“No,” I say. “It wasn’t that.”
“Did you get my messages? The ones I sent through your agent?”
“He mentioned that you tried to get in touch. But that was a long time ago.”
“I know—it was after we got back.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Several weeks after.”
“Three days,” he corrects me. “I flew back the 4th instead of the 2nd. And I reached out to you that same day.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Mel—was any of it real to you?” He sounds…exasperated.
“Our time together?” I ask.
“Yes. Did it meananythingto you?”
“Are you kidding me, Beckett? Of course it did.”
“Then what happened?”
I sigh.I have to tell him the truth.
“Please just tell me.”
“Not now. Not like this. I want…”
“Want what?”
“I want to see you,” I say.
“When?” he asks.
“Tomorrow?”
“Okay. Name your time and place.”
“It’s the last day of school,” I add, not that it matters.
“Want to have dinner?”
My heart flutters. I can’t help it.
“I’ll come to you. Just tell me where you want to meet,” he says.
“Portofino. It’s an Italian restaurant. It’s walking distance from the Long Island Rail Road.”
“I don’t live in Long Island anymore, remember?”
“Oh. Right. I forgot.”
“Makes no difference. I’ll find it.”
“Queens Boulevard at Ascan Avenue.”
“7:00 p.m.?” he asks.
