It’s not that late, but the roads I take back to my apartment are quiet beneath the canopies of mature oaks, ash, elms, and maples. I drive carefully, keeping under the limit. I haven’t had a drop to drink, but I’m still drunk on that kiss, on the heat of his mouth and the fire rushing through my veins beneath his wandering touch.
I’ve long since passed being shocked that Hank kissed me or that I kissed him back. Or even how quickly it flamed out of control. What I’m stuck on is how much further that kiss would have gone if we hadn’t been interrupted.
All. The. Way.
The only thing I was thinking before that giggle interrupted us was how to get the back door of the car open without having to take my hands off Hank.
And considering it’s been two years since I’ve had sex—and then only after a handful of dates with a perfectly nice guy I really wanted to fall for but didn’t—it’s nuts that in less than two hours I’d been ready to go there. And in the parking lot of the building where I work, no less.
I smile as I turn down my street. At least one thing hasn’t changed. Hank still has the ability to override my better judgment.
I park in my regular spot and follow the walk up to my building, taking a quick look over my shoulder before letting myself in. That look should be because I’m a cautious, sensible woman, and I always check to make sure no one is behind me before opening my door. And usually I do, but tonight I’m not looking for a potential assailant. I’m looking for Hank.
But if there’s ever been one thing he was good at, it was letting me go.
THE NEXT MORNING, a man in a suit way too sharp to be a career delivery guy comes to my door. I bring the nondescript cardboard package upstairs and open it at my kitchen table. Inside is a sleek black box with folded gold and gray tissue paper inside, and a card scrawled in Hank’s hand.
Meant to return this last night. Your phone has been resuscitated, so feel free to continue using it. Alternately, you might find this X-series more reliable in its durability, water resistance, and superior operating system. It will be the best phone on the market when it comes out next week… and has been synced with all the data and contacts from your existing device. Any issues, my numbers are programmed in.
Great to see you again,
~Hank
When I pull the new phone out of its space-age packaging, it’s fully charged and everything Hank promised and more. I’m delighted and touched and laughing, because it’s also just so like the guy I used to know. But at the same time, there’s a heaviness in my heart I can’t quite ignore, because as wonderful as Hank is… there’s no misreading his closing line.
HANK
NEW YORK. IT’S late and I’m restless as fuck. If I don’t get my shit together, there’s going to be a hole worn through the floor of the Presidential Suite by morning. It’s been two intercontinental flights, three sixteen-hour days spent holed up in talks with Walker, and more hours of follow-up video conferences with my team than I want to count since the reunion. I shouldn’t have a second to think about Abby Mitchel, but she’s been haunting the shadows of my mind the whole time… picking inopportune times to dart out into the forefront of my consciousness.
I’m off my game and people are noticing.
After so many years of efficiently managing my memories of her, it’s weird having her sprung loose again. I want to say I don’t like it, but that’d be a hard sell considering the way I’ve been playing with her in my mind… parking her in one of those classroom chairs with the white rubber feet, adding the slim wristwatch I noticed at the reunion, pulling her hair back into a ponytail the way I like it best, and tucking her ankles neatly to one side. Changing her outfit from that dress she was wearing Saturday night to my old Bearings High sweatshirt because seeing her in it always did something crazy to my chest. Pushing her brow up in silent question as if she’s asking me what kind of freak I am, treating her like she’s a paper doll.
Answer? The kind of freak that recognizes calling up her image as the lesser evil to giving in to the days-fresh memory of those needy little sounds she made for me, her wet cotton panties and soft laugh. Only, shit, guess I’m thinking about them anyway.
Not awesome considering we essentially left things at it’s been fun but goodbye forever. Especially when there’s no question that’s precisely the way things ought to go.
I need a distraction. Jack’s out. He’d be all over me about Abby the second he picked up, and he’s the reason I’m in this mess. I could call Nate. He’s probably hunched over his laptop two stories down. No doubt he’d be willing to talk business until first light, at least… but we’ve already established that work isn’t enough to keep the Abby thoughts at bay.
Inspiration strikes, and I’ve got my phone to my ear, the muscles through my shoulders and back loosening with each ring.
“Dude, it’s fucking three in the morning,” Greg Baxter barks. “You better be calling me from your deathbed. Or jail.” A chainsaw-rough laugh sounds through the line, like he’s seeing it. “Please, tell me you’re calling from jail.”
Greg’s my downstairs neighbor, center for the Chicago Slayers, and another BHS grad, though he was a year behind us. Back in high school there wasn’t much overlap between our circles, but in the year since I moved in to the building, we’ve become half-decent friends.
“Not in jail,” I admit. “I had a call with Korea and wasn’t thinking about the time. Sorry.”
There’s a long sigh, and the wheels start to turn in a way that allows me to consider someone besides my apparently completely self-absorbed ass. “Are you alone?”
“Yeah, and I’m naked too, but if you’re calling to test the waters, save your breath.” That’s Greg, hot-tempered but quick to cool, and more interested in a joke than holding a grudge.
“Jesus,” I laugh, already feeling better. I hit the minibar for a beer and walk back to the window. “Like I really needed to know you were naked.”
“Now you’re thinking about it, right?”
“Put some clothes on.”
I take a long draw from the beer and look down some forty floors to Times Square, wondering if Abby has ever seen New York.
“Yep. Done,” he answers too quickly.
“Bullshit. I don’t hear any rustling. You’re just lying there.”
“Naked. While I listen to your voice.” I can hear the grin on his face as he goes on. “How about you tell me what you’re wearing and I’ll tell you where my hand is.”
This is why I called him. The man is nuts. Outrageous and crass. And if you take a minute to look past that mouth that won’t stop running—he’s also a seriously decent guy.
“Enough, enough. I said I was sorry.” He’s probably got practice in a few hours too. Shit. “Hey, you want to go back to bed? We can talk another time.”
“Nah, I’m good. Besides, I don’t even know when I saw you last. We can catch up and you can tell me what’s so critical it can’t wait for a more civilized hour. I know it’s not about the new girl.” He chuckles and the smile drops from my face.
There’s only one way he would know about any “new girl.”
“Are there pictures?” I choke out, panic surging fast even though I know there’s someone in my office who has made a career of keeping track of shit like this, and if there was something serious floating around the internet, I’d have been notified. Unless it just went live and they haven’t seen it, or it hasn’t bounced its way up the food chain to me yet. Shit.
“Like there ever aren’t pictures. C’mon, man.” He sounds equal parts disgusted and amused, and I’m starting to relax, because the only thing I’m finding as I dig through my phone are a few candid shots from the reunion where we’re all standing around in a group. Yeah, it’s clear my attention is on Abby, but considering everything we got up to that night, this is a best-case scenario.
Still, there’s always the chance there are more. And suddenly I’m standing a little straighter, something I don’t want to
look too closely at going on in my chest.
Because I’m going to have to call her. Make sure the press isn’t harassing her and remind her to use my number in case anyone does. It’s not about me wanting to see her again or trying to start things up.
No way, that would be a mistake.
It’s about doing the right thing.
Greg clears his throat. “Pretty quiet, Hank. I figured this was the usual media bullshit, making noise about a whole lot of nothing, but now you’ve got me wondering. Who is she?”
“Girl I used to know, is all.”
He clucks his tongue. “She’s a looker. Got that whole girl-next-door thing going on too.”
And the part of me that is primal and instinct-driven—the part I generally don’t acknowledge or give voice to—is starting to bristle and growl. Greg’s a great hockey player and an overall good guy, but no way do I want him taking note of Abby’s finer assets. Especially if--“Are you still naked?”
“As a jaybird.”
“Looking at Abby?” There’s something in my voice I don’t recognize, but Greg must, because then he’s clearing his throat again, sounding almost contrite. “You know what? I’m going to put some clothes on. For real.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “Appreciate it, man.”
ABBY
I LOVE MY students, but there’s something very special about getting to school early enough to have the halls to myself. I like the sound of my footsteps echoing off the lockers, the hush of a space so big, so quiet. And if I arrive early enough, like this morning, I can dance around my classroom while I swap out my favorite literary quotes hung around the walls.
I’m shimmying in a slow circle, checking my work when I jump, realizing I’m being watched.
“Wilson! You scared the heck out of me,” I gasp, embarrassed heat pushing into my cheeks.
He offers a goofy wave and walks into my space with a broad smile.
“Don’t stop on my account. With moves like that, no wonder your ‘tech god’ fell hard.”
I narrow my eyes at Wilson’s teasing about the ridiculous stories that have been coming out in the days since the reunion. Someone must have taken a few pictures while we were all standing around together and sold them to a tabloid site. I almost dropped my new phone in the garbage disposal when Helen started banging on my door Sunday morning, shrieking about how the wax worked.
Since then I’ve gotten two calls from less-than-reputable papers, and seen my blurry picture in at least a dozen places. Half of them through links Wilson sent me on Sunday night after a barrage of texts asking if it was true. Thankfully no one seemed to know anything about what happened in the parking lot, so even though I felt a pinch of guilt lying about it, that’s what I did.
Monday, he and everyone else teased me relentlessly. The locals and my girlfriends all know about Hank and me dating in high school, so they generally laughed off the news, and by the end of the day, I wasn’t hearing much about it from the faculty either. By Tuesday afternoon, the students had settled down. But now it’s Wednesday and I’m ready for Wilson, arguably one of my better friends, to drop it too.
“If that’s all you’ve got, you can keep on walking.”
It’s not—I can see there’s something under his skin—so I cross my arms and prop a hip against my desk, waiting.
He pulls at his ear and looks away, which means this is going to be good.
“Just spit it out, Wilson. The anticipation is killing me.”
“Fine, fine. I’m up for this award, I guess because of the volunteer math tutoring I’ve been doing in the city on weekends. There’s a banquet and I could really use a plus-one.”
“That’s wonderful! Congratulations,” I say, throwing my hands over my head. “When are we talking about?”
Wilson is a nice-looking man, he has a generous heart and likes kids. It constantly amazes me that he doesn’t have a line of women wrapped around the corner hoping he’ll ask one of them.
Or maybe he does and he’d simply rather avoid the complications of bringing someone who might read more into things than they should. With me, he knows he’s safe. We talked about dating once years ago but decided against it when we realized the friendship between us was just too comfortable. Now we share a laugh before class most mornings and exchange the occasional plus-one here and there. And for this one, I’m definitely in.
“Saturday, two weeks.” The corner of his mouth starts to twitch, and he adds, “But only if your new boyfriend doesn’t mind.”
“Wilson!”
He raises his hands in front of him, laughing. “Don’t get all growly with me. I know you said whatever was between you and Wagner was in the past, but you’ve got to admit, something’s different with you since the reunion. You’ve got this kind of glowy thing going on, and I swear your head is somewhere else every time I talk to you.”
Another denial is on the tip of my tongue, but the way Wilson is waiting for my answer, like he’ll believe anything I say, eats at my conscience and won’t let me lie to him again. Not flat out. “I had a really good time Saturday and I have been in a good mood about it.”
I expected that to be the end of it, but there’s a stitch between Wilson’s brows as he crosses to my desk and starts playing with the pens in my Wonder Woman mug. “Nuh-uh. I mean, sure, you’re in a good mood. But… I know the tabloid stuff about you and Wagner is nonsense. He’s, like—well, you know what I mean. I’m just asking if you started seeing someone else?”
My mind goes back to the faculty parking lot and Hank’s arms around me, followed in short order by the closing of his note—Great to see you again—that most definitely didn’t leave the door open for something more.
I meet Wilson’s speculative stare. “No. I haven’t.”
He raises a brow. “You looking to?”
Come back to my place.
“No.” It’s the truth.
I remember what it was like trying to get over Hank. How I had to force myself to get through that first date eighteen months later, and how every date after just left me feeling more hollowed out and alone than the one before.
I’m not trying to get over Hank this time. Things didn’t go that far. But I definitely know better than to go out with someone else when I’m still thinking about him. The man is more than a little hard to compete with and it wouldn’t be fair.
Wilson wags his finger at me like he doesn’t believe a word I’ve said. But instead of pushing it, he just smiles and starts backing out the door.
“I’ll text you with the details.”
“Sounds good.”
When Wilson is gone, I start reviewing my lesson plan for the day. A few minutes later, my phone starts to vibrate with an incoming call.
No one calls me this early, so who—
Hank Wagner.
Fumbling, I answer the call and then yelp as the phone slips out of my hands, bounces off the desk, and skitters across the linoleum. “Wait, sorry, wait!”
Oh God, he gives me the world’s best phone and I break it the first time he calls? No!
“Hello, Hank?” I answer, crawling up off the floor. I can’t believe he’s calling me.
“You okay, Abs?” he asks with a low chuckle that has my belly doing a little flutter.
“I’m fine, but I’m afraid your new phone just had its first field test. Don’t take it personally if I cut out on you.”
“Lining up your excuses already? Damn, Abby, that’s cold. Just tell me you don’t want to talk to me. I’m a big boy.”
Laughing, I return to my chair and close my eyes.
“Hank,” I sigh, like I have so many times before. It’s nice to see his propensity for outrageous claims hasn’t changed. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”
Why are you calling me when I worked so hard to get good with knowing you wouldn’t?
“Yeah, that’s actually why I was calling. I just found out about the pictures or I would have called before. Anyone bothering you??
??
Of course he’s calling to check in. The man couldn’t resist upgrading my phone—It makes sense that he’d want to make sure getting caught in a snapshot with him wasn’t causing me any grief.
“You better believe it. There were only a couple of calls from the press, but it’s been hell talking my overly optimistic neighbor Helen down from planning our wedding. And even this morning, I’m still taking some serious ribbing from my colleague, Wilson.”
“All that?”
I can hear his breathing through the line, the sound of water running and what I imagine is a mug clanking against a counter. His broad shoulders and stubbled jaw come to mind. I wonder where he is. What time it is.
“Yes, but in all seriousness, it’s been pretty tame.”
Cripes. I’m actually thinking about what he’s wearing, which I swear wouldn’t be happening if it wasn’t for that stinking Men’s Health article.
“That’s good, Abby. But just in case anyone starts hassling you, I’m going to send the names of a couple of people you can call if I’m not available.”
My phone vibrates in my hand and I see a notification for three contacts, but all I can focus on is that he only wants me to call them if he isn’t available.
But getting in touch with anyone won’t be necessary, because already the calls have stopped.
I tell him as much and he agrees but wants me to keep the contacts just in case. It feels like a natural breaking point in the conversation, and already I’m bracing for it to end. For another of the goodbyes that just keep coming with this man.
He clears his throat and I’m ready.
“The pictures from Saturday night are crap.”
I blink, because that’s not the clear exit I’m expecting. “Huh?”
“That stuff in the tabloids. I’ve been kicking myself that, after all these years, I didn’t think to get a picture while I was there.” There’s a pause that I’m mentally filling with all the things I know he won’t say. All the things he shouldn’t say and I don’t really want to hear, even if in this moment, I sort of feel like I do. Then he adds, “Kind of wishing I had one.”