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"No," he insists.
"What if Tricky says it?" she asks.
"Are you kidding? He's in love," Dare says.
"A single guy? What if she comes back with a boyfriend? Won't that bother you?" she asks.
"No." He doesn't sell it.
She doesn't buy it, but she lets the subject drop anyway. Sorta. She asks how they can make the event memorable and they start talking mixed drinks and appetizers. Anything but ham. She never wants to see Iberian ham again.
My three o'clock arrives. My thoughts turn to work. For an hour and a half, I'm one with the ink, or some cheesy shit like that.
My picture message from Imogen keeps reality at bay—her, in a tiny black tank top, the strap falling off her shoulder.
All night, we flirt.
She comes over. We fuck on the couch, against the wall, over the kitchen counter. We're too excited to make it to the camera in the bedroom. Or maybe we both realize it's too much, demanding intimacy in every fucking arena.
She stays there, in that place that's all desire.
All night.
* * *
In the morning,I wake to Imogen typing on her computer, frustration all over her face.
She shakes it off the second she sees me. She slips into something sunny (well, her version of it), fixes chai and oatmeal, chit-chats about the book she's reading.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
"Yeah," she lies.
We fade back into that space, but it's not the same.
I feel the distance when we chat, as we watch a movie, as we kiss.
Even when we fuck in my bed, lie together, revel in the aftershocks.
Then she leaves and it's even more obvious.
She's running away.
An hour later, an alert arrives in my email.
New entry from Hearts and Thorns.
I don't call her to talk. I don't confess. I do the one thing I shouldn't: I read everything.
ChapterForty-Three
PATRICK
The summer days pass quickly. Appointments, chats with Luna and Dare, texts with Imogen, sessions in my apartment.
She doesn't ask me to open my heart, and I don't press her. I do the wrong thing, again and again. I take every part of her body, then I take her head and her heart too, drinking her thoughts with the thirst of a man in the desert.
They're for anyone, for strangers, but I know it's wrong. I admit it's wrong.
