Page 65 of I Saw Her First

Weston

Iclose the lid on my laptop and cast my gaze out the window. My office is situated on the fourteenth floor of a Midtown high-rise, and at this time of the evening, the sun slants between the buildings, sending golden light bouncing off surfaces of steel and glass.

The office is empty; everyone’s gone home to their families or out to meet friends for drinks, and as I stare down at the bustling city below me, the silence in here suddenly feels suffocating. I rise from my chair and pull my messenger bag from the hook by the door, taking the elevator down to the parking garage.

Usually, I’d drive to the pool and swim laps until it’s dark and I’m exhausted enough to collapse into bed, but as I stride across the dimly lit garage and tug my car keys from my pocket, I’m tempted to head straight home.

I tell myself I’m tired. That I could use an early night.

Pulling out into the blazing evening, I head toward the East River and onto FDR Drive. My mind wanders as I follow the traffic along the river, under the Williamsburg Bridge, curving around the bend as the impressive steel structure of the Manhattan Bridge comes into view. For the past three years, thedrive home has been a torturous game of forcing myself to focus on the buildings of Manhattan passing by on my right, instead of dwelling on the bottomless pit of despair that waited for me the minute I walked into my silent, empty home.

But tonight, it’s a different kind of torture because it’s no longer loneliness and grief tormenting me; it’s a woman I can’t get out of my head.

I didn’t get a lick of work done today, unable to shake off thoughts of Daisy and last night. As soon as we got out of the tub, I left her place, then sat in my car for fifteen minutes convincing myself to drive home, instead of doing what I really wanted to do: walk back inside and pull her close, curl up in that tiny bed and hold her until she fell asleep. I’m trying to do the right thing here—trying to make sure we don’t go too far until we’re ready.

Hell, I’m fucking ready. I don’t care if it feels quick, if she’s the absolute last person I should be falling for.

I’m ready.

But I need to make absolutely certain she is, because once we cross that line, I don’t think I’ll be able to go back. So I’ve done what feels like the most responsible thing; I’ve tried to put the brakes on. I didn’t go to Joe’s this morning, even though there was no reason for me not to. If I so much as saw Daisy, I’d haul her into my arms and touch every inch of her beautiful body. I’d do things that would make her lose her damn job.

What is wrong with me? I’ve never been like this before; out of my mind with wanting her. I don’t know how I kept my hands to myself last night, but the image of her pleasuring herself will live rent-free in my mind forever.

The Brooklyn Bridge comes into view and I take the offramp, idling in traffic as we crawl onto the bridge. The magnificent Gothic stone arches rise before me, and as we inch along above the water, I flick on the stereo to distract myself. Steely Dan’sAny Major Dude Will Tell Youdrifts from the speakers, andmy grip tightens on the wheel. I glance at my gym bag on the passenger seat, knowing damn well I won’t be going to the pool. It’ll be a miracle if I make it home instead of driving directly to Daisy’s.

I remember her talking about shooting more film yesterday, and wonder if she used the darkroom today. Is it possible she could be there right now?

Despite myself, I grow restless in my seat, itching to pick up the pace. A Chrysler cuts me off and I lean on the horn, gesticulating wildly out the window. Doesn’t he realize I have somewhere to be?

It’s not until a woman in a Volvo with a backseat full of kids gives me a strange look that I withdraw into my car, shocked at my own behavior.

Jesus Christ. I don’t even recognize myself.

By the time I pull up at Fruit Street, my pulse is thrumming. I tell myself I’m eager to get home, to put my feet up and order some food, but as I spring up the front steps and throw open the door, the disappointment at not seeing Daisy’s Keds in the entry hall hits me like a bucket of ice.

She’s not here. Of course she’s not. Why would she be? She’s probably wondering why the hell I ran out of her place last night like my ass was on fire. Why I didn’t go to Joe’s this morning, why I haven’t called her, even though I’ve picked up my phone a hundred times today to do just that.

I toe off my loafers and dump my messenger bag on the counter, then pull a beer from the fridge and pop the top, taking a long swig. Serves me right for rushing home like a lovesick teenager. I should be in the pool, putting in my laps, sticking to my resolve to wait a little, to give this the time it needs to grow.

My nose picks up the faint citrusy notes of Daisy’s scent. I set my beer down, telling myself I’m probably imagining it—probably conjuring it out of thin air—but my feet propel me tothe basement stairs all the same. Maybe she came earlier and left. Maybe she developed her new roll of film. A smile nudges my lips in anticipation of seeing the new shots she’s taken.

I’m completely unprepared when I round the bottom step and come face to face with Daisy. My heart catapults into my throat, and I stumble over my own feet.

“Oh!” Daisy steps back, laughing. “I didn’t know you were home, sorry.”

Sorry? Is she kidding?

“Don’t be sorry.” I go to reach for her, then hesitate. “I wasn’t sure if you were here.”

“Yeah.” She gestures over her shoulder. “I was just developing that roll I shot yesterday.”

My lips lift in a smile. “Anything good?”

“A few good shots, yeah.”

I nod, watching as she shifts her weight uncertainly. I want to kiss her. I want to close this distance between us and press my mouth to hers, to touch her.

“And, um, something kind of cool happened,” she continues, glancing at the yard and back at me. “Violet asked me to shoot her and Kyle, as a sort of engagement portrait thing.”

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