Page 118 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

Why am I here?

“Because today my phone reminded me that once – before any of this happened – I met a guy at a bar and I felt… like everything was possible. And maybe I wanted to feel like that again. Possible. Like all the odds are stacked in my favor. Like I could really have it all. The whole stupid package. Win-win-win.” I take a breath, hoping to blink back the tears brimming in my eyes. “Or maybe I was just hungry.”

He watches me for a beat, and he looks so hopeful it hurts. “Then let’s order some food.”

I close my eyes, hoping to hold back the impending flood of emotions. “Quentin...”

“You don’t have to say that you love me. You don’t ever have to forgive me,” he says. “Please, just have dinner with me. Let me show you this is possible.”

It’s not that simple. Is it?

I shake my head. “I’m sorry.”

I’m not sure what exactly I’m apologizing for. The only thing I know for sure is that I cannot cry in the middle of this restaurant. I push back my chair. I’m already walking towards the exit when I hear him leaving cash on the table, telling the hostess we have an emergency, and rushing onto the elevator behind me.

“Heidi, I’m sorry. I should have told you about the partnership. I should have –”

“I don’t think I can do this, Quentin,” I say, pressing the ‘close door’ button in rapid succession. “And I don’t even know why you want me to. I’ve already proven I’m not great at this. Did you forget how I blew up on you in front of your entire family, and blocked your number, and didn’t even give you a chance to present your side of things? I’m not girlfriend material. Maybe we should just call this what it is.”

The door slides closed, shutting out the soft sounds of the restaurant. I realize maybe this is already over. My arms are folded tightly across my chest. My bottom lip is held firmly between my teeth.

“I know what this is. And I think you do too,” he says. “Can’t we talk about this?”

“What do you want me to say?” I demand. “That I think about you every single second of every single day? That I wake up and wonder why you’re not beside me? That I miss your stupid nature documentaries and the way you smell and the way it feels when you call me cutesy nicknames?” I grab his forearm, holding his hand up in front of us. “That the fact that you’re still wearing this bracelet makes my heart feel like it’s too big for my chest? Why are you still wearing this?”

His gaze searches mine, and it tugs hard through me, holding me in place.

“For luck,” he says. “And because I can’t stop thinking about you either. Don’t you get it? I never want to. I want to think about the way you laugh when you argue with me. And the way it feels to be on your team, just you and me against everything. I want to think about making love to you until we can barely breathe. And I want to remember the way it feels to wake up with my arms around you and the sunrise on your skin, feeling like the luckiest man in the whole fucking world. Even when it hurts, if all I can have of you is this, I don’t want to let it go.”

The exhaustion of holding back these feelings for the past few weeks hits me in a rush. Then, just as suddenly, my walls threaten to crumble. There’s nothing left to hold me back from him – no partnership, no contract, no pretending that staying away from him will keep me from getting hurt – especially not when staying away from him has hurt most of all.

“Fuck,” I swear. I think maybe I mean to say something else. Something along the lines of, That was some speech. Or maybe, Hey asshole, I love you. It never gets a chance to verbalize.

All at once, I’m kissing him.

His lips meet mine with a surprised groan. I’m quickly enveloped in his insatiable late summer smell as he weaves his fingers into my hair, hooking his thumb under my jaw. His other hand fumbles behind us, hitting the emergency stop button of the elevator. It jolts us to an immediate halt. The alarm buzzes, buying us time.

“Did this just become a hostage situation?” I say. “Are you trying to kidnap me?”

He punctuates the moment with hungry kisses. “If it means you’ll stay.”

I clutch the front of his shirt in both hands. “You know you stole my fucking heart, you jerk.”

That’s what he turned out to be. Not a serial killer, or a kidnapper, but a thief.

His dark eyes search mine. “Do you want it back?”

“No.”

The alarm continues to buzz, but we’re oblivious. I melt against him, reveling in the warm teasing of his tongue, the gentle tug of his teeth against my bottom lip. He slides a hand up my thigh, hooking it around his hip as he presses my back against the plush paisley fabric of the elevator wall.

“I missed you,” he breathes.

I frame his face with my hands, tugging him closer. “I’m right here.”

A voice comes over the speaker, startling us apart. Suddenly, I have a panicked moment of wondering if there’s a security camera in here. A quick survey reassures me that at first glance, there isn’t.

“Hello,” the voice says. “You okay in there?”

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