Page 28 of His Wall

I couldn’t help looking at it. His upper lip was full at the center, the lower one flat at the curve. A line of sandy stubble at his jaw. He hadn’t shaved that morning.

I forced my eyes back to his. “There’s no game. I had a bad morning. That’s all.”

He held there and didn’t move. The distance between his mouth and mine didn’t change for one second, then two, then three. On the third second, I knew two things at once: He was going to kiss me.

My mouth opened a quarter-inch. I leaned forward — not deliberately, just a body that had followed orders its whole life deciding to stop.

He stepped back, took his hand off the wall, and put both hands in his pockets, the grin returning. “Good night, Claire.”

I didn’t answer. My throat had closed. I walked past him toward the elevator and didn’t look back. My hands were shaking by the time I hit the call button.

The lobby was empty except for Reggie at the desk. I walked out into the cool night, and the air hit my face, and the pulse in my throat finally let go.

The train was half-empty. I sat in the corner, hands in my pockets, eyes on the dark window. I tried to put Julian in a box. But his face had broken the lid. His mouth, 8 in. from mine, had shattered it.

I tried a different box. That one didn’t hold either.

Torres came up instead. He was on the sidewalk outside the office last night, dark jacket, hands in his pockets.

I said his name. He said, “Hi, Leah.”

He hadn’t earned that name, but he used it anyway. The worst part was that hearing it didn’t make me angry. It made me tired.

“I’m in town for a case. I just wanted to see you.”

“Rafael, you can’t be here.”

“Five minutes, please.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He took his right hand out of his pocket and set the heel of his palm against my jaw, his thumb on my cheekbone. “Leah, you look tired.”

I didn’t step back. That was the part I couldn’t put down. I stood there and let him touch my face for a count of three. Then I took his wrist and lifted his hand away. “You can’t be here, Rafael.” Harder this time.

He stepped back. Patient. It was never anger with him — just waiting. “Then I’ll call you next time.”

“Don’t.”

He turned and walked away. I stood on the sidewalk with the warmth of his hand still on my face, trying to remember how to be Claire Kent before Julian came down the elevator, before Julian saw.

I closed my eyes.

The train pulled into my stop.

I walked the four blocks home with my hands still in my pockets, the night air against my face, the thought of Julian's mouth inches from mine and Torres's hand on my cheek.

The apartment was dark except for the lamp by the couch. I dropped my bag, locked the door, and slid the chain. Two men. One I couldn’t have. One I had decided long ago I wouldn’t have. Both in my head, and I couldn't be honest with either one.

I changed into a gray T-shirt and black leggings, left my hair in its low knot. I laced my running shoes — the right shoe a half-second slower than the left because my hands still weren’t right.

I opened the door.

Mrs. Alvarez stood in the hallway with a glass dish, foil over the top. Garlic, tomato, and parmesan came right through it.

“Mija, you’re going running at 9:00 p.m.?”

“I am.”