Page 40 of The Unfinished Line

“Uh, yeah,” she’d given my knee a conciliatory squeeze, and then, before I could rectify my blunder, unfolded herself out of the car. “See ya tomorrow.” Waving, she then trotted barefoot to the double-glass doors, disappearing into the foyer.

I’d been so pissed at myself, I almost accidentally pulled out in front of an Escalade doing twenty over the speed limit.

By the time I crossed under the 405, I’d overanalyzed the situation so many ways, I couldn’t drive another mile. I turned into a McDonald’s parking lot and pulled out my phone, typing out a text and hitting send before I could second guess it.

Is there any chance you’d want to stay with me the rest of the week? I could pick you up in the morning?

Surehad been the immediate response. And thenI’m still looking forward to breakfast.

I’d breathed a sigh of relief, pulled back onto the highway, and then panicked all the way home.

Where I was still panicking this morning.

As I scrubbed the crumbling grout from the backsplash behind my 1960s stovetop, I allowed my mind to wander.

What would my morning have been like if I’d managed to find parking?

Would I be asleep right now, in her bed, instead of whirling around my apartment on my third round of cleaning?

No. I knew myself better than that. There’s no way I’d be asleep. We’d have… well, done whatever we’d have done, and then I would have laid awake all night, overthinking every aspect of my life in microscopic detail. I’d have internally freaked out a bit—I wasn’t so naive to think I wouldn’t have self-doubts about what I was doing—but then I would have circled back around to the undeniable acceptance that, for the first time in my life, whatever this was simply felt genuine.

Which would have led to my questioning, for the hundredth time, why I’d never seen it coming?

It wasn’t like there were slide shows ofahamoments flashing back through my childhood.

Me, catching a crush on the girl in pigtails who I’d sat next to in the third grade.

Me, realizing I’d developed an obsession with my fourth-period gym instructor my sophomore year in high school.

Me, suddenly registering the concept that all the boys I’d dated—Carter included—had just never felt quite… right?

None of that was true. I’d hated that girl in pigtails. Mrs. Williams, my PE teacher, had been a bitch—we’d called her Mrs. Blueberry—and as far as teachers I’d had the hots for, it had actually been Mr. Simon in homeroom with whom I’d had an ardent infatuation.

And when it came to the boys I’d dated? I liked most of them. I hadn’t dated them because it was what was expected of me, or because I’d been pressured into wanting to fit in with ‘normal’ standards. I’d dated them because I wanted to. The same as it had been with Carter. Only him I’d actually loved—in my own way—off and on. He was thoughtful, smoking hot, and genuinely the kindest guy I knew.

Which led to the onlyahamoment that was true:

I’d loved Carter, but if I wanted to analyze it further, I hadn’t beenin lovewith Carter. I liked the sex, I usually liked his company, and when it was going well, I liked theideaof us. But it was only the idea. It wasn’t the living, breathing reality. If it had been, we’d still be together. I wouldn’t have dated half a dozen other guys in between. He wouldn’t be On-Again-Off-Again-Carter. He wouldn’t be my last resort whenever I got lonely.

Which meant I probably shouldn’t have found any of this to be such a huge surprise. It was obvious I’d been searching for something—someone—different all along.

Insert—Dillon.

I didn’t know where it was going. I knew wherethis weekwas going—I think we’d both made that pretty clear last night. Butbeyond that? Who knew? I don’t think either of us cared. Which was just one more thing I liked about her. For as rigid as she was in her career, she appeared to have a pliant outlook on her personal life, taking things in stride.

My phone rang while I was balancing precariously on top of a pile of old textbooks I’d stacked on my dining room table, stretching to dust the blades of my noisy ceiling fan. Siri informed me it was Dani.

At 7:15 in the morning.

Which was not a good sign.

“Hey!” I called out to the speaker, carefully descending to the safety of the floor. “What’s wrong?”

“You answered! Finally! Jesus, Kam. I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”

She’d called yesterday afternoon. Once. No message.

“What’s wrong?” I repeated, swooping up my phone, punching it off of speaker.

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