Page 34 of Personal Disaster

“Dulles Airport.” He groans. “Why, where areyou?”

“The Motel 6 on I-70.”

“You’re in Denver.”

“Yes?” I laugh because it’s ridiculous. “Oh, shit, Marcus! How long are you in Washington?”

“I’ll be back by the morning. This breakfast date is happening. Hang tight. Do not move. I’m coming to get you.” He growls something under his breath that sounds like one more night. I know the feeling.

I laugh weakly. “So much for a surprise, huh?”

“Yeah. Well…” He grunts, and I picture him shoving a hand through his hair. “How long are you out there?”

“A week, maybe. I can write from anywhere.”

“I have to work day after tomorrow, so that’s good. This is good.” He groans again.

“I’m sorry. You only had two days off and you flew across the country to see me?” Now I feel likeshit.

“No, it’s fine. Really. Don’t worry aboutit.”

“Well, I do worry about it. Price of being my friend, is having me worry aboutyou.”

“Friend?” He sounds amused. Like this is no big deal, but we’ve both flown in opposite directions because of a failure to communicate. This is a big deal. Why is he laughing? “Thank you for your friendly concern.”

“You sound like…” I trail off. Fine if he wants to be a man of mystery, that’sfine.

“Hey,” he says softly. Marcus in a nutshell. He’s so big, so strong, and yet gentle, too. My mountain man, literally. But still there are other layers I have no idea about.

Okay, maybe it’s notfine.

“I’m not asking as a journalist,” I whisper as I flop onto my side. “But why is this funny?”

“It just is. It’ll be easier to explain in the morning.”

“Do you remember what I asked before I left here?” Who are you? He’d given me a vague answer then, and suddenly I wonder if I’m being played for a fool somehow.

He sighs. “Why does it matter who Iam?”

“It doesn’t.” It really doesn’t matter, but it is relevant. How do I explain the difference? “But if I’m flying back and forth across the country to hook-up with someone—something that is a considerable expense for me, but totally worth it—I kind of want to know who heis.”

“Oh, shit, Poppy. Of course, that’s fair. And I don’t want you to spend money to come see me. We can sort something out about that.” He sighs. “I want you to know me. I do. Tomorrow, okay? I’ll show you everything you need to know about me in the morning. Text me your room number. I need to grab some sleep before I headback.”

“Okay…” I look at the clock. Jesus, he’s going to try to catch the first flight out in the morning, which I think is at five. “Don’t worry if you don’t get a ticket. I’ve got work todo.”

His laugh is muted. “I’m not worried. I just want to seeyou.”

And the butterflies are back. Apparently they’re immune to doubt. “Yep. Metoo.”

“Sleep tight?”

Hardly.

This is like sex ChristmasEve.

And just like while waiting for Santa, I do manage to drift off, then jolt awake at five, my heart pounding.

I drag myself into the shower. The steam feels good, and when I get out to a text message from Marcus, I feel even better.

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