I could feel his stubble against my palm like sandpaper. I traced down his neck and let my hand rest on his collarbone. “So … I thought you were breaking my heart, but I was also breaking yours.”
He closed the distance between us as he nodded. “And the guy you liked … the one you dumped me for. The one I was so bitterly jealous of that I couldn’t sleep…”
“That was you.”
“That was me.”
“I liked you both a lot,” I said, “if it’s any consolation.”
“It’s all consolation,” he said, his eyes running all over my face like he still couldn’t take everything in.
Then his eyes came back to look into mine—and stayed there. And it didn’t feel uncomfortable to look into them. It felt good. And so we gazed at each other as we waited for it all to make sense.
It was crazy. It was impossible.
And yet here we were. Standing at the rim of this realization like it was the Grand Canyon—astonished and breathless and awestruck. I could see him breathing deep, and then I realized I was, too. We’d had the story all wrong. And it might take some time to put it right.
One thing was clear: He was here right now, and so was I.
And we were both so glad to be wrong.
Was he leaning closer to me or was I leaning closer to him? Somehow our faces were just inches away from each other. My hand slid down to rest against his chest.
“Sadie,” Joe said then, “I noticed you from the start. Since that day I carried all those canvases up to the rooftop for you.”
“Thank you for that, by the way.”
“But it really got real,” Joe went on, his mouth so close to mine it was just a swoon away, “when I saw your Smokey Robinson impression in the grocery store.”
That broke the trance. Hold on. “What?”
Joe nodded.
“That was you? You bought me that cheap wine?”
“You owe me eighteen bucks. Plus tax.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why would it occur to me to tell you?”
“But the night I told you about the Good Samaritan. You must have realized I didn’t remember you. But you didn’t say anything.”
“It was awkward at that point. Besides, you were having a moment.”
“Were you”—it was all clicking into place now—“the one who pushed me out of the crosswalk?”
Joe nodded. “Of course.”
All I could do was repeat. “Of course?”
“You were walking away as it happened.”
“And what were you doing?”
“Me? I was checking you out.”
It had been Joe? In the crosswalk that night? “You saw me freeze—and then you ran into the street to save me?”
“Well, yeah. You were about to get killed.”
“But you could have been killed!”
“I didn’t really weigh the pros and cons.”
“You saved me?”
“Nick of time. We were moving so fast, we tripped on a hunk of asphalt at the curb. But I cushioned your fall.”
“Is that how you hit the lamppost?” I tapped my own shoulder. “Your scar?”
Joe reached around to rub the scar on his shoulder like he’d forgotten. “Yeah. Scraped it on a bolt. Ten stitches.”
“So you went to the hospital, too?”
Joe nodded. “Later that night. And then I wandered around the halls to find you and make sure you were okay.”
Joe hadn’t just rescued me. He’d saved my life.
For a minute, all I could do was shake my head.
Then I finally said, “You were the Good Samaritan, too.” No wonder he didn’t look like a stranger.
Joe nodded.
“How is it possible,” I said, gazing at the sight of him in wonder, “that you were everywhere? All along?”
Joe shrugged. “You can’t see when you’re not looking, I guess.” Then he tightened his hold on my gaze. “Anyway. You’re the one who was everywhere.”
It was nonsense, but I knew exactly what he meant.
At that, I grabbed hold of his tie, pulled him down close to me, and pressed my mouth to his.
The second we touched, his arms came around my rib cage and clamped tight, and mine rose up around his neck and did the same thing. I cradled the back of his head with my hands as he ran his over me—back, shoulders, neck, hair. All arms and hands and exploring and holding on.
Both of us just drunk on the bliss of being in each other’s arms at last.