Julian started the engine.
“I’d like it noted that my agency did not charge extra for karmic coincidence.”
I expected him to drop me off and disappear.
That would have been reasonable.
Instead, when we reached my apartment, I said,
“I have champagne.”
He looked at me.
“Is this still part of the assignment?”
“I think we’ve exceeded the original scope.”
“Then technically I’m off duty.”
“Is that a yes?”
He smiled.
“Absolutely.”
We sat on my living room floor because neither of us wanted to behave like adults enough to use the couch.
I kicked off my heels.
Julian removed his tie.
We opened the champagne.
For the first hour, we dissected the wedding.
Vanessa dropping the glass.
Mason’s face when he saw Julian.
My “you mailed me directions to the place” line, which Julian insisted deserved an award.
Then the laughter faded.
We started talking about what came before.
The real things.
I told him what Mason had done to my confidence.
How betrayal hadn’t been the worst part.
The worst part had been spending years with a person who could cut me down so calmly that I sometimes believed I deserved it.
Julian understood.
Vanessa had done something similar to him.
“She made me feel boring,” he admitted. “Like wanting a normal life meant I lacked ambition.”
“Mason made me feel ordinary.”
“What’s wrong with ordinary?”
I looked at him.
“Nothing, apparently.”
“Exactly.”
We talked until after midnight.
Then one.
Then almost two.
Eventually Julian stood.
He put on his jacket.
I walked him to the door.
For the first time all evening, neither of us had anything funny to say.
“Thank you,” I said.
“For destroying a wedding?”
“For making tonight easier.”
Julian smiled.
“You were doing pretty well on your own.”
I looked at him for a moment.
“You know, you’re nothing like Mason.”
His expression softened.
“I hope not.”
He opened the door.
Then turned back.
“Claire?”
“Yeah?”
“We could have dinner sometime.”
I smiled.
“Professionally?”
“No.”
There was something wonderfully terrifying about that answer.
“Okay.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
Then he left.
Julian texted me the next morning.
Still emotionally recovering from the world’s most uncomfortable wedding reception?
I replied:
Mostly recovering from the champagne.
That became another conversation.
Then another.
A week later, we had dinner.
No scripted backstory.
No fake careers.
No instructions about where to place his hand.
