Okay, here it comes, I realize. The “about last night” talk. Something like, “We lost our heads in the heat of the moment. Can we just put this behind us?”
And that’s okay for him to say. Wedidlose our heads, and we should never have done what we did.Right?
“Yes?” I say. I realize I’m holding my breath.
“I meant what I said last night. I love you. And it’s burning a hole in my heart.”
It’s now seven in the morning, meaning his declaration of love last night wasn’t simply one-part seduction and two-parts pining for the past.
But what’s he really saying—that he wants us to be together again? How does he imagine that even playing out?
Without waiting for a reply, he lowers his head and moves toward the door. Seconds later, he’s gone.
I need to get a grip on how to handle the mess I’ve made, but not right this minute. Because there’s something even more urgent I need to contend with.
I grab the small notebook I’ve used off and on this week and thumb through it until I reach the notes I scribbled when I first spoke to Harry Kronish.
Mel was “like the cat that ate canary”
Because weather better?
Harry—“New squeeze?”
Mel—“My lips are sealed.”
Yes, it’s just as I remembered. Before Harry deduced that Mel might be involved with someone new, he assumed her good mood was due to a change in the weather. It had turned sunny and warmish after seemingly endless days of rain.
Suddenly, something doesn’t make sense to me.
I flip open my laptop. As I start to type in the search bar, my phone rings, with Maya’s name on the screen. Maybe she heard about my experience in theMuseoffice.
“Bree, I’m so sorry I missed you last night,” she says. “I looked for you several times, and yet our paths never crossed.”
So, she hasn’t heard. I should bring her up to speed about what happened—but not now.
“Unfortunately, something came up, and I didn’t arrive until very late,” I say. “Logan says the event was terrific.”
“Well, as you know, we’re very grateful to both of you. When do you head back?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Is there anything I can do for you before you leave?”
“That’s very kind of you, Maya, but I think I’ll be okay.”
A brief pause follows.
“You sure?” she asks.
There’s something about her comment that causes me to sit up straighter.
“What makes you ask that?”
“I’ve been a little concerned about how you’re doing. Professor Handler called me this morning and said you’d seemed quite distressed at the reception, and also when he ran into you outside his house one night. He wondered if there was any way for the school to be of assistance.”
I feel my blood start to boil. Handler could care less about my well-being.
“That’s very kind of you, Maya, but it’s nothing more than normal grief rearing its head. Maybe Professor Handler’s been lucky enough not to know what that feels like.”
