“Good. Good,” I say, too loudly. I make a point of examining the booth, the three men, all dressed in the same T-shirts as Wesley. “Do you work here?”
He nods. His Adam’s apple bobs and I am struck by the distinct memory of pressing my lips there, tasting the sweat on his skin, and the sound he made because of it. I close my eyes and lick my lips, like I’ll taste the salt again.
“I do the marketing.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “We’re a start-up.”
“Congratulations.” I flick the flyer on top of the stack. “This is good work. You’re doing a great job.”
He says nothing. Ridiculous, inexplicable tears spring to my eyes and I blink away to get them under control. I didn’t compliment his marketing work, his hard work, his dedication enough when I had the chance.
“What about you?” he asks, just loud enough to be heard over the din of the trade show. “What are you doing here?”
“My old boss, Sarah Beck, offered me a job. It’s a boutique agency. But it...” The blush rises up my neck. Saying this out loud feels like admitting too much. “It allows me more work-life balance.”
His smile is genuine, when he says, “That’s awesome.”
A thick-chested man, with blond hair, a thick beard, and wearing a fanny pack, steps forward. “We’d love to talk to you more about how you can use data tracking and analysis to achieve your mandate—”
“Paul,” Wesley says. “Quit. It.”
I take a step back. Then another. If I don’t leave now, I never will. I’ll stand here awkwardly until I muster the courage to say what I need to. But his face is so decidedly neutral, such a stark contrast to the man I remember, I’m not sure he wants to hear it. I’ve waited too long.
“I’ve got to go.”
I grab my bag from the floor at my feet. “I hope I see you around,” I say over my shoulder.
Keeping my head down to stop myself from looking back, I hustle as fast as my heels can carry me back to the safety of my hotel room. The chrome elevator doors are just in sight when he calls my name.
I stop, turn to face him. He’s jogging, his long strides eating up the space between us. He’s straightened his glasses but his hair is messier than before. He’s still beautiful, the man I remember. And yet there’s a lean to his shoulders, a calm in his face that wasn’t there before. I realize he didn’t fidget once back at his booth.
He’s like Wesley, but the most Wesley he could ever be.
And he followed me, to Minnesota, to the elevator. He’s here, for me. He gives me the courage to say the thing I need to say, the thing he needs to hear.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, as he comes to a stop in front of me. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t ready before. I’m sorry for every horrible thing I ever said.”
I swallow the nerves in my throat. The lobby is quieter than the trade show, it’s easier for passersby to hear me. But I won’t let that stop me.
Fuck ’em.
“You said before that, if I was ever ready for maybe...and I just thought... I thought well...maybe?”
Wesley holds out his hand and I reach for it. He places something warm and heavy in my palm. “You dropped this.”
He gives me my phone.
“O-ohh.”
It takes a moment for the shock to wear off and the embarrassment to set in. The span of a breath or two while my brain calculates, analyzes, and confirms, he didn’t come backfor me. He was just returning my cell phone. My face feels hotter than the sun.
“Thank you,” I say to his shoulder. Turning before he can say another word, I make it all the way to the elevators this time, jabbing my finger into the button. “Come on.”
The doors open to a gloriously empty elevator. I lean back against the wall and close my eyes. If I can just make it to my hotel room, I can cry. To think, I almost told him I loved him.
The doors start to swoosh closed but a quiet ding sounds before they shut. I open my eyes. Wesley steps on, closer to me than he’s been in months. He’s less than six feet away and without a table between us. We can’t look away from each other across the small space.
“Hi,” he says again.
I don’t trust myself to say anything to him. I nod.
