I played along. The past was gone, and I’d just met him today. I smiled the kind that didn’t reach my eyes, and I extended a hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Kat Harper. I’m an aspiring jewelry designer.”
He shook my hand. “Bryan Leighton. I run Made Here. We make things like this,” he said, and fingered the onyx cufflinks on his sleeves. “Nice to meet you too.”
We walked to the bench. It was long enough that we didn’t have to be too close. I sat on the far end, hoping he’d take the hint. But he barely left any room between us when he joined me. With him so close I couldn’t think straight. I could only wander over to the part of my brain that remembered how we couldn’t keep our hands off each other that summer. He was always touching my back, my legs, my waist. If hands had any sort of permanent memory, mine surely recalled the lines of his flat stomach, his firm chest, his sculpted arms.
Stop!
I pictured profit and loss statements. The array of numbers erased the images of us.
He leaned an arm against the back of the bench. “So tell me about your jewelry designs, Kat,” he said, then looked down at my necklace.
I thought about how I’d answer anyone else who’d asked the question. I’d say: I always loved dressing up as a kid and rooting through my mom’s jewelry box to find bangles and necklaces and rings. But they hardly fit so I began making my own jewelry, playing around with designs and styles. I started with necklace-making kits for kids, stringing together beads and baubles and little charms on wire. In junior high I even sold some of my necklaces at local craft fairs, then moved onto heart pendants in high school. After I turned eighteen I had the idea of making a charm necklace. But one that meant something. One that celebrated the mistakes we made as we moved past them.
Instead, I kept my reply clinical. “They’re charms that mean something to the wearer.”
“My Favorite Mistakes,” he said.
“How did you know?” I was surprised he knew the name of my line.
He gave me a sheepish grin. “I like to stay on top of things. Know who’s up and coming,” he said. I wasn’t sure if this was personal, if he’d been researching me because of our past, or simply because he was a smart businessman. I reminded myself not to read anything into it. This was business, purely business. Then he moved his hand towards my neck. “May I?”
“Do you want me to take it off?” I asked, tripping on the unintended double entendre. I wanted to kick myself.
“I like it on.” Running a finger against a miniature skyscraper charm, he grazed my skin and a spark shot through me. I looked away, so he couldn’t read my eyes, and see what I’d felt. I stared at the sky instead. The clouds had become grayer. There was a heaviness to them that spelled rain soon.
“What’s this one?”
“A friend of mine in college had a lead on a super cheap sub-lease on the upper east side that I almost moved into before I started the MBA program. I didn’t get the apartment, and I was devastated at the time.”
“So you made a charm?”
“It all worked out for the best. Because now I have a great roommate and an amazing place in Chelsea,” I said giving him another sanitized answer. If I’d wanted to let him in, I’d have told him the full story. That it was a good thing I didn’t move into that building, because then I went to see an odd little musical theater showcase in Hell’s Kitchen. I wound up hanging out with the cast afterwards, including the lead actress, an amazing girl named Jill who had just nabbed a rent-controlled apartment in Chelsea that was handed down to her from her aunt. She needed a roommate; I needed a place. Now she’s my best friend, and we also have the one cheap and cool apartment in all of Manhattan. Plus, she practiced her audition songs in our living room for an off-Broadway modernized version of Les Mis that she’s in starting this week. She landed the part of Eponine and she’s awesome.
“Chelsea is great. Very eclectic. Perfect for you,” he said.
I stared at him sharply. I resented the assumption that he thought he still knew me. “How would you know?”
“Know what?”
“What’s perfect for me. How would you know?”
“It just seems very you. Chelsea, that is,” he answered, stumbling on his words as I dug in.
“But you don’t know me anymore. You don’t know a thing about me.”
He nodded once, taking my brusqueness on the chin. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry.”
“For what? What are you sorry for, Bryan?”
“For…” he started, but then the Glinda-clad woman ran past us, a giant bubble trailing behind her that the children chased.
I took a quick breath, reminding myself to let go of all these warring emotions. To feel nothing.
“Chelsea is great,” I said, like a robot. Then I took the reins of the conversation, pointing to another charm, this one a silver book with the pages open. “I almost majored in English when I started college. I wasn’t sure I was going to study business as an undergrad. But at the end of my freshman year when a shopowner started carrying my necklaces, I switched to business. So my almost-major is another favorite mistake,” I said, and this time he got the whole tale because everyone did. This was a true story, and it was also the backstory on the Web site for My Favorite Mistakes.
He nodded. “I like that. Very smart decision, and a good way to acknowledge the road not taken. And this one?” He fingered the movie camera, his hand resting on the space just above my br**sts. My chest rose and fell, and I tried to steady my breathing.