I shift to see Jasmine standing over me, worry painted on every line of her face. She wasn’t here when I arrived, even though she left before I did. For a minute, I thought she had left to see Iris, or her family.
“Yeah. I do.” I open the bag and am hit with a mouth-watering savory aroma. “Shit, this is—”
“From the deli in the East Village, yeah. This is anI’d-get-up-early-to-get-you-your-favorite-bageltype of apology.”
“You’re late.”
“I still got up before you, and it’s the thought that counts,” she says as she walks to her desk across from mine and slumps into her chair. “I was a presumptuous dick. I just thought that if I putup the mistletoe you’d get an excuse to kiss her, because I was pretty sure you wanted to.”
“I did.”
“Did want to?”
“No. I kissed her for real and then she went silent. I fucked it up.” I groan and drop my head into my hands.
“And you haven’t heard from her yet?”
“Nothing.”
I was never supposed to care this much. I felt my feelings for Henri creep up on me and didn’t bother to keep them in check.
“I can ask Iris,” she offers.
I shake my head. “I appreciate it, but please don’t complicate your relationship because of my—” I nearly saymistake, but it wasn’t, and I won’t pretend it was. “Choice. The best thing I can do is work and get my mind off this.”
“We’re doing the New Year’s affordable champagne tasting today, so at least there’s that to look forward to!” Her voice carries a level of enthusiasm I know neither of us feel.
“Yay! I’ll get to pre-game my flight, and arrive with a hangover,” I mutter while booting up my computer and opening my email.
I think Jasmine keeps talking, trying to take my mind off Henri, but it’s not fair to expect her to succeed when I have an email from her at the top of my inbox.
Liam,
I’ll see you at the airport. Sorry for the limited contact. I’ve been busy.
Juliet
She’s still coming.
Now to figure out what the hell I’m going to tell her when I see her again that doesn’t involve falling to my knees, begging, in the security line.
16
Henri
Ican’t remember the last time I missed someone. Like aching to see them again, bones weary from the effort of it.
Even when my father was arrested, I didn’t miss him. He was a busy guy, the type to work eighty-hour weeks and we didn’t have the strongest relationship. Back then I was so sure it was because he cared about us, that he was absent to make sure we had everything we could ever want. What a nice delusion. Which really should have been an early indication about where I sat on his list of priorities.
But I never really missed him. Even Kurt and Laura, people I used to consider my closest friends—I didn’t really miss them after they stopped responding to my texts. I just missed the feeling of having someone on the other end of the message.
Of not being alone.
And I guess I’ve never broken out of that—hopping from one stranger’s life to the next, with the exception of Iris, who has texted me consistently since I left the apartment, scuffed suitcase in hand.
Iris
Are you ready to see him?
