Page 172 of The Clinch
When I come out of Grossman on Thursday, I start toward the M15 stop on East 34th, then change my mind and keep walking uptown.
It’s too gorgeous outside. The sun is warm, the air clear.
The movement feels glorious immediately. Dry pavement under my sneakers. That brief, thrilling sense of having chosen my own evening. Shower first when I get home. Then a salad. Then a couple of hours on renal before I let myself switch to anatomy review.
This is what I wanted.
A walk home. A drink sweating in my palm. My own keys in my bag. An evening that belongs to me before anyone else gets to touch it.
By the time I hit the mid-seventies, the sidewalks have thinned a little. Dog walkers. Women pushing strollers. Kids holding someone’s hand on their way to dinner.
That’s when I hear my name.
Not the one professors use. Not the clipped, polite Liz I answer to all day now.
The old one.
“Lillian.”
Everything in me goes cold.
Travis is standing a few yards ahead, one hand in his jacket pocket, like he has nowhere else to be. Like he belongs in the middle of my evening.
I stop, irritation hitting me hot and clean.
Of course he would try to step into the narrow, ordinary piece of my life I had managed to carve back out for myself.
“I’m not interested,” I snap.
He smiles as if I’ve opened a conversation instead of ending one. “That’s a hell of a greeting.”
“Good. Then you heard it.”
His gaze drops to my drink, the tote over my shoulder. Taking inventory. That alone makes me want to claw his eyes out.
“You look good. Calmer.”
I laugh once. “You should go before I make a scene.”
That smile shifts, barely. “Still dramatic.”
Still.
The word makes my skin prickle.
People keep moving around us. A woman with a cane. Couple with a stroller. A teenager on a scooter cutting too close to the curb. Normal city motion, close enough to help, far enough not to matter unless I force it to.
I glance past him, measuring distance without moving my head too much. Eden’s studio is a couple of minutes north. The avenue is open ahead. Traffic steady. Enough people. Enough eyes. If I have to run, I can run.
“Move out of my way.”
He moves closer instead, enough to tell me he’s not taking me seriously.
“We should talk.”
“We absolutely should not.”
“Lillian.”
