Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [28]
On the plane ride home, just as I was stewing in disgruntled bitterness and thinking of excuses to offer Gene and Josie and the entire office crowd who had nearly started a pool on how Henry would propose in the City of Lights, Henry pointed out the window into the dark, starry sky and said, “I know that we can’t see the moon from here, but I feel like I can.”
“I don’t follow,” I answered.
“What I mean to say,” he flustered on, “is that wherever we are, it’s as if I’m blessed with the moon and the stars on my heels because I’m with you.” His cheeks reddened. “I know it’s cheesy, and I know it sounds like a Hallmark card, but it’s true.”
“Thank you,” I said, brushing my lips to his, and reaching for his hand beneath our blankets. It was as close to soul-searching posturing that he’d ever come.
“So this, my moon and stars, is the only way I can think to repay you.” He slid something velvety and hard into my hand, and when I popped the box open, there it was: the ring that ensured that we’d be happily ever after for the rest of our days.
The flight attendant brought us champagne, and I raised the armrest between our seats and tucked myself so close to him that not even a sliver of space divided us, and I was, for a moment at least, so soaked in contentedness that I could have pocketed up that feeling and coasted on it for years to come.
Chapter Nine
I stare out my office window, peering at the view, but mostly seeing the images of Henry and my former life. I try to shake them from my brain but they’re stuck, refusing to budge, and they’ve been firmly planted there for the three hours since Henry unknowingly met my eyes on the bus and subsequently sent me tripping, spiraling down memory lane.
“Sorry to disturb,” Gene says as he knocks lightly on the door and pushes it open. “Mail’s here.”
“Thanks,” I say distractedly, swiveling around in my chair and reaching for the pile.
“Bad morning?” he asks.
I like Gene. Liked him last time around, and like him this time around, too. He’s a twenty-five-year-old high school graduate who discovered that being the best graphic artist in your senior class doesn’t guarantee that the art world will fling open its doors for you at graduation, and so, after six years of making espressos at a West Village coffee bar, he enrolled in college at night and interns with us during the day. I’ll occasionally ask him to peruse my storyboards, and almost inevitably, he’ll hone in on tiny details that I overlooked. While Henry excelled at the fine print, I did not, at least not until I swirled myself into an unrelenting perfect housewife in which I mastered the art of the finest print, and thus, I was always surprised at how much Gene could highlight what I’d missed.
“It’s nothing,” I reply to him now, standing to close my blinds.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, you’ve looked better.”
“Thanks, Gene.” I smile. “I always appreciate the backhanded compliment.”
“Problems with the Coke account?” He sits, even though I haven’t invited him to do so.
“No, no problems with the Coke account at all.”
“Yeah, I hear you’re kicking ass on that, actually.” He folds his hands underneath his chin and rests them there.
“You do? Spill.”
“You know, people talk when the interns are around because they think that we don’t have ears. Or exist. Or whatever.” He shrugs and reaches up to scratch a piercing on his left upper lobe. “But word on the street is that you’re being groomed as the next big thing.”
“Ooh la la,” I say, popping a Coke-flavored Jelly Belly in my mouth. “Sounds fancy.”
“So if it’s not work, what is it?” he presses.
I sigh. “I saw . . .” I pause, mulling over how to define this. “I saw an ex on the bus this morning, that’s all. Threw me off a bit, I guess.”
“Ah, gotcha. Made you feel all nauseous and nervous and all of that?”
I nod and feel queasy just at the thought of it.
“Well, it might mean something, and it might mean nothing,” he continues. “How are things with your current man?”
“Good,” I say firmly, because they are.
In fact, things with Jack are smoother,