She always imagined he'd see the flowers in her window. Come running back, a bouquet in his pack and an apology hiding under his thick beard. But that's not how it goes. He's gone, and Karen's alone.
A long week, and she's meeting Foggy and Marci at Josie's Bar on Sunday night. No New Year's Eve parties, just a table and a bottle of vodka. No one protests when Karen suggests shots, and that's how she finds herself, three drinks later, with Marci's finger in her face.
She jabs at Karen's chest with the accuracy of a frat boy at his first keg stand. "And where's your man?"
Glitter sparkles on Marci's cheekbone and Karen fights the urge to wipe it off. "I don't— you know I don't have time for that." She's speaking through a cloud and her words clot in the air.
Marci's drunk, but she's not stupid. Leave it to Karen to try lying to a lawyer. "Ohmygod, you're totally not over Matt."
Foggy's fists tighten, but he just flattens his lips into a thin, lost line.
"No, it's not Matt… He's done— they're—he's gone."
"Well, then have we got the guy for you to meet!" says Marci, tugging on Foggy's sleeve. "Don't we, babe?"
He shrugs, sheepish, and turns to the bowl of pretzels on the table. The crunch from each of his bites rattles through Karen's head as she fumbles to string words together. "Um, no— I'm not looking—"
"So you've moved on?!" Marci squeals, and Karen winces as her eardrums weep. Foggy leans forward, pretzel dangling from his lips, suddenly intrigued.
"No," Karen says. "God, Marci, how much have you been drinking?"
"The same as you," and they're off in fits of giggles.
Midnight comes and goes. The ball drops on TV, a flicker of activity in the corner of Karen's eye. Foggy shoves his glass towards hers, toasting their city, their friendship. His words are hollow without Matt drinking beside them. As the old year passes, Karen's heart limps into a new one, weighed down by the memories that hold her captive in a vice grip.
Josie kicks them out at closing time. Outside of the bar, the sky glows orange from the hum of the city. Swaying under the flicker of the street lamps, Foggy hails the next cab. "You coming?" he asks Karen as Marci crawls in the back of the taxi, flinging off her heels.
The journalist hesitates; the idea of being locked in a car with Marci for another round of questioning turns her sloshing stomach. "My apartment's only a few blocks away. I'll just walk home."
The look Foggy gives her nearly moves her to tears. Naked concern etched into his brow, the way that Matt used to look at her. The way Frank used to look at her. "Sure you'll be okay?"
She pats her pocket of her purse with a grim smile. "I can handle myself." And it's true, she can. But it's nice to see someone worry for her, if only for a minute.
Foggy claps her on the back and trips into the car, where Marci wraps herself around his neck and the two of them are driven away into the fog.
There's snow packed in the gutters, but the clouds promise a clear walk home for Karen. She crawls home, a slow walk designed to prolong the inevitable: a cold apartment, a lonely bed, and a hangover to look forward to come morning.
Each time she passes a bundle of blankets on the street, she peers past the layers, hoping to see a crooked nose and brown eyes waiting for her. Each time she looks, a bitter disappointment sinks deeper into her skin. She remembers him— his barking laugh, his gentle touch, the set of his jaw when he's mad. But the longer they spend apart, the more she worries she's made it all up: the flowers, their meetings by the bridge, his forehead against hers.
"Take care."
The long road home isn't that long at all, but at her glacial pace, Karen reaches her apartment past three. The clink of bottles behind doors and the swish of her flats on the hardwood floor, and three flights of stairs until she pulls out her key. The echoes of laughter from the room down the hall grates against her aching feet.
She'll brush her teeth, collapse into bed, fall asleep before she has time to remember all that she misses, all that she's lost. A shitty end to a shitty year.
The lock clicks, and she shuts the door behind herself, tearing off her flats as she realizes that something's off. The lamp in her living room, it's on. She swears she turned it off before leaving, if not consciously then by habit. But it's on and wreathed in its light, a man sits, back to her, on her couch.
Feeling for her gun, Karen reaches into her purse—
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. No need for that." Without turning around, without missing a beat.
Karen can't move, can't run to him or hug him or sock that damn smug smile off his face. But just like she's dreamed a thousand times over the last month, Frank rises from the sofa and folds a page over in the book he borrowed from her shelves. Carefully, he places it on the cushion and turns to face her.
"Almost finished the book, it took you so long to get home."
How he manages a calm demeanor, Karen can't tell, but it's Frank. Same old steady Frank, watching her with a stupid grin on his face.
"You're here," and saying the words breathes life into the specter before her. He's rounding the corner and heading for her, and suddenly she's engulfed in arms that smell of coffee and sweat, that pulled her into an elevator and pushed her to safety.
She presses her forehead against his, and this time he doesn't pull away. An eternity passes between them. Her head thumps in a swirl of light and laughter and certainty. When she finally moves in to close the gap, their noses bump and their teeth collide, and Karen's a schoolgirl again tasting champagne for the first time.
But Frank waits for her to steady herself. He's been waiting a long time for this.
"I'm a little drunk," she admits, and he just chuckles, long and low. Walking her down the hall, a hand pressed against the small of her back, Frank makes sure Karen reaches her bed safely. He sits on the edge of the mattress, running a hand through her hair as if he can't believe the woman in front of him is real.
When she tugs off his shirt and struggles to properly pull off her skirt, he grabs her hand, squeezes it. Slow down, he says, slow down. "I'm gonna be here tomorrow. I won't go away."
As they drift off, together in the dark, Karen knows, from the tip of her heart to the bottom of her soul, that this year's going be a good one. Because when she wakes, the first thing she'll see is Frank's face.