Times Square, spending more money at these high-end shops than they would if they travelled just a little farther off this beaten path.
But mostly, I watched the couples. I watched them holding hands, smiling at each other, talking, kissing, and that sight begged the question: were Riley and I like them? Did we hold hands, smile, talk, and kiss like these people did? Of course we put on the show of a happy couple, but there was something more when I saw these complete strangers doing those things. But these people lacked something. They lacked the therapeutic, clinical affection that Riley and I shared.
To say I felt a little lonely in my young marriage would be an understatement. All the affection and sap-inspired togetherness on Michigan Avenue was making me think of just one other person, and she hadn’t responded to my email. I wasn’t delusional enough to ignore just how pathetic I was to cling to this idea that Hope and I would be together someday. It was the most insane belief in the world, and I fully accepted that.
I made my left on Huron and noticed how quickly all of that love and togetherness dissipated after a block, and how completely gone it was by the time I reached my building, where the doorman gave me a salaried smile and opened the lobby door.
I rode the elevator to the 30 th floor, keeping my head down as I walked the quiet hallway to my door at the end. As I slid the key into the lock and eased the door open, I sensed her behind me. I caught myself stopping and wanting to look back, but recovered quickly and simply entered the unit like I hadn’t noticed her at all.
“Hey, Riley, I’m home,” I called out to the emptiness, easing the door shut. The moment the door latched, I pressed my face to the peephole to see if I had been correct.
In the fish-eye view, I saw her approaching me, my unit. Her strut was as confident as it had been earlier today at lunch. I waited. And it hurt. I felt sick and happy and sad and angry and pained and triumphant, and everything else she ever made me feel.
Once she was close enough to raise her fist to knock, I yanked the door open and pulled her inside, throwing her back up against the wall.
“Look at me,” I begged against her thrashing. “Look at me!”
“Cameron!” she yelled, hammering me with her balled fists, but that rage didn’t last long as I reached up and took her face with my hands. “Stop! Don’t!”
I tilted my head and erased the distance between our faces. “Look—”
“Stop it! Don’t!” She kept pounding my chest, angry and hurt. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you fucking—”
But when I pressed my lips to hers, all she did was melt into me, wrapping her legs around my waist and locking her arms around my neck.
She loved me. Just like I had loved her all of this time, like I would always love her. She loved me back without saying the words.
} i {
Present Day
Chapter 17
8:56 AM
T erzo Piano is the well-known and popular dining room located within the Art Institute of Chicago. The chef lives in the same building as I do, and some of Gordon’s executive friends are or were big donors to the AIC (along with the Clinton family). So last week, when I first started planning this sick day, I made two phone calls in one day and cornered the Chef in my lobby the next. Technically, the restaurant only served lunch during the week, but those phone calls had worked wonders.
“Where are we going?” Hope asks as we stroll across the pedestrian bridge. Halfway to the other side, I stop her and point straight down Monroe into the belly of downtown Chicago.
“It doesn’t matter, because we’re not there.”
“Cameron, are you kidding me? You brought me up here to tell me that?” She slaps at my wrist. “I hope your boss is looking here right this instant.”
I snuggle closer to her and breathe in her coconut scent, but she shoves me away. “I hope so, too,” I admit. “Then
But mostly, I watched the couples. I watched them holding hands, smiling at each other, talking, kissing, and that sight begged the question: were Riley and I like them? Did we hold hands, smile, talk, and kiss like these people did? Of course we put on the show of a happy couple, but there was something more when I saw these complete strangers doing those things. But these people lacked something. They lacked the therapeutic, clinical affection that Riley and I shared.
To say I felt a little lonely in my young marriage would be an understatement. All the affection and sap-inspired togetherness on Michigan Avenue was making me think of just one other person, and she hadn’t responded to my email. I wasn’t delusional enough to ignore just how pathetic I was to cling to this idea that Hope and I would be together someday. It was the most insane belief in the world, and I fully accepted that.
I made my left on Huron and noticed how quickly all of that love and togetherness dissipated after a block, and how completely gone it was by the time I reached my building, where the doorman gave me a salaried smile and opened the lobby door.
I rode the elevator to the 30 th floor, keeping my head down as I walked the quiet hallway to my door at the end. As I slid the key into the lock and eased the door open, I sensed her behind me. I caught myself stopping and wanting to look back, but recovered quickly and simply entered the unit like I hadn’t noticed her at all.
“Hey, Riley, I’m home,” I called out to the emptiness, easing the door shut. The moment the door latched, I pressed my face to the peephole to see if I had been correct.
In the fish-eye view, I saw her approaching me, my unit. Her strut was as confident as it had been earlier today at lunch. I waited. And it hurt. I felt sick and happy and sad and angry and pained and triumphant, and everything else she ever made me feel.
Once she was close enough to raise her fist to knock, I yanked the door open and pulled her inside, throwing her back up against the wall.
“Look at me,” I begged against her thrashing. “Look at me!”
“Cameron!” she yelled, hammering me with her balled fists, but that rage didn’t last long as I reached up and took her face with my hands. “Stop! Don’t!”
I tilted my head and erased the distance between our faces. “Look—”
“Stop it! Don’t!” She kept pounding my chest, angry and hurt. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you fucking—”
But when I pressed my lips to hers, all she did was melt into me, wrapping her legs around my waist and locking her arms around my neck.
She loved me. Just like I had loved her all of this time, like I would always love her. She loved me back without saying the words.
} i {
Present Day
Chapter 17
8:56 AM
T erzo Piano is the well-known and popular dining room located within the Art Institute of Chicago. The chef lives in the same building as I do, and some of Gordon’s executive friends are or were big donors to the AIC (along with the Clinton family). So last week, when I first started planning this sick day, I made two phone calls in one day and cornered the Chef in my lobby the next. Technically, the restaurant only served lunch during the week, but those phone calls had worked wonders.
“Where are we going?” Hope asks as we stroll across the pedestrian bridge. Halfway to the other side, I stop her and point straight down Monroe into the belly of downtown Chicago.
“It doesn’t matter, because we’re not there.”
“Cameron, are you kidding me? You brought me up here to tell me that?” She slaps at my wrist. “I hope your boss is looking here right this instant.”
I snuggle closer to her and breathe in her coconut scent, but she shoves me away. “I hope so, too,” I admit. “Then
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