“I got it,” he says. His eyes bore into mine, and he leans in and places a soft kiss on my cheek. “Go.”
“You don’t have to.” The words come out on a whisper.
“Lulu, just go.”
I cradle his cheek in my hand. We’re so close that if I turn to the side, he could kiss me. Or I could kiss him. But neither of us move, and I don’t know why. I mean, I know why I’m not moving. I’m terrified he won’t say all the things I’ve waited an entire year to hear. But the way he lets my nickname roll off his tongue . . . I swear it sounds like he’s praying every time he says it. He never runs over the syllables. They’re always firm and purposeful, even when his voice makes him sound like he’s in agony as he says it, and that has to mean something. It has to, right? I can’t come to terms with the idea that maybe what we had was more or less fleeting, because this is, this love is, anything but fleeting for me. Jameson Hayes took hold of my heart in a men’s bathroom and has refused to give it back ever since. And I don’t want him to. As sick as it is, I kind of need the pain of loving him. I never feel quite as alive as I do when I’m with him, or thinking of him, or just plain missing him.
“God, I’ve missed you,” he whispers and leans into my touch. His eyes close.
I suck in a shaky breath and can finally relax. This is my Jameson. The cold, distant man he was a few moments ago is a cheap impostor I kind of hate. This man, whose scruffy face tickles the palm of my hand and whose simple gestures mean the world to me, is going to be the death of me.
I want to tell him everything.
I’ve missed you.
I love you.
I need you.
Please.
And I don’t because the cabbie taps on the plastic divider between the front and back, and Jameson pulls away and pats my knee again as he leans over and opens my door for me. It’s the same pat as before, and I know I’m reading too much into it, but it almost physically hurts how much that pat makes me feel hollow inside.
The cabbie climbs out of the vehicle and goes to the trunk where he pulls out my carry-on roller and places it on the sidewalk. Reluctantly, I slide out of the cab and take my suitcase in hand. Jameson barely looks at me as he closes his door. Moments later, the cab pulls away and heads for the Lower East Side to take Jameson home. And I’m still standing on the curb as I lose the yellow checkered sedan in the sea of cabs that look exactly like it.
I don’t move until our doorman, Reginald, whistles at me to get my attention. I try to follow along with what he’s talking about—wife had their baby, super cute, has colic, my dad made sure he got the beignet mix I sent him from New Orleans, my things arrived from school yesterday, the gym is being remodeled, and apparently we have a celebrity in the penthouse and they’re a major pain in the ass—but I find myself nodding half the time and struggling to keep up with the conversation. I add in my own little bits of everything here and there for good measure, but he can tell I’m not really listening.
“I’m sorry I’m so distracted,” I say, cringing at how awful I’m being. Reginald and I have always been tight. He used to cover for me when I was in high school and I’d sneak into the building later than I was supposed to, and he tolerated the fact that I spent a solid two years losing our house keys all along the Upper West Side. Poor man must have had our apartment re-keyed a dozen times.
“I’m not taking it personally. I remember being young and in love.”
“Wow,” I say. “Way to peer into my soul.”
“Girl, nobody’s peering into nothing. You spent five minutes watching a cab navigate through rush hour. Ain’t nobody got time for that.” I open my mouth to tell him he’s mistaken. He’s not, of course, but there’s a certain vulnerability that comes with admitting the truth, and I’m already feeling plenty vulnerable. “What’s this? Melanie Kincaid is speechless? Hot damn, it’s about time we found something to shut you up.”
“Okay, that’s it. Catch-up time is over,” I say and wave an arm in the air.
“Yeah, yeah.” He opens the door for me as I walk in. “Your dress was delivered this morning and is on the hook.”
“Dress, right,” I say with a nod and press the UP button at the elevators. I almost forgot about my dress for the Heroes in Action ball. As usual, I didn’t have much say in the selection and let Mom order what she wanted.
On my way up to the sixteenth floor, I think about this weekend at the beach house and what it could mean for Jameson and me. Just the two of us—isolated on the beach, with an entire house to ourselves—for a whole twenty-four hours. I might not even pack panties.