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I give him a little wave, paste on my best “I got this” smile, and turn toward the security gate.
“Hey, Crick?” he says, making me stop and turn back around. “I’ll see ya soon.”
The flood of tears rushes my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Not yet. When I fall apart—and heaven knows it’s coming—it’s not going to happen at the airport. Not with Rueben standing right in front of me in sexy worn jeans and a tight T-shirt. Not with those intoxicating chocolate eyes staring at me, witnessing my breakdown.
So that’s why I lie.
That’s why I say, “See you soon.”
Even though I know I won’t.
With a quick wave, I turn back to security and get in line. I don’t glance behind me again. Not because I don’t want to see him standing there, watching me go, but because I don’t want to risk himnotbeing there anymore.
I keep my eyes forward.
On heading home.
Even though my heart will be left behind in Tennessee.
***
Saturday morning is rainy and shitty. Shitty and horrible and…yeah.
Shitty shitty shitty.
Worse? My texts from Rueben last night were… different. Cordial, yes, but there was an underlying sadness in our normal pleasant conversations. I was exhausted by the time I reached home, after four hours of flying and then public transportation to get me back to my San Francisco neighborhood.
Even worse yet? My cell phone is ringing for a second time this morning with a number I had hoped I’d never see again.
Danny.
I’m about to let this one go to voice mail, but realization hits me. He won’t let this go. He’ll keep calling and calling until I either change my number or answer the phone. So, I do the one thing I don’t want to do yet need to do to move on.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Cricket, it’s Danny.”
“Yeah, I know.”
There’s silence for a second before he replies, “So, you still have my number programmed into your phone?”
I exhale. “Yes, I left it in my phone, but changed your name to Asshole. I wanted to make sure I always knew if you were calling.”
He chuckles. “Ouch, Crick.”
The way he says my name causes pain to shoot through my chest. Danny has never called me Crick. It was always Rueben’s nickname for me.
“What do you want, Danny?” I ask, annoyed that he’s ruining my Saturday of sulking and whining.
“I take it you haven’t checked your email?” he asks.
“No.”
“Well, after we talked at the brunch, I got the vibe that you weren’t interested in the co-host position in LA. So, I came back and talked to my producers. They’ve gone to the bosses, who have made you a new offer.”
“A new offer?” I ask, trying to keep up, but I wasn’t exactly paying attention to him in the beginning, so now I’m left trying to figure out what he’s talking about.
“A beautiful offer, Cricket. One that gets you to LA and on my television set by Monday morning.”
