Page 47 of Xavier

ten

Her

Present Day

Ten a.m. is a weird part of the day. Most people are at work already, or, considering this is midtown Manhattan, a lot of people started four or five hours ago. But the crazy chaos of the peak hour is dying down, there are a few stragglers coming in and out of coffee shops, older gentlemen with the Times tucked under their arms and the younger crowd staring down at their phones, a Starbucks in the other hand. Everyone keeping to themselves as the traffic starts to become fluid again after the gridlock of the morning rush hour.

My car stops by the side of the road, arriving at my destination. Normally, I jump right out, ready to start whatever lunch/meeting/appointment I have planned, on the go, never stopping from six a.m. to midnight. Trying to fit as much into my day as possible, which isn't that hard here in New York City. There's always someone perfectly happy to talk work to you at any hour of the day.

But right now, the last thing I feel like doing is stepping out of this car and making my way to my rendezvous.

I want to tell the driver this was a mistake, to turn around and drive. And just keep driving until I forget. Forget what I was here for. Forget his face. Forget his name. Forget like I've been trying to forget for twelve long years.

I should just turn around and walk away. Nothing good is going to come of this. Not for me and not for him. Take the easy way out, write the check, and pretend that Xavier had never come back into my life.

Not that he ever left.

The mind is a terrible thing. It can make you feel like time is no object. Years can go by and yet, you can transport yourself back in the space of a split second. Back to that tent by the lake, sunburned skin kissed by his lips, and your fingernails on his back. Like it was just yesterday and not a lifetime ago.

"Miss?" The driver is antsy to earn his next dollar.

I mumble thanks, gather my bags and linger one last second on the door handle before I step out.

A gust of wind knocks me off my center and I stumble, trying not to drop the black portfolio in my arms, hugging it tightly to my chest. I feel a hand against the small of my back, stopping me from falling.

"Woah. Steady. What've you got in there that's so important?"

I know the voice, but I take a moment to steady myself before I look up.

Into those green eyes.

"Um, hi," I mumble, making a show of twisting and turning, making sure I didn't drop anything, as an excuse to move away from his hand on my back. I'm a little surprised when I notice he already had dropped his hand. Then why could I still feel the heat against me?

"No, really. What's in that thing?" he says, pointing to the folder gripped in my hand.

"It's my portfolio. And some notes. You didn't really tell me what you were looking for, so I don't have a lot of ideas yet."

"Well, that's why we're here. I was just coming back from a meeting. Good timing, you can come up with me." He gestures his head towards the building's entrance, and for a moment I resent him. How can he be acting so normally? Why isn't this harder for him?

Like it's hard for you? my brain taunts me. Every moment in his presence right now, is like walking on nails. I feel like I have to remind myself to do the most basic of things. Breathe, blink, stand, breathe again. And yet it seems like this is nothing to him.

Maybe it is.

I can't tell you if that makes me feel better or worse.

I follow him as the doorman holds open the door for us, almost banging into him when he stops to say something to the doorman that makes him throw his head back with laughter. The doorman gives me a wink as I pass him and I return it with a weak smile.

The lobby is small and quiet. My shoes click against the marble floor as we stand waiting for the elevator.

"What floor are you on?" I ask, just to break the ice.

"31," he says, just as the elevator arrives, waving his key fob over the scanner.

" And how many floors in this building?"

"31."

"So, the penthouse."