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Why would Eileen text me? She usually has to be held at gunpoint to contact me. And why would Eileen be looking for Audrey? Instantly alarmed, I text back.
Me: No. Why?
Beauty Queen: Because she ditched school and she’s been missing for most of the day.
Oh, God. A panic, the likes of which I’ve never experienced, grips me. I press Eileen’s number.
“I don’t know where she is, but I’m on my way to you. I’m catching a train at Penn Station. Tell Dan to pick me up.”
“Amber,” my mother says, her voice oddly strained. “I’m really worried.”
“We’ll find her. I’m sure it’s just teenage drama.”
“Okay.”
Hanging up, I grab my purse and run out the door barefoot, curse under my breath, and run back in to slip on my Gazelles. Arms flailing, I hail a cab for Penn Station. Sweaty and sucking air into my lungs, I board a train to Long Island fifteen minutes later.
That’s when Ethan’s text comes in.
Fancy: I’ve got Audrey in case anybody is looking for her.
All the strength that held my spine upright in the seat a second ago vanishes in a blink. My entire body goes boneless. As exhaustion chases the adrenaline rush burning through my limbs, I hit his number.
“Hi.”
I’m incapable of stopping the tears gushing out of my eyes. It’s the first time I’ve heard his voice in two weeks. And like a balm, it soothes every fresh wound, every tender bruise on my heart. One word wipes away two weeks of agonizing pain, of missing him to the point of madness.
“Where are you?” I ask, no preamble necessary.
“Driving to Long Island, to her house…She was too embarrassed to call any of you. Where are you?”
“On a train headed to Long Island––to her house,” I answer, biting my bottom lip hard enough to break skin, anything to stop it from trembling. The middle-aged woman sitting across from me gives me a queer look.
“I’ll pick you up at the station after I drop her off.”
“Dan’s picking me up.”
“Text him. Tell him I’ll get you and we’ll meet at their place.”
“Okay.” I capitulate because I’m selfish and weak. Because even though my head tells me not to, that it will only make things harder, my heart is willing to put everything on the line to spend one more minute alone with him.
I step onto the platform, still wiping my damp cheeks, and spot him right away. White dress shirt impeccably neat, not a crease to be found on his gray slacks even though it’s unusually muggy and hot for the end of June, superstud sunglasses on. So apropos that the end would look like the beginning. With him looking perfect while I’m once again a hot mess.
He removes his glasses and walks toward me, stopping only when he’s less than a foot away. I almost sway into him, his gravitational pull turning my knees to jelly. Eyes wide and unblinking, he takes his time drinking me in, as if he hasn’t seen me in ages. Then, without warning, he cradles my face and kisses me, kisses the life and love into me, kisses me like he’s telling me all the ways he regrets what he did, and I don’t stop him.
He pulls back and my eyes flutter open.
“I love you,” he says, his voice calm and steady while his eyes burn brightly with longing, my face still in his reverent hold. “And…” He exhales harshly. “And not the flowers and dinner on Valentine’s kind of love. It’s not soft or sweet. The way I love you is…is––” His face twists in frustration. “It’s fucking painful. When you’re not near me I feel like Popovitch is sitting on my chest and I can’t breathe.”
Popovitch, the three hundred and twenty-five pound nose tackle for the Titans. I don’t know whether to laugh at the over the top romantic declaration, or cry at the honesty, at the bravery it takes to pour your most sacred feelings out and hope they aren’t met with a shrug.
“I know I’m asking a lot. I know I am. But I…” He exhales roughly, emotion breaking through the self-possessions he’s famous for. “This––you and me––it doesn’t come around often. Don’t walk away because I’m selfish when it comes to you. Hate me, stay mad, but don’t walk away. I promise I will make it up to you every single day for the rest of our lives if you stay.”
I’m being torn in two by my head and my heart. In that moment I live a thousand lives with him, every possible scenario, and come up with the same result.
There is no him and me without me first.
It’ll drive a wedge between us eventually. Looking into the pained face of the man I love, I make an attempt at bravery myself. “Ethan––”
“Did I ever tell you how much I love hearing you say my name?” he says interrupting, a noticeable desperation in his voice.
