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My heart slows to a watery thud, swimming up into my ears. “What?”
“If I’d known that stuff was for you, I’d have called. That guy—I don’t know who he is, but I don’t trust him,” Georgie replies. “If it happens again, don’t take so much as a sip or a bite. Throw it away. Not sayin’ it’s no good, but it’s safer not to take gifts from creepy strangers, y’know?”
My chin dips to my chest in a measured nod. “I will. Already did, in fact.”
“Really?” Relief washes over Georgie’s face.
It’s a white lie, but I don’t want her to worry. So, I nod again, and with a hesitant wave, I duck out of the café and half-walk, half-run down the street. I didn’t get sick from any of the “gifts” I ate, so I doubt it’s poisoned or anything, but the thought of who left it is poison enough.
“It wasn’t Rowan,” I whisper, halting sharply as a wave of nausea sends me into a crouch, and, right there on the corner, I throw up everything that my “secret admirer” left at reception with the note:I’m closer than you think.
After all, there’s someone else out there who has been seeking my attention. Someone who doesn’t care if they spook me. Someone who might, in fact, want to.
16
ROWAN
“Monday, June 27th. Apologies for looking like a swamp monster—the AC is broken in this godforsaken office, and it’s about twenty degrees hotterinsidethan it is outside. I’m thinking about sticking my head out the window like a dog, panting until I stop melting. Might freak out the people down below but, right now, I don’t care if they think there’s a madman on the twelfth floor.” I collapse back into my swivel chair, popping the back rest until the whole thing is practically horizontal, fashioning my own version of a therapist’s couch.
“I saw her today,” I begin tentatively, as the office printer wheezes in the distance. The door is locked, the blinds down, so no one will witness my daily ritual of talking to myself. Otherwise, they might actually fire me, or force me into another month of medical leave.
“She didn’t look very well. I’m not being rude—she still looked incredible, but… I don’t know, tired and a bit green. Working too hard. That’s what Lyndsey has been saying, but Lyndsey doesn’t know the full story.” I pause, as a coffee machine bubbles and steams. “Not saying I’ve gotten under Summer’s skin—I wouldneversay that. Always hated the phrase. Reminds me too much of making someone’s skin crawl.
“Anyway, I digress. I think it’s worse than that—I think I’ve made her mind crawl, and now she’s avoiding Lyndsey. The last thing I wanted to happen, but, really, it was unavoidable. I should’ve known it would be. Hopefully, with me moving into my own place and starting work again, it’ll be like I never came back from Malaysia. If we bump into each other, we’ll be cordial.”
I hesitate, drumming my fingertips on the desk that is yet to be filled with personal effects. The office is bare, and I hate it. I want color and plants and photos and music, but this is my first day of “orientation,” and I can’t envision how I want to decorate. I start work officially again next week, and I can tell that’s making my colleagues nervous. Like I might snap again at any moment, though I never truly snapped in the first place.
“Is it despicable of me to say that I’m still hoping she’ll change her mind, and decide she wants to try again, with labels this time? We set up an actual date, we go on an actual date, we do actual date things, and then… who knows?” There’s a lump in my throat, cracking my voice a little. “I can still feel her. Every time I think about her that night, my heart… It’s like I’m having a coronary. She was—is—perfect. It’s like we’d been together before, if that doesn’t sound insane? I knew how to please her, and… I can only imagine what magic we might’ve made if…”
It's useless thinking like that, but it plagues me. I crave her, and I get all fidgety when I remember what we almost had.Mighthave had.
“She still hasn’t texted me. I’ve sent a few follow-ups, which I know is breaking the cardinal rule of romantic warfare, but I couldn’t just leave it with “I’m an idiot.” Even if she thinks it, and I believe it.
“Why didn’t I listen to Lyndsey and stay out of Summer’s way? You don’t play with fire for a reason, and now I’m burned up inside, and I don’t know how to make the itching go away. I can’t compartmentalize the before and the after. I keep trying, I keep forcing myself to concentrate on work and getting healthy again, but she keeps popping up. No anti-virus software to get rid of her.
“When Lyndsey first met Oscar, she called me up, and I asked her how her date went. She said—and I’ll always remember this—'Do you know when you meet someone, and you feel like you’ve known them forever? You know, when there’s two initial minutes of awkwardness, and then you’re laughing and joking and telling stories like… it has been them all along?’ I told her I didn’t, because I didn’t. Now, maybe I do, but she’s still the one woman I can’t be with. If one hot and heavy encounter has pushed Summer this far away from Lyndsey, I don’t want to know what more could do. Kill or cure. Not a risk I can take.
“It has been a month, Rowan,” I tell my reflection sternly, as chatter phases in and out, outside my office door. The sound of colleagues who might, one day, become friends. “You need to get over it.”
That said, in all my years in design, I’ve never left a project unfinished, even one that got cancelled halfway through. It’s an obsession, at times. And I suppose it’s just not in me to leave something half done. If I’m going to solve this, there’s only one thing I can do—I have to finish what I started, even if it doesn’t end the way I hope it will. I can’t keep putting it off, driving by the gallery in the hopes that she’ll come out, or that she’ll text me back. If I’m going to fix what I broke, I need to see her again.
Soon.
Are you proud of me, Madame Therapist?As per her instruction, I’m finally taking responsibility.
17
SUMMER
The live oaks, draped in Spanish moss, flank the road like weary, overgrown angels; their wings sagging under the history of this route. A road I’ve driven down so many times, not always paying much attention to the surroundings, but… it has been a while, and I’m seeing it all with fresh eyes and a mind barbed with memory. Between the twisting trunks of the majestic oaks, hiding the Gulf from view, I swear I hear the roar of a phantom motorcycle, and the scent of Ben’s unique cologne stings my nose, making my eyes water: leather, soap, salt.
God, I miss it. I miss him. Not sure I realized how much until now, dreaming of the summers we were supposed to spend here at my cottage: the lifetime we were meant to have.
Up ahead, I see the semi-circle of dirt that used to be a parking spot, and my heart shudders, beating out of time as a cold sweat pinches down the back of my neck. My eyes fog up, my hands gripping the steering wheel harder as I pull in and kill the engine. I could drive down the dirt track that borders the cottage, but I’ve never been any good at reversing, and there’s nowhere to turn around down there.
Giving myself a moment, gulls wheeling overhead fill the dead silence of the car. They don’t have the most beautiful voices in the avian world, but there’s a nostalgia to their raucous chorus. A familiarity, reminding me of a hundred mornings, waking up to their squawks.
I take out my phone and type,Made it here safely. X
