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Then he was gone.
Emma told herself that she was glad. This what she wanted—that being by herself was safe.
But she didn’t feel safe.
She felt lonely. Painfully, heartbreakingly alone.
And then she did what she should have done a long, long time ago.
She curled up on her bed and cried.
Chapter 28
Alex realized his mistake about halfway through his flight from LaGuardia to Fort Lauderdale.
There was no reason for the epiphany. No grand gesture, no moment, no strike of lightening. There was no sharp realization that he’d been a complete idiot.
There was only a deep, unshakable sense that something was wrong.
That his life was off course. And that the only way to right it would be to get Emma back. And not just into his bed, or into his life in the peripheral sense of the past couple years.
He wanted Emma as his. And he wanted to be hers.
He loved her. Fiercely.
Perhaps he’d always loved her.
But that wasn’t going to get her back. He needed . . . something.
Not a gesture, because that seemed cheesy, but then, with their past, it would take more than a conversation. He could maybe reach the thirty-one-year-old Emma, but he was also dealing with the twenty-four-year-old Emma who’d waited for him for hours in a white dress.
Christ.
Only when the lady in the seat next to him on the plane gave him a glare did he realize he’d spoken aloud.
Alex didn’t apologize. His frustration had been well earned. The lady could deal with it. Besides, she had her romance novel to read, where people didn’t deal with this kind of bullshit. Or perhaps they did. He’d never read one.
All he knew was that he needed a plan.
Alex spent the next hour trying to figure out how to undo seven years of damage.
By the time the plane landed . . . he had nothing.
The next four days were an odd mix of dodging his mother’s unsubtle demands for grandchildren and letting his father win at golf, all while eating turkey, more turkey, and then turkey leftovers.
He loved his parents. Of course he did. But when they dropped him off at the airport on Sunday afternoon with instructions to call them if he changed his mind about Christmas, he was more than ready to get back to New York.
To get back to Emma.
His plane was delayed. Then delayed again.
And when he got back to his apartment at midnight that evening, it was cold and lonely.
Alex dropped his keys on the table by the door, ditched his computer bag and his suitcase, and then, before he realized what he was doing, leaned against his front door and slid down until he was sitting, elbows propped on his knees, back against the door, realizing that in the span of a week he’d gone from blissfully happy to fucking miserable.
Alex pinched the bridge of his nose and instructed himself to think. He was the most rational person he knew, save Mitchell. He could figure this out. He could write out an action plan, and come up with a nice speech, and—
Fuck it.
