Love Without Traffic
What if who you are today could see the one that got away?
Read an excerpt from the moment everything begins to shift.
From Chapter One: Chianti Lounge, December 2007
My tears stop in their tracks, as they always do, fearful of what lies beyond the safety of my eyelashes. I attempt to change the channel of my thoughts. With my mind constantly running, there are plenty of networks to choose from. Why stick with one I don’t like?
I’d much rather think about Britney’s issues, as her latest hit pulses through the Chianti Lounge. “Piece of Me” doesn’t quite fit between jazz sets at this upscale Long Island hotspot, but I understand the Princess of Pop’s plight and have compassion for her. She has gone off the deep end this year.
Cue another replay of last night’s dream—the one channel I can’t turn off: the Zakary Network. I haven’t seen him in over a decade, but he still regularly haunts my psyche. These dreams feel so real; the effects can linger for days.
Not this time. I won’t let myself get emotionally derailed again by someone who didn’t choose me.
Instead, I focus on the man who has. Grant will arrive any minute. He deserves me. So maybe I’ll get a little buzzed tonight… and let him have me.
You could argue that if I need alcohol to do something—or someone—it’s probably not in my best interest. But even if I regret this tomorrow, it’ll give me something more original to think about than Zakary.
“Sorry I’m late,” Grant says, sliding into the booth. “I had to take a call…”
“You don’t have to explain.”
He tells me about a last-minute trip to Prague, then casually adds, “You’re coming with.”
“Sorry, I already have plans. I’m having lunch in Barcelona.”
“I’m serious, Vienna. I already booked our first flights.”
“First?”
“These clients are all over Europe.”
Excitement and irritation compete for dominance. Before either wins, he raises his glass to toast. I leave it hanging.
“Who books flights for someone else without asking?”
“I’m asking now.”
“I have a job, Grant.”
“You hate your job. Now you have a great excuse to quit.”
“And how am I paying bills in this fantasy of yours?”
“I’ll cover them. No strings. Let’s just see what happens.”
We both know what will happen. We’ll have an incredible time, and Grant will get his hopes up about us. I’ll pull back, like I always do.
Still, the temptation is strong. Grant has been in my life for over thirteen years. He treats me better than anyone ever has. I can be myself with him. He sees the best in me.
Isn’t that what I’ve been looking for?
The channels of my mind switch back and forth, as if someone is sitting on the remote. Say yes to his invitation! Say no!
I wish I could jump to a future scene like I could with those Choose Your Own Adventure books I loved as a child.
What happens if I choose this scenario?
If I don’t like the ending, can I return to this page and start over?
Grant steps away to take a call, and I sit alone, watching holiday lights flicker against a massive wreath. The scent of pine pulls me back to childhood—to a time when magic felt real and loss didn’t exist yet.
I shake it off and order another drink.
Texts from Grant flash across his BlackBerry:
Sorry, be right back.
Just come! Traveling without you is boring.
We can also hit Costa so you can surf.
Of course he adds surfing. Of course he makes it harder to say no.
When he returns, he slides closer and suggests we leave soon. I rest my hand on his thigh and thank him for the offer. I don’t know about Europe—but I do know I’ll be spending the night with him.
Grant responds instantly, his hand slipping under my shirt, catching me off guard. Desire surges before I can stop it. His confidence is new. And effective.
We’re hidden in a corner booth—until our server walks up just as my blouse opens, revealing my red lace bra. Her expression shifts from professional to judgmental in seconds.
I don’t care enough to stop him.
Grant does.
“Ready to get out of here?” he asks, pulling back.
“Almost. I’m going to hit the restroom first.”
I button my blouse slowly, half hoping he’ll change his mind. He doesn’t.
I push through the crowded lounge, caught somewhere between desire and hesitation. Tonight could be different. Maybe I finally let go. Maybe I choose the man who chooses me.
Screw you, Zakary. You can haunt me all you want—but I’m moving on.
On my way back, a man bumps into me. My breath stops as he turns.
For a split second, I think it’s him.
It’s not.
Still, something in me cracks open. I retreat to the bathroom, waiting for tears that never quite fall.
When I return to the table, everything is different.
“I can’t do this,” I say.
“Do what?” Grant asks.
“Any of it. Go home with you. Take the trip. I want to… I just can’t.”
“Don’t cry. What’s wrong?”
No one has seen me cry in over a decade.
“I can’t be with you—or anyone else—until I get closure. With him.”
“Oh, Jesus. Not again.”
“I know. I wish I could help it.”
“Vienna, what’s wrong with you? When are you going to accept that it’s over?”
He pauses, then adds:
“He moved on ten freaking years ago. Don’t you think it’s time you do the same?”