Page 23 of Freefall

When he insists on paying the bill, despite it being in my blood to do so, I don’t argue. I just say thank you.

I let him drive this time because if he is a serial killer and suffered through three hours of conversation only to gain my trust and drive me to his murder cabin, then he deserves the win. We don’t talk anymore, but we do listen to Tom Petty again, and when he pulls up next to my car in the parking lot of the therapist’s office, neither of us makes a move to say goodbye.

“Nathan?” I finally say.

“So we’re sticking with the full name? Even when I’m not in trouble?”

I laugh softly. “Yeah.” A pause. “Also…I’m going to kiss you now.”

His nod is instantaneous.

You know how people say the excitement is sometimes better than the event itself? In this case, they’re dead wrong because as exciting as the thought of kissing Nate is, the act is a hundred times better. His lips are smooth and warm, and when he teases my tongue with the tip of his, a shiver runs through me. Then his hand is on the back of my head, his fingers sliding through my hair as he deepens the kiss.

Something hot and needy blooms between my legs, and I realize I’m getting wet. Just from a kiss. My first thought is that Grace wasn’t kidding. He is a generous lover, and we haven’t even gotten to the good stuff yet. Then my thoughts start to drift…clothes being ripped off and strewn on the floor, legs tangled, soft gasps and masculine grunts and stern orders.

If only we weren’t in a car.

I’m about to suggest we go back to my dorm or his when he breaks the kiss. Instantly, I feel the loss of his warmth, his tongue, our shared breaths. When I look at him, I know he feels it too. His pupils are blown wide, the black nearly swallowing every last bit of his blue-gray irises. His chest heaves wildly, lips swollen and shiny. “That,” he whispers, his forehead against mine so I can feel the heat of his breath as he speaks.

I blink. “What?”

“That was the best part of my week.”

Nate’s words from that night echo in my head as I stare up at the red brick building. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be sitting in my car recounting our entire first date either, but most of all I shouldn’t be convincing myself to go in there.

I didn’t sleep at all last night, and somewhere between turning my pillow over for the tenth time and making myself a cup of chamomile tea, I decided it would be a good idea to confront Nate at his office today. I talked myself out of it at least five times since I dropped Daisy off for school, but somehow I still ended up here, idling in front of the office buildings at the edge of town.

I’m not a stalker. I’m really not. But every once in a while in the months after I moved, I would lose the internal battle and check Nate’s Instagram. He rarely posted on it. In fact, he never did. Most of the time, when I checked, it was to look at the same four pictures that had been there when we first met. One of him and his sister at his high school graduation. The sister I now know to be Emory. If only there had been a name in the caption or she had been tagged, I might have recognized her name and realized sooner that Nate was not, in fact, the groom. Another one is of him on the football field. It must have been right after a game. He’s wearing an Emberfield High jersey, his sweat-soaked hair clinging to his forehead, and that smile—the one he only breaks out for special occasions—is spread across his face. The other two are of him and a man with tattoos at what looks like a bar in the city.

His well-meaning friend.

Not long after I had Daisy, I was scrolling while she slept in my arms—a common occurrence, as it was the only place she would nap for the first six months of her life—when I found myself once again typing his name into the search bar. Only this time, there weren’t just the same four pictures. There were two more. One of him and an older version of him I assumed to be his father, both in perfectly pressed suits, standing in front of an office building. The caption had only two words.

New job.

The second was a sunrise at the peak of a small mountain. At the very bottom, the tips of brown hiking boots were visible. That caption had two words as well.

New beginnings.

That was the moment I made the decision. I had tried once and was met with silence. In the weeks after, I told myself I would reach out again. At every single milestone, I tried to psych myself up to call him. The first time I heard her heartbeat. When I found out we were having a daughter. Even the night I thought I was going into labor, only to realize it was just the chile verde burrito I’d eaten for lunch that day trying to make a reappearance. But every time, my finger hovered over his name, and I couldn't get it to tap the screen. I couldn’t bear to hear the silence again. And in that moment, looking at Nate’s new beginning, the metaphorical sunrise of his life, as my daughter slept warm and safe against my chest, I knew I wasn’t going to try anymore.

But now he knows. Daisy knows. Maybe not everything, but enough to decide to name the daddy in her story “Nate.”

That’s why I’m here, in the very place where Nate started his new beginning—for her.

I wasn’t surprised to see that Nate had gone to work with his dad. He talked about it, and even though they didn’t have the best relationship, he seemed into what his father’s company stood for.

I could have called him, assuming he hadn’t changed his number, but we don’t exactly have the best track record with phone calls.

We need to have this conversation face-to-face.

A quick internet search told me that Caldwell Security has its main headquarters in downtown Manhattan but that there is a satellite office here in Emberfield. It’s possible Nate commutes to the one in the city, or even that he lives there and came to town to do his sister a favor, but this is the one he was standing in front of in that picture, so I have to at least try.

Still, as I get out of the Jeep and close the door, part of me hopes I have it wrong.

The inside of the building is a complete contrast to the quaint small-town facade on the outside. With its muted colors, warm recessed lighting, and light wooden accents, it feels like I just walked into an Apple store. I half expect someone to pop out and ask me if I need help finding the Genius Bar. There’s a large charcoal-grey reception desk that says “Caldwell Security” on the side, where a woman sits behind two giant computer screens. Her gaze ping-pongs furiously between the two as if she’s trying to compare something.

As I approach her desk, she holds up a candy-apple red manicured finger, leaving it poised in mid-air for the entire minute it takes her to finish whatever she’s doing.