My throat tightens.
Nah. He’s not here.
There’s no way.
Universe’s fucking with me again.
But just in case, I throw on a sweatshirt,
then my Tasmans by the bedroom door.
I step into the elevator.
The mirror throws me back at myself.
I’m completely stripped of makeup,
my eyes red and puffy from wine and crying.
The elevator’s crawling its way down,
nervous for me.
My hands won’t stop sweating.
My stomach’s a French braid.
The elevator doors slide open.
I can’t feel my legs as I float through the lobby.
At this hour it’s dim, sconces set to low.
I round the corner?—
And he’s there.
Out front.
Parked right in the curve,
under the lit porte-cochère,
the night as his backdrop,
leaning against the car.
Sweatshirt. Joggers.
Hands buried deep in his pockets.
His hair’s a mess.
He’s pink-cheeked and freezing and killing me soft.
And he’s just... there.
The text wasn’t a joke.
