SLOANE
“More boobs.”
“Seriously?”
“More. Boobs.”
I look down at my black dress and back to the laptop screen where Lark has her hands under her breasts, pushing them up.
A deep sigh passes my lips. My heart has been hammering for the last hour.
And just think! Only another hour to go.
My heart rate doubles.
“Go big or go home, Sloaney!” Lark chimes through the laptop speaker. “Boobs!”
A conflicted groan rumbles in my chest. “Okay…”
“That’s the spirit!”
I huff an unsteady laugh and head to my luggage to get what Lark calls the ‘emergency dress’. It’s a curve-hugging, vintage-inspired oxblood velvet cocktail dress with black scalloped lace detailing that skims the low-cut neckline. It fits like a second skin. I change out of Lark’s view and slide on a pair of simple black pumps, taking in my reflection in the floor-length mirror next to the TV. I feel like a retro movie pin-up girl. With a deep breath and a final slide of my hands over the ripples in the soft fabric, I step into view of the camera.
“That’s the one,” Lark says with happy claps as she bounces on the edge of her bed back in Raleigh. “One hundred percent. Hair down. Do some old Hollywood waves. Gold star! Two gold stars! One for each boob.”
She totally would gold star my tits if she was here in the room. She’s always carrying around gold star stickers, mostly for the children she works with as a music therapist when she’s not on the road performing, but she’s not afraid to whip them out for adults too.
“Are you nervous?” she asks as I pick up the laptop and take it to the bathroom with me so I can start on my hair.
“No, of course not,” I deadpan as Lark raises a skeptical brow on the screen. “I’m fucking terrified.”
And excited. And rattled. And a little bit nauseous.
It’s been almost eight months since I’ve seen Rowan in person. For the first six months, we talked nearly every day, in one form or another. Sometimes just short texts. Sometimes just a meme, or an article the other person would enjoy, or a funny video. Sometimes, they were long video calls. But lately, since he’s been working on opening a second restaurant location, it’s tapered off. Though I respond right away when he messages, it sometimes takes him a week to send back a short reply.
Superficially, it seems like the ideal situation for me. There’s less pressure. I’m not used to having people around. Even when Lark and I became close at boarding school, it took me a long time to be comfortable around her. She’s kind of like Rowan in the way that she wore me down, worming her way past the defenses I’ve held around my solitary nature. Her light is unstoppable. It pierces through every crack. And now, after the years that have passed since we met, I miss her whenever she’s gone.
Like I miss him.
“He’s going to be floored by those boobs,” Lark says.
I snort a laugh. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” My smile quickly fades as I plug in my curling iron and run some styling cream through my hair with my fingers. “I need more to go on than just tits.”
“You have murder too, he likes that.”
I roll my eyes and stare her down through the screen. “Boobs plus murder don’t equal a relationship, Lark. That math ain’t mathin’.”
We fall into silence as I start the first curls. She’s joking about the murder part, of course. I know that. And I know how I feel about Rowan. The more we talk, the more we laugh and play, the more I can’t picture my life without him. But I am scared as fuck. More scared of wanting something beyond a friendship with Rowan than I’ve been of anything else I’ve done in my weird, unconventional life.
There’s really not much that scares me, as though that sensation has been dulled. So why this? Why does this heat my skin and slick my palms and charge my heart with galloping beats?
I know why.
Because aside from Lark, no one has stayed around. Not even my parents.
What if I’m not worth keeping?
“Hey,” Lark says, her soft voice a lifeline in the undertow of dark thoughts. “This is gonna be great.”
I nod. My eyes stay fused to my reflection as I twist another curl around the hot metal.
What if I’ve got this all wrong? What if everything I feel is all in my head? What if he’s been avoiding me? What if I’m unlovable? What if something unfixable is wrong with me? What if I try for something more with Rowan and I fuck it up? What if he never wants to see me again? I could just leave now. What if I do? What if what if what if—
“Sloane. Get out of your head and talk to me.”
Tears glass my eyes when I turn them down to the screen. I swallow the ache that’s building in my throat.
“He’s got a big life, Lark. Lots of friends. He’s got another restaurant that’s almost ready to open. He’s got his brothers. I just…” I shrug and run a thumb beneath my lashes. “I don’t know if what I have to offer compares to all that, you know?”
“Oh, Sloaney.” Lark presses a hand to her heart. Her lip wobbles but she puts on a determined expression as she takes hold of her laptop and brings the camera closer to her face. “You listen to me. You’re amazing, Sloane Sutherland. You are brilliant, and so brave, and loyal to the ends of the earth. You set your mind to something and you fucking get it done. You work hard. You’re funny. You make me laugh when I don’t think I can. Not to mention, you’re smoking hot. Gorgeous face. Gold star tits.”
My laugh comes out strangled. I set my curling iron down and grip the counter edge as I shake my head and try to breathe past the sting in my nose.
“You had to find comfort in being alone because you’ve had no choice. But as much as you like it, you’re also lonely,” Lark continues. “I know you’re scared, but you deserve to be happy. So put some of that bravery to use for yourself for a change. Rowan would be lucky as all hell to have you.”
I bite down on my lip and stare at my bleached knuckles.
Lark sighs. “I know what you’re thinking, sweetie,” she says. “It’s written all over your face. But you are not unlovable, Sloane. Because I love you. And he might too, if you give him the chance. He did say that sweet stuff about you to the cannibal guy, right?”
“Yeah, but he was loaded and not really in the best headspace, you know? Plus, it was a year ago. He doesn’t even remember he said that stuff.”
“Maybe so, but he did ask you to come all that way to see him, didn’t he?”
“I owed him a win. Plus, it’s his birthday in two days, I couldn’t really say no.”
“Sweetie,” she says with a shake of her head, “Rowan could have asked someone else to accompany him if he wanted to. He asked you.”
She’s right, he could have asked someone else. When he called last month to claim the win I owed him from West Virginia, he’d said he wanted to have fun at the annual Best of Boston Gala for a change. “You’re the only person I can have real fun with,” he’d said when he’d FaceTimed with the request.
I could have pushed back. The timing isn’t ideal—I have to leave for a meeting in Madrid first thing tomorrow morning. But I didn’t push back. Honestly, I was relieved to hear his voice after weeks of next to nothing. I told him I’d keep my end of the deal and then I changed my flights so I could leave for the meeting from Boston instead of Raleigh.
And now here I am, getting ready to spend the evening with Rowan, with no idea what to expect.
I take a deep breath and release my talon grip on the counter edge. “You’re right.”
“I know. I usually am,” she says. I meet Lark’s gaze through the screen and she gives me a wink. “Now do that hair, put on some makeup, and go have fun. You deserve it.”
The kiss I blow to Lark is caught, and she pretends to press it to her cheek before sending one back to me. She gifts me with her megawatt smile and then disconnects the video call. When she’s gone, I put some music on, a playlist of Lark’s songs mixed with others that remind me of her. And I think of her. Of everything she said. How much richer my life has been since she became part of it.
I’m ready to go, sitting on the edge of the bed with a bouncing knee, when Rowan texts to say he’s downstairs in the lobby.
One last check in the mirror, and then I’m walking out the door, my clutch gripped tight in my hand. The elevator ride is the longest of my life. When that door finally opens, he’s the first thing I see across the hotel lobby, his broad back facing me and his head bent.
My phone buzzes in my bag. I pull it out and read the message.
I’ll be the pretty boy in a black suit.
I can see that. But I’m not sure how I’m going to keep it from getting to your head if you look that good.
Rowan’s head snaps up and he turns to face me. He’s so beautiful it steals the breath from my lungs. His hair is swept back, his suit perfectly tailored, his shoes polished, his momentary shock eclipsed by a bright smile. He pockets his phone as he strides across the lobby, his eyes never straying from me.
When he stops within reach, his eyes flow over every inch of my body, unabashedly drinking me in. I feel his gaze everywhere it touches. My lips, crimson red. My hair, the waves held back on one side by a sparkling, starburst barrette. My neck, sprayed with Serge Lutens Five O’Clock Gingembre perfume and decorated with a simple gold necklace. My breasts, unsurprisingly, and his attention lingers there for a moment before sweeping all the way down to my toes and back up again.
“You look…” He shakes his head. Swallows. Shifts on his feet. “You look gorgeous, Blackbird. I’m so happy you’re here.”
He closes the distance between us and wraps me in an embrace, and I fold my arms around him in return, my eyes drifting closed as I take in a deep breath of his scent, warm sage and lemon and a hint of spice. For the first time in the last few hours, my heart slows even though it still hits my bones with heavy beats. Something about this feels foreign yet right, somehow.
Rowan releases me from his embrace but holds my upper arms in his warm palms. And then lips are pressed to my neck where my pulse surges. My breath catches as the kiss lingers for a moment just long enough to etch itself into my memory for eternity.
There’s an electric charge in the air between us as he pulls away to look down at me with a lopsided smile. How a man can simultaneously look so cocky while blushing I have no fucking clue, but it’s intoxicating. “Would have kissed your cheek,” he says as his fingers trace my skin where his lips were pressed, “but I didn’t want to ruin your makeup.”
My lips tighten around a grin that begs to be set free. I know he can see the way my eyes dance with surprise and amusement. He eats it up. “What’s your angle, pretty boy?”
“To make you blush, of course.” He gives me a wink and then takes my hand, seemingly clueless to the cacophony of thoughts that riot through my head at the simple touch of his palm to mine. “Come on. Car’s waiting. We’re going to have a fun night, Blackbird. Guaranteed.”
Rowan leads the way to the lobby doors and the circular driveway where a blacked-out Escalade is parked, a driver waiting by the rear passenger door that he opens as we approach. Rowan keeps hold of my hand as I step up into the vehicle before he walks around to the other side, and then we’re off to the Omni Boston Hotel at the Seaport, the venue for the gala.
“This is very fancy, Butcher,” I say as I run my hand over the leather seat. “We could have taken an Uber, you know.”
Rowan catches my hand and holds it on the empty seat between us as I try not to let surprise flicker across my face. “I’m not taking the most beautiful girl of the night to the social event of the year in a fucking Honda Accord.”
“What’s wrong with a Honda Accord?” I ask as a flurry of butterflies dance across my rib cage. “I drive one.”
Rowan scoffs and rolls his eyes. “No, you don’t. You drive a silver BMW 3 series.”
“Stalker.”
“You’re overdue for an oil change, by the way.”
“Am not.”
“Liar. The car has literally been telling you ‘change my fucking oil, you heathen’ for the last three weeks.”
I guffaw a laugh and whack Rowan on the arm. “How do you know that?”
He grins and shrugs. “Got my ways.” His phone dings in his jacket and he lets go of my hand to read the message with a frown. “Anyway, I thought it would be nice to splurge for a change. It feels like I’ve been stuck with my head down, dealing with problem after problem between the two restaurants. I could use a fun night out with my best friend.”
My heart lurches in my chest as though it’s suddenly facing the wrong way around. Like everything is. The hand-holding. The kiss on my pulse. Maybe I read too much into these small gestures.
What if everything I feel is all in my head?
I clear my throat and straighten my spine, folding both my hands over the sparkling clutch that rests in my lap. “How is it going with the new place?”
Rowan tilts his head side to-side, his focus on the phone screen as he taps out a reply. “Not too bad. A lot of work. We’re still on track to launch in October, but the electrical upgrades have been a bitch.”
“How’s David? Still doing well?”
At this he huffs a laugh, locking his screen before he pockets the device. “Great, actually. I’ve had Lachlan look again recently for any missing persons reports fitting his description, but there’s still nothing. And David’s been a solid helper. He’s steady with the dishes. Reliable. Got him set up in a new group home since the last time we talked—this one brings him over and picks him up for every shift when one of the kitchen staff can’t give him a ride. It works really well.”
“I’m glad,” I say with a smile as I sweep my waves away from my shoulder, a motion that Rowan follows with keen interest before he trains his gaze to the city streets passing by his window.
“Me too. At least one thing is going right at 3 In Coach. It feels like everything else has been a bloody circus the last few months. I know it’s part of the nature of the business—shit just breaks and has to be fixed. Stuff inevitably goes wrong. It just…feels like a lot lately.”
I lay a hand on Rowan’s wrist and he glances down at the point of contact before meeting my eyes with a furrowed brow. “Hey, at least you’ve got this award tonight. Third year running, right? I know it’s been shit to manage, but you’re still doing it right.”
Rowan’s expression softens, and for the first time, I notice the subtle hints of stress in his face, the hint of dark circles beneath his eyes.
“And if something really goes South, I know what will help,” I say with a sage nod as his head tilts. His eyes dip to my dimple and narrow. “Beef Niçoise salad.”
Rowan groans.
“With homemade Dijon dressing.”
“Blackbird—”
“And maybe some—”
“Don’t say it—”
“—cookies and cream ice cream for dessert.”
He pokes my ribs and I squeak out some sound I’ve never made before. “You know I have not been able to eat ice cream since then?” he asks as I giggle with the onslaught of jabs. “I used to love ice cream, thankyouverymuch.”
“It’s not my fault,” I wheeze as he finally lets up. “I was just ensuring you were informed of the ingredients, in case you wanted something sweet to follow your one-of-a-kind dining experience.”
“Sure. Very believable.”
The vehicle slows and turns into the venue drop off, drawing to a halt in front of the glass building where other gala attendees arrive with their shimmering gowns and fancy suits. I tug at the hem of my dress where it hits just below my knee, as if that will magically lengthen it. The driver has my door open, waiting for me to accept his hand and step out of the vehicle, but I don’t.
“It’s not black tie,” Rowan says as his hand slips between my back and the seat to prompt me toward the door. “And I guarantee that you could wear a potato sack and still be the most beautiful woman here. The dress is stunning, Blackbird. Perfectly you.”
With a final, unsure glance at Rowan, I take the driver’s hand and slide out into the fresh air, the scent of the sea thick on the spring breeze. Rowan’s hand is on the small of my back as soon as we exit the vehicle, and my heart leaps into my throat and sticks there with every step we take.
The ballroom is decorated with bright white linens and colorful tropical flower centerpieces, and we find our seats in the center of the second row from the stage that’s framed by lights in shades of deep pink and blue. Several bars churn out drinks and groups of people laugh and chat near their tables as background music plays through the speakers around the perimeter of the room. A band sets up instruments on a lower stage at the opposite where a dance floor gleams beneath the dimmed overhead lights.
We grab drinks and mingle as we make our way through the growing crowd that snakes between the tables. There are introductions to Rowan’s friends and acquaintances. Restaurateurs, lawyers, professional athletes. Regular customers. Irregular fans. Rowan is in his element, shining, glowing brighter than the splashes of color that shift overhead. His smile is easy, his laugh warm. His energy is infectious. Even though he’s capable of killing any one of them without remorse, he still puts people at ease, his mask infallible.
It might be Rowan’s element, but it’s definitely not mine.
Small talk is usually easier for me when I’m hunting, because I have a purpose, a plan to lure someone in. I find it hard to relate to people when I know they’re not shitbags who deserve to be relieved of their eyes. But with Rowan, it feels easier. He helps me make the first connections to other people. To find a common ground. Your new album is doing great—did you know Sloane is close friends with Lark Montague? Or, Sloane is going to Madrid in the morning for a meeting, weren’t you there last year? And then I’m off and running, integrating like I’m more than just a plus-one. He helps me to the boundaries of my comfort zone without pushing me over the edge.
And the whole time, his gentle touch is an anchor. My lower back when we stand. My elbow or my hand when we move. And throughout dinner he continues to check in even though we’re sitting right next to one another, with a smile or a glance or a single finger that glides over the inside of my wrist. When his name is called, he goes on stage and collects his glass teardrop trophy for Best Restaurant during the awards ceremony and even then he finds me with a wink and a lopsided grin.
And the ache buried deep in my chest burns hotter with every moment that passes.
When dinner is finished, the band starts up. Some people migrate to the dance floor, others stay to chat and mingle around their tables. Rowan heads to the bar to get us another round of drinks and becomes caught in conversation along the way. Likewise, I find myself swept away with the stories and anecdotes of our table companions who have remained behind.
But my eyes stray to the tall, beautiful man who sucks all the air from the room like an inferno.
He knows my darkest secrets. I know his. We can be monsters, and maybe we don’t deserve the same things that other people do. Happiness. Affection. Love. But I can’t seem to stop the way I feel when I look at every facet of Rowan, from his brightest light to his deepest, most dangerous dark. Maybe I don’t deserve it for the things I’ve done. But I want it. I want more with him than what I’ve got.
Suddenly, I’m excusing myself from the table and weaving my way toward him before I even know what I’m going to do. His back is to me, my fresh glass of champagne in one hand, a glass of whiskey on ice in the other. He’s speaking to a couple and another man, one he introduced to me as an investment broker. I stop just behind him, and when there’s a break in conversation I lay a hand on Rowan’s sleeve, my mind seemingly cleaved in two, like I’m watching myself from outside my body.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” he says with a sheepish smile as he passes me the flute. “We got chatting about business.”
“Of course, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” I start to retreat but Rowan catches my wrist. He says something about it not being an interruption but I absorb only one or two key words beyond the music and the deafening percussion of my heart. I swallow, my eyes snagged on his lips before I finally manage to lift them and meet his gaze. “Would you like to dance? With me…?”
Rowan’s momentary surprise evaporates as his attention flicks to the dance floor, a spark igniting in his eyes as his lips lift at one corner. It reminds me of the devilish little smile he had at Thorsten’s when the cannibal suggested a visit to the tomato garden. When Rowan’s eyes meet mine once more, they glimmer. “Absolutely,” he says. He pulls my drink from my hand and places our beverages on a nearby table before leading us through the crowd.
As we near the dance floor, the band finishes one song and starts another, the pace slower but still energetic enough to be more than a shuffling dance, the tone romantic. Some people leave to refresh their drinks. Others pair up. I think for a moment that Rowan might detour back to the table or turn around to gauge my reaction, but he doesn’t. He forges ahead with my hand clasped in his until we’re on the floor among the couples, facing one another.
“You’re probably going to be annoyingly good at this, aren’t you,” I say as his right hand slides across my hip, his left holding my right hand aloft, his grip warm and steady.
Rowan grins down at me and begins to lead us in movement. Nothing fancy, nothing showy. Just synchronicity, like we fit to one another, to the music. “And you’ll still be better at it than me, won’t you.”
I smile and Rowan’s grin grows brighter, then I raise our joined hands in a signal he understands. He guides me through a little spin, letting me out, reeling me back in closer with a chuckle. “Maybe. Or maybe we’ll be just the same,” I say, and I hold his eyes for as long as I can before my gaze drifts away over his shoulder.
The song plays on and I feel every little change of motion and charge in the air. Rowan’s hold on my back becomes an embrace. My hand on his arm shifts to hook around his shoulder. His chest touches mine with every inhalation. When his breath warms my neck where my waves are swept back, my eyes drift closed. My head tilts. I want another kiss there, right where my pulse surges, so I know it’s not just a moment of the past, an anomaly.
“Sloane…” he says close to my ear as we make a gradual turn.
“Yes,” I whisper, that simple word unsteady on a ragged breath.
“Are you ready to have some real fun?”
My eyes flutter open. Rowan’s voice is steady and clear. Devious. Not like mine, breathy with want and rioting desires.
I say nothing as I pull back enough to show him the confusion and questions lodged in my furrowed brow. That devilish smile is back, sneaking across his lips. A smile of secrets.
“The bald man with the glasses and the red tie. You should be able to see him across my shoulder,” he says.
My gaze scans the dance floor and lands on a trim man in his mid-fifties in a well-cut designer suit. He dances with a woman about his age, her blonde hair set back in a sleek updo.
I nod.
“His name is Dr. Stephan Rostis.” Rowan’s lips graze my ear as he then whispers, “And he’s a serial killer. He’s killed at least six of his patients over his fifteen years in Boston. Maybe more when he was living in Florida. And we can take him out together. Tonight.”
My steps become wooden and small. The pieces I’d put together in my head are suddenly split apart and rearranged into another picture. I got it all wrong. It was just in my head.
I was wrong about everything.
Our steps slow and stop. Rowan pulls away and looks me over, excitement still radiant in his eyes. “I’ve got a great plan. He never stays late at these things. We can grab him and come back here without our absence being noticed. Perfect alibi.”
“I…um…” Thoughts die before they land on my tongue and I clear my throat to try again, hoping I can infuse my voice with strength that just won’t come. “I’m not really dressed for the occasion,” I hedge, looking down at the red velvet shimmering in the flash of lights.
“I’ll do all the messy stuff.”
It’s the first time that I can think of when I’ve not been excited at the prospect of killing another killer. It’s just not what I expected, I guess. Not where I wanted this evening to go.
“Hey, you okay?” Rowan asks. “I thought the color of your dress was an inside joke—you know, blood red and all—but I’ll make sure it doesn’t get damaged, of course.”
My heart is crinkling like paper crushed in a fist.
“But if you don’t want to…” he continues, his voice fading as worry and maybe disappointment weigh down every note. He seems to realize we haven’t been aligned at all when he says, “I thought when I said we could have some ‘real fun’ that you knew what I meant.”
“No, I actually didn’t get that. But I can see it now.”
The pause between us feels a thousand years long. Rowan’s thumb lifts my chin, my focus still trapped on my dress until I’m forced to meet his eyes.
Confusion is etched between his brows. His gaze scours my face—my flushed cheeks and glassy eyes, my lips that are set in a tense line.
“You…you didn’t know that’s what I meant?” he asks.
“Shockingly, ‘I want to have real fun’ doesn’t reliably transfer into ‘I want to murder someone together’, unless I missed something in Google Translate.”
“And you still came?”
I swallow and try to look away, but he won’t let me. He’s taking up all the space in every one of my senses, and no matter how much I want to be sucked into a void, Rowan anchors me right here.
Clarity and disbelief twine within his changing expression. He’s trying to put his own broken puzzle back together, a new picture emerging.
“Holy shit…” His whispered words are barely audible over the voices and music that surround us, but I feel them, as though they’re thorns embedded in my skin. His grip on my chin firms and he steps closer, looming over me, his eyes bouncing between mine. “Sloane,” he whispers. “You’re really here.”
I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean. But I don’t ask. Not as his gaze lingers on my lips when they part on a shaky exhalation. Not when his other hand slowly reaches up to sweep the waves from my shoulder, his fingertips an electric murmuration in my skin as they trace the slope of my neck.
He leans closer. His eyes don’t leave mine. His lips are just a thread of space away…
And then his phone rings with the sound of a siren.
“Fuck,” he hisses, his curse spilling across my lips. He draws away, the would-be kiss lost to another dimension, another Butcher and Blackbird who finally collide.
But in this realm, Rowan’s hand falls from my face as his eyes press closed. He withdraws the phone and accepts the call.
“What is it?” he says as he tries to hold his frustrated sigh back from the caller. “What do you mean ‘exploded’…? Jesus feckin’ Christ. Is everyone okay…?” Rowan runs a hand through his hair, the swept-back style now disheveled. His eyes land on me with dark and focused intensity. “I’m on my way. Comp whatever meals you have to.”
“That didn’t sound good,” I say with a bittersweet smile when he disconnects the call.
“I have to go. Right now. I’m sorry.”
“I can come and help—”
“No,” he says, his voice unexpectedly firm. His hand finds my arm and holds on, an apology for his sharp tone. “The stove in the pastry section just literally blew up. Thank fuck no one is injured. I don’t want you anywhere near that. I can’t, Sloane.”
I nod and try to smile. “I’m sorry your night took a turn.”
“Me too. I’m so fucking sorry,” he says with a deep crease between his brows as he shakes his head. “Stay and have fun. I’ll take an Uber to the restaurant and text you the driver’s details so you can take our ride back to your hotel when you’re ready.”
His hand folds over the back of my neck and he presses a kiss to my forehead. The touch echoes long after his lips are gone.
My chest aches when he takes a step backward and lets his hand fall to his side. Rowan’s smile is faint, his brow furrowed. “Bye, Blackbird.”
“Bye, Butcher.”
I watch as he backs away, nearly bumping into couples on the dance floor, his eyes fused to mine until he forces himself to turn. And still I watch, my feet rooted to the floor and my hands clasped together, a statue among the lights and movement that swirl around me.
Just as he reaches the doors, Rowan turns. His eyes find mine. I give him a fleeting smile. He runs a hand down his face and a fierce, determined expression is left in its wake. He takes two steps in my direction but halts abruptly, his shoulders falling as he pulls his phone from his jacket pocket. With a final, defeated glance in my direction, he accepts another call and turns on his heel to stride away.
Five minutes later, a text buzzes on my phone with the contact details for the driver.
I leave as soon as it comes.
When I get back to the hotel, I run through my nightly routine and slide between the crisp linens, falling asleep almost instantly, as though my head and heart have run a marathon. I’m up just before my alarm, checked out within forty-five minutes of waking, heading on the covered walkway between the Hilton hotel and Logan airport when my phone chimes in my hand.
I miss you already.
Emotion clogs my throat. I stare at the screen for a long moment before I tap out a reply.
I miss you too.
Are we still on for August? No pressure if you can’t, truly. I know you have a lot going on.
I fully expect he can’t make it. Who would? With a new restaurant under construction and a popular one that appears to be falling apart at the seams, it would be reasonable to expect he would want a year reprieve. Would I be devastated? Sure. But would I understand? Of course.
Blackbird…
The dots of his incoming reply keep me motionless on the walkway.
I will blow this restaurant up myself before I miss it. I’ll see you in August.
And change your oil, you bloody heathen!
I pocket my phone and swallow the burn creeping down my throat, and then I keep going, ready to plow through these next few months. Maybe ready to try again.
What if I just try again?
What if I do.
