“Love you too, Ems.”
A bunch of people pile in front of me, anxious to reach doors that are not ready to open. Nonetheless, I push myself up from the bench and merge into line. Someone knocks into me and my cell phone drops to the ground. Bending down and hoping not to get trampled, I scramble to pick it up then sigh in relief once the group in front of me exits at the next stop. As the train starts running again, I curl my fingers around the metal pole and find myself wishing for a car. Although the idea of driving in Manhattan terrifies me. I’m certain I’d get crushed between two taxis. Unless Avery was driving. That last thought makes me smile.
The car has cleared out a bit, and I’m standing there humming to myself when I notice someone in the back. His head is down, face buried in a book. Long fringe hangs over his eyes. My mind automatically goes where it shouldn’t and I turn away, rolling my own eyes. Grant, remember, I say to my brain. I laugh a little too loud at how ridiculous I am, glancing around the car. The guy with the hair looks up then and my breath catches in my chest. Spots form in front of my eyes. I blink. Then blink again. It can’t be. My head is telling me.
But I know what I see.
I could never mistake that face or the way my heart is beating like crazy—wild, out of control, dangerous almost. My fingers clutch tighter to the pole for fear that I’m going to collapse. Our eyes lock and my lips part, mouthing his name. “Vance.”
Vance stands up, looking as stunned as I feel. His blue eyes are wide, feet molded to the floor. The subway doors open then and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. The decision is made for me though, because a man bumps into me hard and I practically fall out of the car. By some miracle, I manage to regain my footing and reach the platform. Suddenly I can’t get enough air and I’m struggling to breathe. My legs won’t move, and somehow I’m right back on our street, that very night I had to say goodbye to him—all those feelings that had nowhere to go—and now they are all pouring out when I had them boxed up so nicely. Or at least I thought I did. Time hasn’t made a damn bit of difference. How can three years seem like a day? Because that pull is still there, as if some invisible string draws me toward him. And when I turn to find the train running again, his hand is pressed to the window while my own hand is pressed to my heart. His gaze pleading with mine, a piece of white paper etched with large numbers pushed against the glass.
I watch the train pull away, the numbers and his face getting further and further until I can no longer see them. My legs buckle and I wrench my hand out to latch onto a filthy column, thankful for it because it’s the only thing holding me up right now. I don’t understand what’s happening. Yet my only clear thought is making sure I don’t forget that number. Unzipping my purse, I scrounge for a pen and with trembling fingers scrawl out the numbers on a scrap of paper. Tears are falling faster than I can write. But the urgency to get the numbers down tells me that my internal talk this morning and everything I said to Avery was not the truth. Because the truth is—I’ve never gotten over Vance Davenport.
How do you ever get over your heart?
THE REST OF the day went by in a blur of numbers and silvery blue eyes I’ve tried hard to forget. The look I saw in them today, raw and vulnerable. A myriad of emotions passing over his face that I couldn’t understand—that I had no right to, really. And still, they yanked on my heart.
So many questions flitting through my mind as I sit on the bed, staring blankly at those ten numbers. What is he doing in New York? How long has he been here? Why didn’t he try to get in touch with me?
I fall back on the mattress, grabbing a pillow and tucking it under my chin. It’s been three years. Three years of working hard to erase Vance from my heart. But the only thing seeing him did was make it start beating again.
“Hey, Em, I’m home,” Avery calls out, and I groan an unintelligible response that she can’t hear. I listen to her keys clank when they drop on the table, heels clicking until she’s at my door. She analyzes my position on the bed with a frown. “What’s going on? Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for tonight? I just bought the most amazing dress at Bloomingdale’s.” The bag crinkles in her hand. “Wanna see?” I grunt and push myself up to a slouched sitting position, continuing to squeeze the pillow. I’m not sure what will happen if I let it go.
“Ember.” She snaps her fingers in front of my face. It’s only then that I become aware she’s standing beside the bed.
My gaze remains on the wall. “I’m not going tonight. I told Grant I wasn’t feeling well.”