé or something.”

Avoiding any more assumptions or awkward sleeping arrangements, he asked her for the name of a hotel. “Should I rent a car?”

“Yes,” she said. “I have a few rehearsals scheduled so you should be free to come and go.”

“I’ll fly in, drive myself to my hotel and you’ll meet me there?”

“Yes. The lobby of a hotel is a good place to meet, don’t you think?”