The Dream Guy Next Door: A Guys Who Got Away Novel Read online

  “Of course.” She picks up her cat and deposits her in her carrier. “And I’ll miss you, Dr. Harris. Good luck with your move.”

  “Thank you. And I’ll miss Cecily. She’s a sweet cat.” I show Blair to the door, saying goodbye to my last appointment after more than ten years of taking care of the pampered pets of New York City.

  With my hand on the doorknob, a sense of melancholy settles in, but it’s mixed with opportunity too.

  I’m taking off tomorrow, packing up and heading home. Though leaving hasn’t been entirely by choice, I’m determined to make the best of the change.

  It’s all I can do.

  Besides, no matter how annoying it is to relocate, surely moving can’t be as bad as eating broccoli.

  Or checking a finger tag in the middle of the night.

  I shudder.

  Nothing is that bad.

  But saying goodbye isn’t easy either, even for an optimist.

  The next morning, I head up the stairs in my Murray Hill apartment building, contemplating the things that make moving hard. It’s not the lifting (I hired movers), nor is it the boxing and sorting of stuff (I hate clutter, so there’s not much to sort).

  It’s the changing of stuff, and the way packing up clothes, books, and plates makes you think about what you want in life.

  What’s worth giving in on.

  What’s worth giving up.

  What you truly need for the next year—the next decade, even.

  This minute, though, I need to do one last check of my apartment before I hand over the keys to the next owner.

  I slide mine into the lock and step inside.

  An ache slams into my chest as I look around at the empty space.

  There’s a particular feeling that comes from standing in the skeleton of the home you lived in for a decade.

  It’s awareness that a part of your life is ending. That you’re letting go of something, perhaps a piece of yourself. That awareness burrows deep into my psyche and digs far into my gut too—the sense that not only a chapter but a whole book is ending. I have no idea what the opening scene in the next story will reveal, or if it’ll be something I want to read.

  But it’s not optional.

  It’s the required text for the next phase of my life.

  Parking my hands on my hips, I draw a deep lungful of air, surveying the hardwood floors, the bare white walls, the cupboards. My eyes sweep over the space that now contains . . . nothing.

  Nothing at all.

  No furniture. No art. No bookshelves.

  But I can so clearly see what was here a few days ago before the movers packed up everything.

  The black leather couch that’s on its way across the country.

  It’ll look smashing in my new bungalow in Duck Falls.

  Or . . . will it?

  Hmm. Now that I think about it, maybe I should have let go of that couch. It’s not best suited to my life these days. The leather and steel that’s perfect for a man cave doesn’t exactly work with a kid who wants to cuddle up on a comfy sofa and watch cartoons for the gazillionth time.

  I picture the glass coffee table that sits on simple chrome legs, now also whooshing its way west.

  That will look good too . . . won’t it?

  Except perhaps glass isn’t the best choice either. Seems I have to spray the tabletop clean twelve or three hundred times a day.

  I swing my gaze to where the replica Eames chair sat and . . . dammit.

  Why did I keep that when it’s already acquired so many nicks and scratches?

  Maybe it could go in the office of my new practice?

  Right. Sure. Great idea. A place crawling with literal animals is no better than a place crawling with one particular species—the dastardly and destructive variety known as a young boy.

  Shit.

  I should have donated all of my stuff. Maybe I can find a home for it. Who out there wants leather, glass, and steel furniture? Bachelors in need? Playboys furnishing their man pads? Perennially single men in the city?

  No one. Absolutely no one.

  I groan, cursing myself for holding on to those things. Keeping them three years ago made sense. Keeping them now is the height of foolishness.

  But no matter.

  Once I’m in California, I’ll pop into an IKEA. Replace everything. Be in and out with new stuff in a jiffy.

  Except I’ve only been in an IKEA once. I needed a map and a flashlight to find my way to safety.

  I’ll gird myself this time. Study the routes, plot in advance. Surely I can navigate a big-box store, even a labyrinthine one.

  I take a breath, talking back to my momentary furniture panic.

  Everything will be fine.

  All I need to do is get through this final look-see, and then I’ll be on my way.

  Ready to make the best of a tough situation.

  I pace across the apartment, making sure nothing was left behind. That’s what I came to do this morning—not wonder about the suitability of a stylish sofa or a sleek table.

  I step into the bedroom that was home to my king-size bed mere days ago.

  That, too, is in transit.

  So is my son’s twin bed. A bed that I didn’t need until a few years ago. But now it’s making its way to the other coast, along with the black comforter set, because Thor sheets are no longer cool, dinosaur sheets were decidedly uncool the first time we went shopping for bedding, and apparently all the other colors at Bed Bath & Beyond are unacceptable to the discerning fourth-grader.

  I never thought I would know about the sheet preferences of the grade-schooler set. Now I do, as well as whether “dope” or “epic” is the cooler word (“dope” is).

  I turn into the bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet and checking the shower one more time. There’s nothing left.

  I am well and truly ready to go.

  I need to go. And I want to go.

  Still, it’s hard. I try to shake off that clutch of longing, that knot in my chest that wants to tether me here, to this city that’s been my home.

  I head to the front door and set a hand on the knob for the last time. “Goodbye, bachelor pad,” I say. But it hasn’t been a bachelor pad for a few years.

  Stepping out, I tug the door shut behind me, closing the book on this story.

  I bound down the steps, slipping away from my Manhattan life that was once rich with dinners out five nights a week, two-hour visits to the gym, and shows, concerts, wine and cheese tastings, plays and parties, art galleries, and dates, lots of dates.

  Out on a sun-drenched Park Avenue, cabs and buses trundle by. My son punches my cousin Oliver’s arm, adamantly making a point, it seems. Aunt Jane stands next to them, regarding the two with amusement over the top of her glasses. Quick-witted, gossip-loving, cat-collecting Aunt Jane—she’s another part of this city that I’ll miss.

  “No! Steve Trout is the greatest player of all time,” my son insists.

  Indignation spreads across Oliver’s face, as it well and truly should at the suggestion that a modern-day baseball player could be the greatest of all time—especially someone who plays for the enemy.

  “How could you even say such a thing?” Oliver stares at Ethan, bewildered, then at me, thrusting a cup of coffee in my hand. “What have you been teaching him, Liam?”

  I shake my head and raise my free hand, denying responsibility for my son’s terrible choices when it comes to baseball hero worship. “Trust me, I didn’t teach him that sort of blasphemy.” I take a vital drink of the coffee, needing the blast of energy it’ll bring me. Oliver hands me a bagel next, and I nod my thanks.

  My son looks up at me, all big blue puppy-dog eyes and shaggy blond hair. He’s hardly like me at all, but the DNA test made it clear that neither hair color nor eye color matter. He’s mine, and I’m his. “Dad, you like Steve Trout, don’t you?”

  I set a hand on his forehead, as if I’m checking his temperature. “Liking a Dodger? Are you feeling okay?”


  He huffs. “Steve Trout is the coolest.”

  Oliver clears his throat. “The coolest,” he says, stabbing his finger in the air to make his point, “is Mariano Rivera. A Yankee through and through.”

  Aunt Jane weighs in, clearing her throat. “The coolest is . . . Reggie Jackson. He was also a Yankee for a spell.”

  Oliver quirks a brow. “Jane. You’re not even old enough to have watched him play.”

  With narrowed eyes, she taps him on the head. As he deserves. “Rephrase, please.”

  Oliver rearranges his features, barely looking contrite though. “I mean, how can he be your favorite? He played ages ago, well before you started watching the Yankees.”

  “I can read. I’ve read plenty of baseball history books.”

  I catch Oliver’s gaze and mouth, You’re in so much trouble.

  “And all those books say the Yankees are better than the Dodgers,” Oliver adds.

  Ethan rolls his eyes, laughing. “You’re all so weird. It’s not like that with me and my friends. We like who we like. Doesn’t matter what team they play on. Dodgers, Yankees, Red Sox.”

  I cover his mouth with my hand and look at Aunt Jane and Oliver. “Forgive him. He knows not what he speaks.”

  My son licks my hand. Laughing, I peel it off him as he cackles. “Gross,” I say. “You’re like a dog.”

  Dancing a victory jig, Ethan says, “Sounds like a compliment. Also, what did you think would happen when you put your hand on my mouth?”

  “He makes a valid point,” Oliver puts in, clapping my son on the back then pointing at me. “You were kind of asking to get licked, Liam.”

  “Evidently I must ask for it every day, since I get licked every day. Usually by a cat though,” I say offhand.

  “And now all the cats of Duck Falls will be giving you a lick,” Aunt Jane says, a soft and slightly sad smile curving her lips. She’s my mum’s sister, and she moved here from England a few years ago. “I’m glad you’re going there to help out.”

  “I’m glad I can help too,” I say on a rough swallow, choking back the reasons why I’m helping out. Reasons I fervently wish were different. “But on that note, I should go.”

  Aunt Jane wraps her arms around me and plants a quick kiss on my cheek. “If you make me linger at a goodbye, my mascara will run, and I will be most upset. Besides, we’ll get together for Christmas and other holidays,” she says, her voice breaking, something I rarely hear it do.

  “Yes, we should be getting on. The airport waits for no one,” I say, a note of sadness slipping into my voice that I attempt to shove away before anyone can notice it. At least I hope they won’t notice it, this patchwork of family that I have here in New York. They’ve been my people for the last several years, and it’ll be weird not to see them whenever I want.

  “I guess this is it, and in all seriousness, I will miss you,” I say to my cousin, emotions bubbling to the surface momentarily.

  Oliver scratches his jaw and blows out a long stream of air, his tone turning serious too. “Hate to admit it, but I feel the same.”

  We might give each other a hard time, but we both know the score. We’ve depended on each other. He’s been a regular presence in my life here in New York for the decade I’ve called this city home. We’re two transplants here in the States who have been making our way in Manhattan.

  But now I’ve been called back to the other side of the country to responsibilities I never expected, but ones I can’t turn down.

  I haul him and Aunt Jane in for a last hug, then say goodbye to this city.

  I’m ready.

  I’m sure of that.

  As much as you can ever truly be ready to leave a city of millions and return to a small town with a kid you didn’t even know you had until three years ago.

  Life has a habit of raining lemons, and it’s up to you to make lemonade.

  You can’t debate the next chapter in your life for too long when you’ve got a kid on your own. Your job as an only parent morphs by the second. Sometimes you’re head cheerleader, sometimes a psychiatrist, and sometimes a chief janitor.

  After Ethan and I settle into the second row of the plane, the flight attendant hands him an orange juice. “Thank you,” he says with a gap-toothed grin. He lifts the cup to his lips, but it wobbles, and he spills the drink on the armrest, the seat, and the floor.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” The apology flies out of him at Mach speed.

  “No worries. We’ll clean it up,” I say. This is a piece of cake compared to what I clean up daily—no, hourly—at work.

  But before I can track down a napkin, the superhero known as a first-class flight attendant, who has radar to rival an FAA antenna, swoops back over with a cloth and wipes down the seat, then the armrest, and the floor.

  “All better,” she says with a lip-glossed smile and a cheery grin.

  My son smiles back. “Thank you so much.”

  She gives a little curtsy. “You’re quite a gentleman, and your accent is adorable.” She makes a little bopping gesture at his freckled nose.

  “Thanks,” he says as he flops back into his seat. “I’m American, but my mom was British and my Dad is too.” He pats my shoulder as if the flight attendant might be confused about who his father is.

  She shoots a bemused look at both of us. “That would definitely give you an accent.”

  Ethan pokes my arm, then slides into a right proper imitation of me, waggling a chiding finger. “Now, don’t forget to do your science homework, young man. Science is quite possibly the most important subject.”

  “Well, it is,” I say, standing my ground.

  “I couldn’t agree more. Your father is right,” the attendant says, leaning in a little closer, her eyes on Ethan the whole time, and I like that she talks to him directly. That’s how it should be. “Now, promise me something, little man.”

  “Sure,” he says, sitting up straighter, eager for her command.

  She does that air bop again. “That you’ll let me know if you need anything. Anything at all.” Her voice drops. “Like ice cream. Or brownies. Or a special movie.”

  “Ice cream. Brownies. And a special movie, please.”

  Gently, she pats his head. “I’ll make it happen.”

  She stops at the row behind us, and I turn to Ethan, chief cheerleader kicking in as we click in our seat belts. “Okay, so this is it. Soon, we’ll get warm nuts. And do you know what that means?”

  He giggles. “You said ‘warm nuts.’”

  “Yes, I did. And they’re delicious,” I say, keeping a straight face. “Also, they’re a symbol. A demarcation between one thing and another.”

  “Dad. Nuts.” He can’t stop laughing.

  “Yes, nuts. A tasty snack,” I say, keeping a deadpan expression.

  A cackle bursts from him, clearly located in the seismic epicenter of his funny bone. He grabs my arm. “You can’t say that.”

  “I can, and I did. And do you want to know why I like warm nuts?”

  More chuckles emanate from Ethan, but he tries to collect himself. “Why?”

  “Because it means we’re off. We’re making our ascent, heading to our next adventure.”

  His expression turns worried. “What if I miss New York? And Florida too?”

  The subtext isn’t lost on me. New York is all he’s known for the last few years. Florida was all he knew before then.

  But laughing is something he’s done in both places. Or so I was told.

  “We can always visit,” I say, giving him my best we’ve got this smile, even though there’s no need to visit Florida now. Nothing familiar for him there.

  “We should visit New York, then,” Ethan says with a nod, resolute.

  And I couldn’t agree more. We’ll still have people in New York who we’ll miss. “We will absolutely come back and visit.”

  “California is fun though. I’ve liked it every time we’ve visited Nan and Pop. But do you really think it’ll be an adventure?”


  I stroke my chin, pretending to consider this deeply, but speaking from the heart. “Let’s see. We’re moving to the town where I spent my last two years of high school. We’re going to see Nan and Grandad a lot.”

  “Now that I’ll be seeing him regularly, can I call him Pop instead? It’s easier. I like Pop better.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be just fine with that,” I say, picturing my dad, his sturdy demeanor, his tough-as-nails approach, and his fierce love of his grandkids. He won’t care at all—plus he has other matters on his mind. “And my sister and her kids will be there. And we have a pool. Hello, a pool! With a waterslide.” He’ll love the pool. Of that I’m sure. Our building in New York had a gym and an indoor pool that was practically Ethan’s second home. He’s always loved the water.

  “I might be a fish,” he says.

  “Please. You’re a dolphin.”

  “You’re right. Dolphins are cooler too.”

  “You can go full dolphin in California. So yeah, let’s make a promise that we won’t let it be anything but a great adventure.”

  A smile spreads immediately on his face. He offers a fist for knocking.

  When you’re a fourth-grader, handshakes have been passé for ages.

  “Then I’m up for adventure,” he says.

  A few minutes later, as the plane taxis on the tarmac, the helpful attendant swings by once more, stopping at our seats. “I forgot to ask. What takes you gentlemen to California today?”

  Ethan points at me. “My dad is making me move.”

  “Ah, so someone doesn’t want to?”

  “At first I didn’t. But he said it’ll be an adventure. So maybe it won’t be so bad.”

  “Moving is definitely an adventure. I was born in California, then I moved to Louisiana, and then to Missouri, and then to Alaska, and then to Arizona. And they were all adventures.”

  “Did you like moving so much?”

  She seems to mull it over. “It can be hard to leave your friends. But you know what I love about moving?”

  He sits up straighter in his chair. “What?”

  “New experiences, new people, and new chances.”

  “I like meeting new people,” he says.