“And?”
“And I’m not taking advantage of that.”
I scowl as he starts to pull away. “I am capable of making my own decisions, even when navigating a few emotions and eight ounces of wine.”
“I know that. And next time, if you want the same thing from me, I promise you”—he bends and presses a swift, deep kiss to some dangerously sensitive place on my neck, his voice hot and dark against the shell of my ear—“I will not be able to say yes fast enough.”
My mouth parts as he whips open the door and disappears past it, fast, purposeful strides taking him away from me.
And yet, hours later, lying in bed miles from where I picture him lying in his bed, too, I feel so close to him.
Closer than I ever have.
? TWENTY-TWO ?
Christopher
The lights in Nanette’s flicker to life, and I think I scare the shit out of the employee who spots me right outside the window, dripping in sweat, breathing heavily, my hair messily half-tied back to keep it out of my face.
I couldn’t sleep. So I read in bed, then I used my makeshift garage gym and lifted weights until my muscles couldn’t take any more. The moment the sun started to glow on the horizon, I got on a train into the city and ran Kate’s neighborhood until it was time for Nanette’s to open. I’m sleep-deprived, my body shaking from too many reps, too many miles, but my mind is crystal clear, one single thing its focus— Kate.
My head says that this is madness. My heart says that this was inevitable, that the moment I let myself get close enough, the moment Kate touched me like she did yesterday, the moment she gave me just a sliver of her fiercely guarded heart, which I’ve spent so long trying not to want, trying not to get too close to, there’d be no stopping myself.
I’m not thinking about everything that used to hold me back. I’m not thinking about everything I’m still afraid of. I’m only thinking about her.
Which is why I’m standing outside Nanette’s at the ass crack of dawn in the morning, then opening the door the moment it’s unlocked, the first customer to walk in. Promptly, I order a box filled with the doughnuts I know she loves, every autumn recipe rebelling against the Christmas flavors that shouldered their way in the day after Thanksgiving. No chocolate and peppermint or gingerbread and eggnog for Kate. She loves pumpkin pie and spiced apples, cinnamon and maple syrup, everything that reminds her of the grandeur of turning leaves, the cozy joy of starlit bonfires and sipping mugs of cider, the quiet beauty of waking up to a misty autumn morning.
And so, even though we’re well on our way toward Christmas, I buy a box of autumn doughnuts and a pumpkin pie for good measure, then walk out and make my way toward her apartment, an unseasonably mild December wind whipping my workout clothes against my body, sunrise’s golden rays spilling across the pearly blue sky.
With quiet feet, I take the stairs up to the Wilmot sisters’ apartment and let myself in. The main room and kitchen are tidy and dark, how we left them after making pasta, eating, then cleaning up.
Bea’s door is still open, which is no surprise, since Kate said last night that her sister planned to stay at Jamie’s.
And Kate’s door is still shut.
I stare at it with a kind of longing that feels like a hook in my heart, reeling me toward it.
Instead of obeying that tug, I step into the kitchen, set the doughnuts and pie on the counter, then prep the coffee I know Kate wanted but forgot to set up. I grind beans, muffling the grinder’s noise by running it inside my hoodie, then I pour in filtered water. I set the coffee maker to brew at eight, which seems safe, since she said she works at the Edgy Envelope today, and I know they open at nine.
Then I locate one of Bea’s colorful pens on the coffee table and write in electric blue letters on the doughnut box—
These are for breakfast. Have some milk with them, while you’re at it.
—C
I set down the pen, then walk to the door, forcing myself past it, to pull it shut and lock it, triple-checking it’s secure.
Down the stairs, out the door, I stop outside her building, greeted by dawn’s progress. Like a fire finally caught, its flames fan across the sky, burning away the shadows.
I stare at the sunrise and feel its transformation inside me, too—a spark of hope, once only the faintest flame surrounded by darkness, now glowing, growing.
Brightening to an unrelenting blaze.
* * *
—
I’m buried in paperwork at the office hours later when my phone dings with a new-message alert. There is no dignity in how quickly I drop what I’m doing and scramble for my phone.