How to Honeymoon Alone

I arrive home after dark and get Ziggy out. He dances around my legs and gets me tangled in his leash.

There’s a car parked across from my house. It’s not usually there, but I don’t think much about it, digging through my purse for my house keys. I find Becky’s instead and have to keep digging.

“Hey,” a voice says.

Ziggy barks twice, standing by my feet.

I look up. On the sidewalk, in front of my house, is Phillip Meyer. He’s got his hands in the pockets of a pair of dark jeans, and wearing a crisp, blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

“Sorry to show up unannounced,” he says and smiles that crooked smile. “How have you been?”

“You’re here,” I say.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“In my hometown. At my house.”

“Yeah,” he says again and frowns. The beard is gone, and his hair is shorter and neat around the edges. He looks achingly familiar and also like a handsome stranger. “I can come back another time. Or never, if you’d prefer.”

“No, don’t leave.”Content bel0ngs to Nôvel(D)r/a/ma.Org.

“Okay,” he says and smiles again.

Ziggy pads toward this strange new man, outside of a house he’s rarely at, and sniffs at Phillip’s loafer-clad feet. Slowly, his tail starts to wag.

“You have a dog?” Phillip bends down to pet him, running a big hand down Ziggy’s back.

“No,” I say.

The world feels off-kilter. Like it has permanently shifted beneath my feet, and I can’t find my footing.

I just stare at him.

Phillip chuckles. “Right. You stole this one, then?”

“No. It’s my best friend.”

“The dog?”

“No, sorry, I mean it’s my best friend’s dog. He’s staying the night with me because my friend’s in labor.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Damn.”

“Yeah. It’s a lot,” I say. “And your card just arrived. Your postcard, I mean. Just today.”

“Wow.” He runs a hand over his jaw, contemplating that. There’s something contained about him and cautious. It mirrors exactly what I feel.

“Did you get mine?” I ask. My mouth feels dry.

“Yeah, about three weeks ago.”

“Oh.”

“I liked it,” he says. “You told me you’d be my guide in Pinecrest… if I ever needed one.”

“Yeah. I did.” Then I shake my head, feeling absurd. Ziggy is sniffing at my rose bushes, my best friend is in labor, and here’s Phillip, standing right in front of me. “I’m confused.”

“By what?”

“You,” I say. “This. The postcard, you showing up here… all of it.”

His smile disappears. “I see. If you want me to go, I will. It’s no problem.”

“No, stay. It’s just, after we said goodbye in Barbados, I actually turned the cab around.”

His eyes widen. “You did?”

“Yeah. I went to your bungalow, and I was going to give you my number and tell you that I wanted to keep in touch. Somehow. But you were on the phone.”

His eyebrows have drawn together, and there’s a little furrow right between them, like he’s thinking back. “Yeah, that’s right.”

I take a deep breath. “Thing is, now I’m wondering if I was crazy. Because you’re here. You’re at my front door, and you wrote all that nice stuff in your card-”

“Oh,” he says, his forehead smoothing out. “You heard me talking to my sister?”

“Yes. You were saying things, and at first, I thought it was about your ex, but then you mentioned a contract.”

He blows out a sharp breath. “It was about my ex. My sister had been at my apartment earlier that day, to make sure Lauren had taken all of her stuff, and got the keys back. After that, I texted Lauren and told her that she can’t call me again, for any reason. I wanted a clean break.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“But you mentioned something about being asked to read a contract, and that’s what you did for me. I asked you to read mine!”

He chuckles. “Yes, because I offered to, Eden. I wanted to read yours. But she’d emailed me a contract for some minor endorsement deal she wanted me to look over. Apparently, she thought she could still get free legal advice from me. I said ‘hell no’ to that.”

“Oh. In the same week?”

“Yeah. Recently, she’s been trying to become a social media influencer and was always taking pictures of-God, Eden, the last thing I came here to talk to you about was my ex.”

My breathing is becoming fast. “So, you really weren’t talking about me?”

“No, I really, really wasn’t,” he says. “Saying goodbye to you was… well. I wish I’d been smoother.”

“You were smooth. You looked unbothered.”

“Well, I wasn’t. I wanted to ask for your number. To see you again. But you told me you were only looking for a rebound, and you had a cute math teacher at work asking you out-“