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She hadn’t texted him since—
But his number was still in her phone.
G et this fucking horse out of my house .
Her tone—just like the old days. Back when she and Ken had lived in Nolita. Back when she was obsessed with those Swedish meatballs on Stone Street. Back when everyone was happy.
Or at least trying to be.
Rava sat alone, finally pouring herself a glass of her godfather’s wine. The kids were safely tucked away at her parents’ house in Greenwich. Thankfully.
So Rava felt reckless. She saw the reply bubble pop up and her heart jumped.
No .
She typed again: Get this horse out of my house.
Her phone lit up with his name. She answered the call. She could hear Stewy shift on the other end of the line, shrug, maybe.
“It’s a metaphor,” he said.
“And how is that?”
“So Ken knows I’m sneaking inside.”
Did he mean the night they—?
“Yeah, he doesn’t need you to push him off balance right now—“
“Why? Because he does such a good job of it himself? Listen, Rava, you home right now?”
“Yes, Stewy, I’m staring at the horse you delivered.”
“Ok, I’m coming up.”
“Unless it’s with a team of movers—“
“Rav—I’ll be over in five.”
And, true to his word, he was.
He sighed, surveying the handiwork of the equine monstrosity in the hallway and suppressed a smirk when she opened the door.
“They really did a nice job with this, actually,” Stewy commented breezily as he slipped by her.
She hated admitting it, but he smelled really fucking good.
“So this has been Camp Kendall for the day?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“How are you holding up?”
Rava blinked in surprise; Stewy was inhabiting one of his rare sweet moments.
“Well—you’re the first person to ask me that today,” she said with a wistful smile, “so, I—you know what, I’m not sure. Brought back a lot of memories.”
“I can tell.”
“But,” Rava ushered him into the kitchen and reclaimed her glass of wine, “you know…You want a drink?”
“Whiskey, if you have it.”
She nodded, and after slipping into the dining room, returned with a tumbler of Woodford Reserve. Two fingers. Neat. Stewy accepted it, the corners of his mouth upturned at the realization that she had remembered.
That one night in 2004. What had been a handful of hours was now a blip in their minds’ eyes. Unspoken for so many years—and before she’d been with Ken. Sometimes, late at night, the memory would ambush him.
And her. And while she loved Kendall still—and forever—Rava had always wondered what could have been.
She took a sip of wine as he tried the whiskey, catching his gaze from across the kitchen island.
“I’m not helping you load it into the freight elevator.”
“It’ll have to spend the night here.”
“Stewy—“
“Besides, it gave us a chance to catch up.”
She sighed, taking another sip.
“I hadn’t been up here yet,” Stewy took the chance to survey the expanse of the penthouse, “nice. Very nice. You’ll get this in the—“
“—in the divorce, yes.”
“Generous,” Stewy commented, still assessing, “but then again, you were put through a lot.”
“So movers for this thing? Tomorrow—a.m.?”
Stewy turned to her, bit his lip for a second, and thought, “what can we do about him?”
“I—I don’t know,” Rava sighed, the weight of the exhaustion she felt was crashing down onto her in that moment, “stay close, I guess.”
“If you need anything—“ Stewy stepped to her, careful to set the crystal tumbler onto the counter behind her. Rava shifted, still able to feel the warmth emanating from his body. He was always clouded in a heat.
“—just let me know,” he whispered, very close now.
“You know I will.”
He held himself before her, still close, never breaking her gaze as he gauged her reaction.
Rava swayed, having finished all but a drop of the glass of the 1996 Le Pin, sprang toward him, and her lips found his easily.
Stewy had no plan for showing up to Rava’s penthouse that night; he’d been ready to shoot from the hip—but if he couldn’t have Kendall, he could at least have her. He dove deeply into her, sliding his hand across her jaw. She responded, with a small moan into his mouth—decades of longing bursting forth.
But Stewy pulled back—and Rava didn’t press him. Instead she leaned her head against his shoulder, sighing softly.
He took the glass from her hand and downed the last of the wine.
“Thanks for the drink,” he whispered.
Stewy stepped away, and Rava found support against the marble island.
“They’ll come get this thing tomorrow,” he said, before slipping out into the hallway—and leaving her alone.