Finally, I ring the doorbell.
No one answers.
He’s probably not home yet.
It’s fine.
Maybe he’s partying.
He could be hooking up with someone. We didn’t promise anything.
God, I shouldn’t have come.
There’s a peephole. Does he know I’m here and is just not answering?
I square my shoulders. Maybe he didn’t hear me. I ring the doorbell again.
Then—the soft ding of the elevator. My stomach drops.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Jason
“Cal?” Awe sounds in my voice as I exit the elevator.
It’s a silly question. Of course, it’s him.
I know the shape of his head, even though he’s stuffed it in a knit hat, just like I know the width of his shoulders, even if they’re covered in a puffy coat sprinkled with snow, just like I know his precise height.
“You’re here,” I exclaim.
He turns around, and he shoots me a thin smile. His gaze bounces from the thick carpet to the grass wallpaper to the gilt-framed paintings that my real estate agent raved about when I first considered moving here. Maybe he doesn’t want to look at me.
My shirt collar is suddenly too tight, and my tie throttles me. I’ve switched my casual island attire for a bespoke suit that management insists we wear after games.
Something unpleasant coils in my stomach, and I try to think about all the good reasons Cal might be here, but all I can think of is the bad reason: maybe he wants to end whatever we have between us. Maybe the next minutes will be all awkwardness and listening to him tell me about how I’m not good enough.
I remove my keys, the metal cold against my now gloveless hands, and he steps to the side. There’s more distance than I would like, and something thuds behind my ribcage.
Probably my heart.
It’s always doing acrobatics near him, and the only time it settles is when we’re pressed as closely as humanly possible.
Something we’re not doing now.
“I saw your game,” he says, once we’re in my apartment.
I shut the door. “They let me play.”
“I’m happy for you.”
I nod, but that ache in my chest grows larger. Did he only come to congratulate me? Maybe he was in Seaport for another reason.
Or perhaps this is about his job.
“Is this about the interview?” I ask.
“What? No, Jason, no.”
