Page 77 of Speak from the Heart

Rule 22

When a gentleman knocks, open the door.

[Emily]

One week down, I tell myself, fifty-one more to go. I’m surprised I’ve made it five days. I don’t know how I’ll survive months without them.

I’m efficient, I say to myself. As the words filter through my head, I envision Jess’s face.

I arrive at the door to my empty, lonely condo. Being efficient isn’t the same as being happy, though, and I know I’m not.

Live for now, Emily. Nana’s words echo in my ears like a soft whisper.

Am I? Am I following her advice, or am I still floating like I once told Jess?

It’s only an adjustment period, I try to convince myself. So much happened so quickly, and I’m just processing. One month. In one month, my grandmother passed, and I fell in love.

My fingers fumble with the key to my condo.

I fell in love.

My forehead begins to fall toward the door until I hear voices in the hallway. I don’t want any witnesses to my sadness, so I turn the key in the lock and open the door. Once I enter my place, I stare at the open concept space. My bedroom and bathroom are both within sight of the front door. It isn’t a house. It doesn’t have a yard or a playhouse in a garden. It’s four walls and three rooms sandwiched between other units. I wonder if my neighbors feel as lost as me sometimes.

I toss my keys on the kitchen table, reach for my phone for the millionth time in a week, and then set it down. He didn’t call. I didn’t call. Neither of us is being cruel. We just decided not to say goodbye, and phone communication seems like it will only prolong our heartache over the situation.

I had to go home. He had to stay.

I set the phone back on the table just as the buzzer at my door goes off. I’m not expecting anyone, and I don’t know how someone got in the building without ringing me first, so I peer through the security hole to see who it is. I gasp and whip open the door.

I stare at the man in my hallway.

“Jess.” His name is a breath of fresh air I haven’t breathed since I returned. His hands slip into his front pockets, and a bag hangs off his shoulder. His lips twist to the side, and his jaw clenches. His eyes are sheepish but intense. I step back, and before I can invite him to enter, he steps into the condo and turns to shut the door. His bag falls to the floor as he turns back to me and cups my face in his hands. Almost immediately, his mouth crashes into mine, and we engage in a battle of lips.

“You piss me off,” he mutters against my mouth. His voice cracks and breaks as he speaks.

“What are you doing here?” I manage to ask the question between breathtaking kisses. Our lips continue to mold over one another’s, and I’m pressed against my closed front door in a matter of seconds. His hands don’t leave my jaw, but my arms slip around his neck, and my hands tug at his hair, which is loose and wild instead of contained in an elastic band.

“How could you walk away?” he demands. He returns to kissing me before I can answer. Our lips fight. Our tongues wrestle. And then our wills settle. The kisses calm, and our breathing becomes more exaggerated. Finally, his forehead rests against mine. His hands still cup my face while my fingers remain tangled in his hair. I’m afraid to let him go.

“That fucking letter,” he whispers to me. We both close our eyes as we breathe each other in. I don’t have to ask him what I said. I know what I wrote. I was honest with him. I had nothing left to lose. I figured I’d already lost them both, so I told him what I had to say.

He lifts his head, his eyes searching mine. “Why did you leave without talking to me?”

“We agreed not to say goodbye, but it felt like we had.”

“I shouldn’t have let you go,” he whispers. His hands slip from my jaw, then slide down to my neck and over my shoulders.

“What are you saying?” I whisper.

“In fairy tales, the prince either chases the princess or lets her leave. I shouldn’t have let you go.” Our eyes lock, and he blurs before me.

“We have so much to discuss.” My voice clogs with emotion.

“Yes, we do,” he says before he leans toward me and kisses me again. Tender. Tantalizing. Too brief.

“But we could always talk later,” I suggest, the words quiet and desperate.

“Definitely,” he groans. Suddenly, my shirt is untucked from my skirt, and his hands slip upward to cup my breasts. My nipples peak under the soft fabric of my bra. He removes one hand and unbuttons the buttons of my blouse, exposing me to him. Then he lowers his head as he tugs down my bra to take one aching globe into his mouth.