No Way Back. Andrew Gross

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      “Oh,” I said. Everyone in the lounge seemed to be clued in to this.

      “It’s why I stay here when I’m in town. Some of the top names in the business just drop in unannounced. Last time I was here, Sarah Jewel got up and sang.”

      “Sarah Jewel?”

      “She used to record with Basie back in the day.” He pointed to a stylishly dressed black woman and an older white man at one of the round tables. “That’s Rosie Miller. She used to record with Miles Davis. Maybe she’ll get up later.”

      “You’re in the business?” I asked. I mean, he did kind of look the part.

      “No. Play a little though. Just for fun. My dad was actually an arranger back in the seventies and eighties. He … anyway, I don’t want to bore you with all that,” he said, shrugging and stirring his drink.

      I took a sip of mine and caught his gaze. “You’re not boring me at all.”

      A couple came in and went to take the two seats that were in between us, so Mr. Cutie picked up his drink and slid deftly around them, and asked, motioning to the seat next to me, “Do you mind?”

      Truth was, I didn’t. I was actually kind of enjoying it. And I did have a rescue plan, if necessary. I checked the time: 7:25. Wherever the hell Pam was!

      “So this friend of yours,” he asked with a coy half smile, “is she real or imaginary? Because if she’s imagi-nary, not to worry. I have several imaginary friends of my own back in Boston. We could set them up.”

      “Oh, that would be nice.” I laughed. “But I’m afraid she’s quite real. At least she was this summer. She and her husband were in Spain with me and my …”

      I was about to say my husband, of course, but something held me back. Though by this time I assumed he had taken note of the ring on my finger. Still, I couldn’t deny this was fun, sitting there with an attractive man who was paying me a little attention, still reeling from my argument with Dave.

      Then he said, “I suspect there’s probably an imaginary husband back at home as well …”

      “Right now”—I rolled my eyes and replied in a tone that was just a little digging—“I’m kind of wishing he was imaginary!” Then I shook my head. “That wasn’t nice. Tequila talking. We just had a little row last night. Subject for tonight with friend.”

      “Ah. Sorry to hear. Just a newlywed spat, I’m sure,” he said, teasing. This time I was sure he was flirting.

      “Yeah, right.” I chortled at the flattery. “Going on ten years.”

      “Wow!” His eyes brightened in a way that I could only call admiring. “Well, I hope it’s okay if I say you surely don’t look it! I’m Curtis, by the way.”

      I hesitated, thinking maybe I’d let things advance just a bit too far. Though I had to admit I wasn’t exactly minding it. And maybe in a way I was saying to my husband, So see, David, there are consequences to being a big, fat jerk!

      “Wendy,” I said back. We shook hands. “But it sure would be nice to know where the hell Pam is. She was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.” I checked the time on my phone.

      “Would it be all right if I order up another of whatever you’re drinking?” He raised his palms defensively. “Purely for the imaginary friend, of course …”

      “Of course,” I said, playing along. “But no. One more of these and I’ll be up at that piano myself! And trust me, I wasn’t playing with anyone in the eighties … Anyway”—I shrugged, deadpan—“she only drinks imagi-nary vodka.”

      Curtis grinned. “I’m acquainted with the bartender. Let me see what I can do.”

      My iPhone vibrated. Pam, I was sure, announcing she was pulling up to the hotel now and for me to get a dirty martini going for her. But instead it read:

      WEND, I’M SO SORRY. JUST CAN’T MAKE IT TONITE. WHAT CAN I SAY … ? I KNOW U NEED TO TALK. TOMORROW WORK?

      Tomorrow? Tomorrow didn’t work. I was here. Now. And she was right, I did need to talk. And the last place I wanted to be right now was home. Will call, I wrote back, a little annoyed. I put down the phone. My eyes inevitably fell on Curtis’s. I’d already missed the 7:39.

      “Sure, why don’t we do just that?” I nodded about that drink.

      I’m not sure exactly what made me stay.

      Maybe I was still feeling vulnerable from my fight with Dave. Or even a little annoyed at Pam, who had a habit of bagging out when I needed her most. I suppose you could toss in just a bit of undeniable interest in the present company.

      Whatever it was, I did.

      Knowing Dave was out for the night on business and that it was all just harmless anyway helped as well. And that there was a train every half hour. I could leave anytime I wanted.

      We chatted some more, and Curtis said he was a freelance journalist here in town on a story. And I chuckled and told him that I was kind of in the same game too. That I’d actually worked for the Nassau County police in my twenties before going to law school for a year—having signed up after 9/11, after my brother, a NYPD cop himself, was killed—though I was forced to resign after a twelve-year-old boy was killed in a wrongful-death judgment. And that I’d written this novel about my experience, which was actually why I’d been in the city today at a self-publishing conference. That I’d been having a tough time getting it looked at by anyone, and that it likely wasn’t very good anyway.

      “Care to read it?” I asked. I tapped the tote bag from my publishing conference. “Been lugging it around all day.”

      “I would,” Curtis said, “but I’m afraid it’s not exactly my field.”

      “Just joking,” I said. “So what is your field?”

      He shrugged. “I’m a bit more into current events.”

      I was about to follow up on that when the pianist finished her set. The crowded room gave her a warm round of applause. She got up and came over to the end of the bar, ordered a Perrier, and to my surprise, when it arrived, lifted it toward Curtis. “All warmed up, sugar.”

      Curtis stood up. I looked at him wide-eyed. He shot me a slightly apologetic grin. “I did mention that I played …”

      “You said a bit, for fun,” I replied.

      “Well, you’ll be the judge. Look, I know you have a train to catch, and I don’t know if you’ll be around when I’m done”—he put out his hand—“but it was fun to chat with you, if you have to leave.”

      “I probably should,” I said, glancing at the time. “It was nice to talk to you as well.”

      “And best of luck,” he said, pointing as he backed away, “with that imaginary friend of yours.”

      “Right! I’ll be sure to tell her!” I laughed.

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