Page 93 of Hold You Close
I cried when the stupid car came and drove away, leaving my heart in his hands.
Now, I’m crying again as I’m standing in line to get through security.
It feels as though someone is literally ripping my heart out of my chest. The pain is so intense, it hurts to breathe.
“Miss?” The man behind me taps my shoulder.
“Yes?” I glance over my shoulder at him.
When he gets a look at me, he blinks and takes a step back. “Are you all right?”
No. No, I’m not. I’m broken, hurting, feeling as though my life is over. “I’m . . . I’m not sure.”
“Can I offer you a handkerchief?” He reaches inside his jacket and takes one out.
“Thank you.” How sweet, he’s a gentleman. Men don’t normally carry handkerchiefs anymore, do they? And here’s a nice man being so sweet to a crazy lady in line who can’t stop crying long enough to move up.
“Are you real? Do men like you still exist?” I ask as I blot my eyes. “True gentlemen, I mean? Guys who are chivalrous when they see a woman in distress? Because I thought I knew a guy like you once, but he turned out to be a shithead.”
The poor stranger purses his lips and nods, looking a bit uncomfortable. “I see.”
“Do you? Because I can’t see it. I’ve tried. He acts like he loves me and yet he just threw me away. Who does that?”
“Um, I don’t really—”
“If you love someone, you hold them close, you cherish them, you give them your heart. You don’t say it was never anything to begin with and tell them to take a job all the way across the country!” I blow my nose in the soft fabric and the tears fall harder. “Jesus Christ, just look at me!”
“You do seem very upset,” the handkerchief gentleman says, probably sorry he tapped my shoulder in the first place.
“I’m not normally like this,” I explain. “I’m a career woman who never gave two shits about men and their games. I graduated summa cum laude from Northwestern with a degree in finance. I worked my ass off to get to the position I just got, in a sea of asshole men because I’m smart. But here I am, crying because of Ian fucking Chase.”
“Would you like to step out of line, miss?” The guy behind him asks.
“No!” I say a little too vehemently, my spine snapping straight. “No. I’m going to New Jersey, sir. I’m leaving, because I have no reason to stay.”
“Just asking, because—”
“No one to love me,” I blubber on, my posture wilting again. “No one to care. Even my cat didn’t give a shit when I left him this morning. How is that for pathetic?”
Handkerchief gentleman puts his hand on my arm. “Maybe you should sit down,” he suggests.
“When is someone going to love me?” I throw myself at the poor guy, a stranger in the airport, clinging to him like a weeping toddler. “When is it my turn? Have I made all the wrong choices in life? How did I get here?”
He falls back a little because of the force with which I’ve launched myself at him, but he rubs my back, saying it’s going to be okay. Why couldn’t Ian do this? Why isn’t it his arms that are around me, giving me comfort?
Oh, because he’s a chicken-shit asshole who doesn’t know a good thing when it slaps him in the face.
“I’m sorry,” I sob into the guy’s shoulder, wetting his nice blue button-down shirt. “I’m so sorry.”
“Uh, it’s all right, but the line is really long, and if—”
“London!” A deep voice booms, echoing throughout the cavernous airport security area.
I pick up my head and sniff. I know that voice.
“London! Don’t go!”
Frantically, I look around. Am I dreaming this? Have I lost my last remaining tether to reality? Or is it really Ian I’m hearing?
