And then my breath is shallow, because I’m scared I went too far with my use of we. But he writes back: Sounds like a plan.
The hummingbirds in my chest refuse to leave. It’s okay. I’ve begun to like them sticking around.
“I AM SO FURIOUS WITH YOU!”
I shrink at Cora’s outburst, but within the next two seconds, she’d got her arms around me and she’s flat-out crying and cursing at me. It’s all I can do to throw my arms around her, too, and tell her how much I love her and missed her. Raul hovers awkwardly in the background, like he isn’t sure if he ought to be yelling at me, too, or prying his wife away from me.
Wife. He and Cora are married. My Cousin is married, and I wasn’t there for the wedding, and the regret that fills me up for that is immense.
For the next hour, Cora pulls my story out of me, and in the end, she’s hugging me again. “I missed you,” she tells me. “You are never allowed to do such a stupid thing again. Did you hear a word I said when you took off to Hawaii that one time? You’re not alone, Chloe. No matter what awful shit is going on, you have people who are here for you.” She takes my face between her hands. “You. Are. Not. Alone.”
Gods, I’ve missed her, too.
Minutes after I hang up from another cathartic phone call with Caleb, I climb into bed, the minutes from this past week’s Council meeting waiting to be read on my iPad (and, if I’m being honest, lull me to sleep). But then my phone beeps, and I’m instantly awake. Jonah asks: What are you doing right now?
Hope explodes through my veins. I try to play it cool, though. Reading up on this week’s mtg. FUN. You?
Minutes go by, and the hope so sparkling and fresh begins to fizz out. Finally, just as I pick my iPad back up: Where are you?
I pull in a sharp breath. My hands begin to shake. I think my palms are sweating, too, which is so gross but it is how it is. Home. You?
Almost five weeks after I returned to Annar and Jonah walked out of my apartment, he sends me the following text: I’m outside your building.
Obviously, I’m out of bed and at the window immediately, peering out into the darkness. I can’t find him. He’s not there. Is he lying? Wait. I smack my forehead. My window faces the back of the building.
I throw a sweatshirt on and find my flip-flops. And then I’m out of my room, running through the apartment, and Will and Cameron are yelling at me, asking what I’m doing, and I tell them I’ll be back, but I’ve got to go. I don’t bother with the elevator; I run the entire length of the stairs, and then I skid through the lobby to the front door.
I throw them open and nearly knock down Erik. “Oh! Sorry!” I murmur, grabbing his arm before he hits the pavement.
“Jesus, Chloe,” he says, readjusting the bags filled with groceries in his hands. “Is the building on fire or something?”
But then I see Jonah, standing, about twenty-five feet down the sidewalk, holding his phone in one hand and tugging at his long hair with the other. He looks shocked that I’m standing in the open doorway, my hair in a sloppy pony tail, face scrubbed clean with no make-up, dressed in pajama shorts and a sweatshirt and wearing flip-flops.
“Chloe?” Erik asks.
I’m dazed. Grinning and dazed and all I can say is that I’ll see him later and if I’m lucky to not wait up for me.
Once the door is closed behind me, I take a deep breath and walk over to where Jonah’s standing. He is so ridiculously gorgeous that I feel like writing all that silly poetry Will once accused me of. “Hi,” slides out of me, all giddy, lovely joy that’s made up of two letters. I hope he can hear me over the beating of my heart. It’s got to be drowning everything out here on the street out.
“Hi,” he says in return. He’s not quite grinning, not like me, but he’s not frowning, either. I’ll take it. And I’ll gladly drink in the sight of him, because nothing has ever been so welcome or beautiful to me before.
Like the poet I just imagined to be, I say, “Hi!”
My idiocy doesn’t faze him in the slightest. “You—wow. Did you run down here or something?”
I laugh. Is it so obvious? “Yes. As a matter of fact, I did.”
He shoves his phone in his pocket and reaches out a hand. I go still and pray that I don’t pass out from excitement when he lightly fingers a loose strand of hair. “It’s nice to see it’s back to brown.”
“I was a lousy blonde,” I admit. I’m thankful I’m wearing a sweatshirt, because I’ve just totally broken out in goose bumps. And I think my skin now envies my hair.
He laughs under his breath, and this bubble of joy burbles up my chest. He thought something I said was funny! I inspired something other than hurt and anger! I’m making progress!