“Yes, so you’d expect that I would hate her.”
“No, I expect you to move on, and that’s what you’ve done. It hurt for a while, even before you left her. By the time you ended it, you’d already grieved and come to terms with it all.”
“I don’t want to go through life numb.”
“You’re not numb.” Todd laughs and claps me on the shoulder. “You’re a human being. If there had been children, or if she still had to be in your life for some reason, the bad feelings might still be there. But she’s gone, and you’re living your life. She’s not a part of it.”
“It’s rather nice to get advice instead of give it out for a change,” I inform him and drink my water. “And you may be right. I didn’t feel numb in Montana.”
“She makes you happy, Simon. I’ve missed seeing you happy. I won’t pester you like the girls, but I will say this: what’s wrong with going after something that makes you happy? Consider contacting her. Maybe she’s missing you just as badly.”
“Who says I’m missing her?”
“Oh, mate.” Todd laughs. “I’ve known you most of your life. You can’t hide things like this from me.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“Good.”
“What did we miss?” Violet asks as she and Kelly return. “Are you still talking about Charly? I can get you her number, you know.”
Trust me, I’ve thought of that about six dozen times over the past six weeks.
But I just shake my head. “We are talking about the retreat this fall,” I say. “I need you to start calling applicants so we can get our guest list narrowed down.”
“How many did we get?” Kelly asks.
“Over five hundred,” Todd replies.
“And how many are we taking?” Violet asks.
“One twenty five,” I say. “So I’ll need you and a few others on staff to call and interview the applicants, narrowing it down to our limit.”
“Do we have a location yet?” Kelly asks. “I’ve never heard of people signing up for a retreat when they don’t even know where the location will be.”
“I’m looking into it,” I reply. “I’ll make a decision by next week.”
“I’m going this time,” Kelly announces. “I’ll bring the baby. Women love babies.”
“Wild horses couldn’t keep her away again,” Todd says.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I’m standing at the window of my London flat, staring out at the city. I’m in a high-rise in a sought-after part of the city. This flat is just one more thing that the new success has afforded me. The city is quieter at this time of night, lit up and beautiful.
But all I can see is Charly.
I was with her for such a short time, yet she occupies way too many of my thoughts. In the six weeks since I saw her, I’ve been to New York, LA, Paris, and back to New York. I’ve done television appearances and small group workshops. It’s been a bloody busy six weeks.
And still, in these quiet moments, she’s all I can think about.
The sex was incredible. I’ll never deny that. Her body was seemingly made for mine, and I couldn’t get enough of her.
But it was when we were quiet together that’s at the front of my mind. Her laughter would brighten the darkest day. Her sweet smile and quick wit enamor me.
I simply miss her.
I press my hand to the cool glass, immediately reminded of our last morning together. I walked her down to the airport shuttle, and everything in me was screaming at me to ask her for her number, to suggest we meet again.
But I didn’t. Instead, I kissed her forehead, and watched helplessly as she climbed into the van. As it pulled away, she looked back at me with sad eyes and pressed her hand to the glass. Was it her way of reaching out? Of wanting to connect with me, just one more time?
I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.
It’s a gorgeous sunny morning less than a week later when I pull up to Head Over Heels and cut the engine. I love New Orleans, and I can already tell that Charly’s shop is something for her to be proud of.
The sign hanging above the door is wrought iron, blending with the historic French Quarter feel, and the name of the store, Head Over Heels, is written in a whimsical, fun font. The building itself must be at least a hundred years old, but it’s been recently painted and is well maintained. The display windows are large and decorated for the season, with beach umbrellas, sunglasses, magazines, and a sign that says, Only amateurs wear flipflops to the beach.
I grin and walk into the shop, triggering a bell, announcing my arrival. I’m nervous as fuck. She might tell me to get the hell out. But she might be happy to see me.