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I’m so glad I have back-to-back appointments all day. Otherwise I would crack and check all my social media feeds, like I promised I wouldn’t. Lunch was a challenge.
I haven’t said anything to April, partly because I haven’t had more than four seconds alone with her, and also because she is not a rule follower and will persuade me to check. The anxiety is killing me. I feel like I’ve had a thousand cups of coffee when I’ve only had two.
I’m in the middle of changing the sheets when the door to my room bursts open, and Lance comes barreling in. He slams the door shut. His eyes are wide, his jaw is tight, and his hair is a burned field in a windstorm. He looks incredible, and like his anxiety rivals mine.
He crosses the room in two long strides and takes my face in his hands.
“Just in case,” he mutters, then crushes his mouth to mine.
He smells like plane and faintly of aftershave. I try to protest, because seriously, what the hell is going on—but his tongue slips in and stops any words. He groans, despondent and low as his hand slides around to cup the back of my head. The other finds my waist, pulling me tight against him.
It feels so, so good. Five days of brief conversations and heated messages, five days of waiting for him to come home, and here he is. But there’s weight in his return, and bad things are coming. I can feel it in his desperation.
I put my hands on his chest and push. He makes a tormented sound, and his tongue sweeps my mouth once, twice more before he pulls away. But he doesn’t let me go. He searches my face and caresses my cheek with gentle fingers.
“You didn’t look.”
“I said I wouldn’t.”
“I was still worried. How much longer are you here? Can I wait? Can I take you home when you’re done?”
“I have my car here, and I still have three more appointments.” I push on his chest again until he finally lets me go.
“So you’re here until, like, five?” He rakes a hand through his hair.
“About that, yes.”
“I guess I should’ve asked that when I had you on the phone earlier, aye? Can I still wait?”
“I have a few minutes between clients now.” I don’t know that I can take three more hours of this kind of torture.
“I don’t wanna do this here.”
“None of this is reassuring, Lance. You showing up like this, the call this morning, the secrecy. You get that, right?”
“I do. I get it. I know I’m stressing you out. I just want enough time to explain.”
His anxiety is enough to make me concede. “You can meet me at my house, if you want.”
“Can I take your phone?”
I raise a brow, and he closes his eyes for a moment. “Okay. Sorry. That was a stupid thing to ask. Should I wait outside or—” He bites his lip.
Against my better judgment, I relent. “Let me get my keys for you.”
I grab them from my purse. When I turn back, his hands are jammed into his pockets. I dangle the keys from my finger.
He takes my hand and the keys and brings my knuckle to his lips. “I missed you.”
I stare up at him, trying to decide if I’m an idiot for doing as he asks. I missed him too, but telling him that now doesn’t seem like an option.
“I’ll be waiting for you. Will you still wait for me?”
“Yes. I’ll wait for you.”
When he leans in to kiss me, I give him my cheek. His lips linger there anyway.I arrive home at 5:09. Lance is sitting on the front steps. He’s showered and changed since I saw him earlier. He’s wearing a long-sleeved gray shirt that makes his pale eyes look even paler, and a bouquet of flowers and bag of Jelly Babies sit on the stoop beside him. He stands, running his hands down his denim-covered thighs. He reaches down and grabs the gifts.
“Did the key not work?”
“It did. I wanted to be out here when you got home.” He holds out the flowers.
“Is this to soften the blow?” I try to make it come out light, but it doesn’t. The waver in my voice is far too telling.
Lance winces as if my words cause him physical pain. I realize maybe they do, because his reality as a child was exactly that.
I take the flowers and start to move past him to open the door, but he gets there first, twisting the knob, then stepping out of the way. He follows me through to the kitchen where I set the flowers on the counter.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Just water, please.” His fingers move to his mouth. He stops himself and jams them back in his pockets.
