The British Airwayslounge at Edinburgh was nearly empty at this hour. I sat in a leather chair with my carry-on at my feet and my phone in my hand and texted Dex.
Flying to New York.
His reply came in under a minute.
About bloody time.
Then, seconds later:
Don’t screw this up.
I texted Jamie next. Same message. Her response was longer.
If you somehow manage to fumble this, I will personally end your career myself. Whatever’s left of it. Which, admittedly, isn’t much.
Then:
She’s good for you, Graham. The kitchen video proved it. You’ve never been that honest in ten years of content. Whatever she did to you, don’t let it go.
I put the phone away. Boarded. Found my seat, enough room to stretch out fully, which meant I had no excuse not to sleep.
I didn’t sleep.
I replayed every word she’d said.
I loved you in the barn and I loved you when I pushed you away and I loved you every night I didn’t watch your video because I knew hearing your voice would break me open.
Seven hours in the dark. The flight attendant brought me a whisky I didn’t touch. I lay there with the window shade cracked, watching the occasional light of a ship on the Atlantic far below, and my heart doing something it hadn’t done in weeks.
Hoping.
Somewhere over Iceland, I sat up and pulled out my phone. The airline Wi-Fi was slow but functional.
I booked a hotel. Just us. Is that okay?
Her reply came in under a minute.
Yes.
Then, thirty seconds later:
Hurry up.
The hotel wasa small place in the West Village. No chance of being recognized.
I got there first. Dropped my bag. Stood in the middle of the room and had absolutely no idea what to do with my hands.
The room was simple. A bed, a chair, and a window that looked out on a quiet street with trees. It smelled like clean sheets and nothing else. Neutral ground.
My phone buzzed.
I’m downstairs.
I opened the door and waited.
The elevator dinged at the end of the hall. I heard her footsteps before I saw her, quick, nervous, the rhythm of someone who was trying not to run.
Then she turned the corner.
