Page 24 of Fall For You

CHAPTER

SEVEN

Carter

I can’t help smilingas I read Jo’s text. I can’t help the way my body reacts to those three little words.

How about tonight?

Suddenly, those scenes I always want to laugh at in movies—the ones where the lovers burst into song, or break into a run as they rush across town, or across the globe, to get to one another—don’t seem quite as laughable. I may not be singing—not here at work, not in the middle of the day, thank you—but I absolutely want to rush across town to wherever Jo is.

I want to type back, “How about now?” But I know that’s not realistic. So, I rein in my impatience and say…

Sounds good. You know where I keep the spare key. Let yourself in and make yourself at home. I’ll fix something special for dinner.

Dots appear as she types out a response then…

‘Something special’ huh? You mean like this?

I’m laughing as I write back…

I love that that that’s where your mind goes when you hear the word ’special’. But I was thinking we’d save *that* for dessert.

A moment later she responds with…

Well, in that case, I guess I’ll have to “save room” for dessert!

I’m typing out my response when she texts again:

Oops. Phone call. Vi’s Dr. Gotta take this.

So I backspace, erasing the joke I was going to make, sending her a thumb’s up and a CYL instead. Then I return my phone to my pocket and head for the kitchen to start brainstorming dinner ideas.

All through the rest of the (very long) afternoon my brain keeps offering up memories from the night before, reminding me how good it feels to have Jo in my bed, in my life.

I’d forgotten how much I always loved even the little things. How just hearing her breathe beside me, as I drifted off to sleep, could somehow soften the dark. How the scent of her could linger in my sheets, or on my pillows—sometimes for days. I even loved being startled half-awake whenever one of her limbs brushed mine.

Obviously, she’s not the only woman I’ve ever spent the night with, but it has been awhile. And she’s definitely the only oneI’ve ever craved. The only one I’ve ever wanted to build a life with. The only one who mattered.

Which is why I’m screwed. Because I remember how close I came to having it all, to making all my dreams a reality. And the saying ‘lightning never strikes twice’ has never seemed more true.

Sometimes things don’t work out the way you want them to—that’s a plain, hard fact of life. It’s very likely that Jo and I already had our chance at happy ever after and bungled it.

I need to stop grasping at a future that I’m not going to get and make the best of these next few weeks. I should just enjoy whatever I can have of her, for as long as I can have it, and leave the problem of how I’m going to live without her for later—for after she’s gone and I’m alone once again.

The day drags on. I’m mildly disappointed when Jo doesn’t get back to me with more teasing texts, or to let me know what Vi’s doctor had to say, but I guess she got too busy, as did I.

There are all the usual issues to deal with—late deliveries, staffers not showing up, a sudden glitch in the reservation system that leaves us with two parties booked for the same table, at the same time. Not to mention the additional task I’ve set for myself—cooking us a special meal. One that’s tasty and portable and won’t suffer too much if we get distracted and don’t eat it right away.

After considering and rejecting several dishes, I finally settle on Beef Barbacoa Bowls made with black beans and rice, sliced avocado, chipotle-dusted sweet potatoes, roasted corn, and a cilantro-lime dressing, served with puffy, blue-corn Sopapillas.

My kitchen staff notices, of course, and asks what I’m making. I tell them I’m just experimenting,;that I’m demoing something that I might add to the menu at a later date. I don’t know if they believe me. And I’m starting not to care.

Over the course of the evening, I catch myself listening for the sound of footsteps on the stairs, or overhead. But the building is sturdy and old and if Jo is up there now, I can’t tell. I don’t hear anything. Which, if she is there, is good to know in terms of privacy issues, and useful for any future rendezvous.

But what if she isn’t? And sure enough…

Right after work, I head upstairs. My anticipatory mood is dashed when I find my apartment empty. I have to still the inevitable panic that grips me. Maybe she’s not coming? Maybe she’s already gone?

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