Nearby a couple of kids screech, playing tag as they run along beside their mother, pushing a stroller with another kid.
I head towards the cafe on the north end of the park, but I don’t stop. Love Park is just across the street. The place Sawyer and I had our first date, outside at the Christmas Village. The Christmas setup is long gone, of course. But it doesn’t stop me from walking the park and remembering every detail of that first date, complete with a blush remembering how it ended.
Signs indicate the park will be closing soon for renovations and I wonder what will become of the famous Love sculpture that the park is unofficially named for during the renovation. I walk in the direction of the sculpture, jockeying for space amongst tourists and locals alike taking selfies with the sign behind them. Sawyer and I took one too. It’s the lock screen picture on his phone.
He’s mine.
I’m getting him back.
I cross John F Kennedy Boulevard heading back toward the residential tower at the Ritz-Carlton. I’m just gonna knock on his door. I’ll go in, I’ll take the elevator up and knock on his door. And if he doesn’t answer I’m going to let myself in. I’ll sit on his couch and wait until he comes home, however long I have to. I will make him tell me what the hell is going on. He’ll admit that he’s a jerk, we’ll have makeup sex and this whole stupid breakup will be over.
Easy.
I walk down 15th Street until I reach the crosswalk at Market Street, then cross over to the Dilworth Park side. I can cut back through the park on my way to the Ritz-Carlton. I’m doing just that when I spot the man himself.
He’s standing at the north edge of the large rectangle of lawn, one foot propped on the curb that separates the lawn from the concrete that covers the rest of Dilworth Park. His hands are in his pockets, elbows bent at an easy angle. He doesn’t appear to be watching anything, just standing there. So weird. My steps falter. I’m unprepared to confront him here, outside. So I stop and watch him for a moment, still confused about what he’s doing.
He takes one hand out of his pocket and rubs at his forehead, his face tense, like he might have a headache. Oh my God. Maybe he’s sick. He was rubbing at his forehead on his birthday too. And in his office, when he broke up with me. He’s probably really sick and he didn’t want to put me through that. Idiot. I’d walk through anything with him.
Then a petite blonde woman a few years older than me walks towards him. She’s in jeans and boots, flat with cute laces. Her hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, and she’s zipped up in a light winter jacket. He sees her and his face clears, a wide smile replacing the worry that was there a moment ago.
Fucking hell.
Forty-Eight
My stomach churns, the coffee-and-potato-chip combination doing nothing to help me at the moment. My eyes are glued to the scene, and I momentarily forget that I’m standing in plain sight watching this unfold, not even considering a place to hide. Not that there is one. There’s nothing but concrete, open lawn, a half-dismantled ice rink and a couple of entrances to the subway system covering the entire area.
So I stand rooted to the spot I’m in, just staring.
Which allows me to clearly see a small brown-haired boy dash past the blonde and throw himself at Sawyer. And because I’m so lucky, it gives me a direct view of Sawyer catching the boy and swinging him up in his arms, precisely as the traffic lulls, letting me hear the boy as clearly as if I were sitting in a cinema with state-of-the-art surround sound.
“Daddy!”
Don’t worry. My luck holds out. Because I get a glimpse of Sawyer’s face too. Of the happiness, reverence and devotion spelled out across his features, clear as day.