Page 55 of The Thinnest Air
Twenty Months Ago
Andrew kissed me this morning, slow and lingering, and then we made love in the bed of our New York hotel suite. Not once but twice.
We’ve been doing that a lot lately.
The day I left Ronan’s, I came straight home, poured myself a gin and tonic, and waited for Andrew to return from work.
That night I told him about everything—except Ronan—the second he walked in the door. I dropped it all on him. I told him I felt as if I were losing him, that he didn’t love me anymore. I told him I wondered if he was just with me because he wanted a trophy wife to go with his collection of sports cars. I told him he was too detached in bed. I told him about the couples in Thailand and how I didn’t want to be like them.
Then I told him he was losing me. And if we didn’t fix it now, we weren’t going to make it.
He dropped his briefcase, came to my side, and took my hands in his. Andrew Price isn’t a fearful man. He isn’t a gushy, lovey-dovey man. He’s a businessman. He’s serious and well in control of his emotions. But I’ll be damned if he didn’t look absolutely terrified at the thought of losing me in that moment.
“I took you for granted,” he said to me. “I’ve been selfish this past year, and I know that. I’m going to fix this, I promise.”
Since that moment, Andrew’s been husband of the year. Bringing me coffee in bed before he takes his early morning runs. Whisking me away on kid-free weekends. Taking his time between the sheets, ensuring I’m always left satisfied when we’re finished and then some.
So far, so good.
Except for those still, small moments when thoughts of Ronan creep into my mind. It doesn’t help that I see him everywhere, always driving his unmarked squad car, dressed in his black suit, his shield hanging from his neck.
I saw him at a stoplight once, felt his stare lingering on me.
I couldn’t bring myself to wave or smile or acknowledge him.
Not that I didn’t want to, but I’ve closed that chapter. I’ve locked that door.
Ronan McCormack was a phase, a reckless decision that spiraled out of control.
And I’m not that girl anymore.
I’m Mrs.Andrew Price, now and forever.
Rolling out of the hotel bed in a posh little boutique hotel in Greenwich Village, I draw the curtains and stare down seventeen stories to a city sidewalk filled with people going about their normal business.
And I’m about to be one of them.
It feels good to be back to normal again.
“Don’t you ever call first?” Harris rolls his eyes when I stroll into Steam later that morning. I can never tell if he’s joking or actually finds it obnoxious that I show up unannounced every time I’m in the city.
“Where’s the fun in that?” I ask.
“You know G hates surprises.”
I shrug. “But I love them, and G loves me, so it all works out.”
“She’s not here.” He turns his back to me, making a cappuccino for a foot-tapping woman, and I take a seat at an empty bar with the sole intention of bugging the shit out of him because I can.
“Where’d she go?” I ask.
“Errands,” he says, taking the drink to the customer and flashing a charming smile in her direction, the kind of smile that could bring a woman back here time and time again.
I’m not the biggest fan of Harris, but I can’t deny how ridiculously attractive he is—but it’s not in a Times Square billboard model sort of way; it’s more in a hot-nerd, Joseph Gordon-Levitt kind of way. He can talk about any topic with ease, knows his way around the city like he’s lived here his whole life, paints the most incredible abstract watercolors, cooks almost any type of cuisine and makes it taste better than takeout, can fix almost anything, and reads a book a day.
How he has time for all that, I haven’t a clue, but I see the allure of it.
I can see what my sister sees in him.
