Page 40 of Don't Tell

She doesn't follow.

I leave the office at 5:30 p.m.

I walk to the car, toss my jacket on the passenger seat, and sit for a moment with my hands on the wheel.

I want to see her.

It's not more complicated than that, and it's also entirely more complicated than that. I know she’ll be home by now, and by the workings of the universe and my own machinations, I know where she lives.

I start the drive there. It takes me almost an hour to get there, but it’s all worth it, as long as I get to see her.

Her street is narrow and quiet, lined with parked cars and mature trees. I pull over across the street from her building and cut the engine.

I sit there.

The building is unremarkable from the outside — red brick, six or seven floors.

She comes out with two garbage bags, one in each hand.

She hasn't seen me. She's in leggings and a worn gray T-shirt, her hair up in the loose, slightly careless way it gets when she's been working. She walks toward the alley beside the building.

I get out of the car. I cross the street. She's already turned the corner into the alley by then. I follow.

The alley is narrow and shadowed, the brick walls of the adjacent buildings closing in on either side. The dumpster is halfway down. She lifts the lid with her elbow, tosses one bag in, then the other, and lets the lid fall shut with a sound that echoes off the walls.

She turns and sees me.

Her mouth opens. I watch her assemble the beginning of a sentence. I cross the alley. She doesn't finish the sentence. I kiss her.

She makes a sound against my mouth. Her hands come up to my chest and stay there, and she kisses me back.

My hands are in her hair, then sliding down, finding the curve of her back, the warmth of her through the thin cotton of her shirt. Her fingers close around the lapels of my jacket. Then they're underneath it, pressed flat against my ribs, and I feel it through the fabric of my shirt like she's checking whether I'm real.

I lift her. She lets me. Her legs wrap around my waist without hesitation, and I take the two steps to the brick wall because I need something solid at her back. The brick is rough against my forearms when I brace against it. Her back meets the wall, and my hand comes up to the side of her throat.

The side door of the building opens.

We go still at the same moment. A woman steps into the alley and stops, blinking at us.

"Suzanne?" she says.

"Hi, Maeve." Suzanne's voice is remarkably steady. I'm impressed.

Maeve looks at us for another moment, and then she turns and walks in the other direction.

The door at the far end of the alley swings shut behind her.

Suzanne's legs slide down from my waist. I don't step back. She steadies herself against my chest with both hands, and I keep one hand at her waist to support her. Her face is flushed. Her mouth is still slightly open, her lips reddened.

I look at her for a moment.

Then I lean in and kiss her once more because I want to and because I can.

I pull back. Her eyes are still closed.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow," I tell her.

11.Suzanne