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She nods against me and breaks away. It’s a good job, because I would never have released her otherwise. Reaching up on her tippy-toes, she moves in to kiss my cheek. I don’t know what happens, but I can’t stop it. I turn my face, just before her lips reach me, and her lips land on mine. I hear her sharp inhale, and I feel her body tighten, but she doesn’t retreat. She just holds her lips there, her eyes glassy, staring into mine. I can see it takes everything in her to peel herself away, and though I’m suddenly desperate to grab her and haul her into me, I refrain. She swallows as she backs up, her fingers going to her lips.
“Good night.” I smile sadly, fighting to stop myself from grabbing her and throwing her in my car, taking her home and keeping her safe.
“Good night, Luke,” she whispers, turning and slowly walking away.
I don’t get in my car, and Steve doesn’t pester me to get moving. He just sits by my feet patiently while I mentally will Lo to look back before she disappears from view. I hold my breath, staring at her back as the distance grows, my hope dying with every meter she puts between us. And when my hope has just about diminished, she stops and looks over her shoulder, her eyes meeting mine. Her hand comes up slowly, and I follow suit, waving goodbye to her.
Chapter Nineteen
I couldn’t shake the horrible ache in my chest for the whole of the next day. By the evening, I took a few paracetamol, wondering if I was coming down with something. An hour later, I still wasn’t feeling right. Add to the fact that Lo hadn’t contacted me, just made the horrible sickly feeling inside me all the worse. I held myself back from contacting her on Monday. On Tuesday, I literally had to sit on my hands all day at my desk. On Wednesday, I looked at Steve and convinced myself that all the barking he had going on was his way of telling me that I should call her. But I didn’t. It killed me, but I didn’t. Come Thursday, I was all out of restraint. I dropped her an email at lunchtime, suggesting—and hoping—that we could meet in the evening for a walk. Walking Steve isn’t the same without Lo. Every night this week, it’s felt wrong. Steve has been hopeless, barely walking in a straight line, weaving back and forth across the path and lunging for everything that floats by his little face.
She didn’t reply. And I didn’t sleep a wink all night while Steve was wrapped around my head snoring peacefully.
When Friday arrives, I decide to work from home. I look like shite, and I can’t face the office. Todd’s quietly observing me, and I know what he’s thinking. He’s right. I’m going out of my mind—worrying, imagining all kinds of scenarios. I listen in on three conference calls in the morning, not that I hear much. I swim fifty lengths of the pool, not that I remember. I dial her number twenty times and hang up before the call connects.
I go to meet her for lunch at one.
She doesn’t show up.
By four o’clock, I’m back at my home office, pacing, trying to talk myself down, my mind constantly replaying the last time I saw her. The walk, our conversations, the laughs, the smiles.
The kiss I didn’t mean to give her.
I grind to a stop, seeing Lo in my head as she walked away from me on the street. I see her turn around. I see her raise her hand in goodbye.
Goodbye.
I reach up and massage my pec. Goodbye. “No.” I scan the floor at my bare feet. Goodbye. She was saying goodbye. Steve looks up from his bed in the corner and whimpers, as if agreeing. I rush to my desk and grab my phone, not thinking as I dial her office.
“Good afternoon, Red Well,” a lady answers. It’s not Lo.
“Lo Harper, please.” I drop into my chair and pick up a pen, tapping it on my leather mouse mat.
“I’m sorry, Lo’s off work.”
I pull up, my tapping pen stopping. “Off?” She didn’t mention being off work. “Is she on holiday?”
“I don’t believe it was scheduled. Who’s calling?”
I hang up before I’m forced to answer, staring at my mobile in my hand. It wasn’t scheduled. My worry rockets, and all those scenarios I had playing havoc with my imagination recently are suddenly scarily more real. I breathe in and pull her mobile up, sending a text message to ask if she’s okay. I get no answer.
“Fuck it.” I dial her number, getting up from my chair and pacing my office. It rings twice before going to an automated voicemail, and I still on the spot, my heart quickening. It didn’t go straight to voicemail, meaning her phone wasn’t switched off. And it didn’t ring long enough to automatically divert to voicemail. Which means she rejected my call.
