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“Well, I feel old as all hell.”
“Must be that LA life catching up with you.”
“Or maybe I just need my Kate fix. Come see me,” he says again.
“I have to work,” I say, standing my ground, but my mind is already drifting to my luggage, and I wonder if I could fit everything into a carry-on or if I’d need to check a bag.
“Come for the weekend. I’ll buy you a plane ticket. It’ll be in your inbox by the time you wake up.”
“Why don’t you come here for once?” I ask, already knowing what his answer will be. “I’m sure your dad and Susan wouldn’t mind a visit. And there’s that stupid blueberry festival thing coming up. We can day drink and ride the tilt-a-whirl until we puke.”
“You’ll love LA, Katie. I promise. More than all the rides and blueberry pie you could eat. Tell me yes, babe.”
Katie.
Babe.
Names only he calls me. Before I can stop myself, I’m saying yes and he tells me good, because he’d already bought the ticket and my flight leaves 8 am Friday. Early so he can show me the sights and give me thereal LA experience.
But I know that I won’t see much of his city. I know I’ll be spending all my time between his sheets, and we’ll order take-out because we won’t want to leave his bed.
That’s how it goes with us. Every time.
And every time we say it’ll be the last time. “No more of this,” is what he always tells me at the end, “it fucks with my head.” And I say, “Mine too.” And then I cry, and he says goodbye, and then he doesn’t call me, and I try not to think of him, but I fall to pieces every goddamn time we do this. Every goddamn timehedoes this.
Months pass, and then once again Hurricane James is tearing through my life. A series of texts, or a picture of some dirty-worded graffiti, or messages like the ones he sent tonight, where he’s spiraling and asking his whys and trying to find his answers and he’s pacing again.
And then I’m on the phone.
And then I hear his voice.
And then I’m packing my bags and I’m on a plane.
It’s 8 am and I’m on a plane.
2
It’s11amandI’m at LAX.
James is holding one of those signs. People do that in the movies. They hold up signs in the pickup area like you’re someone important even if you’re not. I’d told him once I wanted to be important enough one day that when I got off a plane there’d be someone holding up one of those signs. Ever since, he’s been doing it. Every time he picks me up from an airport he’s always there with one of those goddamn signs. “You’re important Kate,” he’d said to me. “Themostimportant.”
My heart flutters when we lock eyes. I’d been right about the scruffy cheeks, though he seems to be sporting more of a short, unkempt beard than a five o’clock shadow. It suits him.
“Couldn’t decide what to wear?” he teases, smiling at the oversized bag I’m lugging behind me. I’d intended to pack all my makeup and clothes and hair products into a small carry-on that could have easily been stuffed into an overhead bin, but I’ve never been good at packing light. I need a bag big enough to hold a full-sized hair dryer with enough room to accommodate several outfit options for each day that I’ll be away. A point James just loves to tease me about.
I purse my lips and pretend to be annoyed. “All this takes work,” I say, gesturing to my face. “We can’t all roll out of bed and look like that.”
He takes a step forward, a small smile curling up the right side of his face. “Oh yeah? And what do I look like?”
The kiss catches me off guard. His mouth is on mine before I can speak, before I can catch a breath, before I can adapt to his dark eyes and his messy hair and that new beard.
“You look good Katie,” he murmurs against my lips. His hand grips the back of my neck in this way that sends a pulse between my legs. It’s possessive, needy, hungry. It’s like I’mhis.And I am, always, even though he’s not always mine. “Your hair’s longer. I like it.”
I tilt my head. “Well, ithasbeen almost a year since I saw you last. Hair tends to get longer when so much time passes.”
“Eight months, Kate. And I know I’m a dick for not calling more. I’ll make it up to you.”
“And how do you plan on doing that?”
