Page 41 of P.S. I Dare You

The granite counters in the kitchen sparkle and shine.

“You should go,” I say, a chill in my voice.

She laughs, like she thinks I’m kidding.

“I mean it.” I turn from her, pacing the space between the kitchen and living room before stopping in front of the window.

“Calder … what’s wrong? I was just trying to be helpful.”

“I’ll see you Monday.” I keep my back to her, and a second later the tromp of her footsteps fades down the hall.

I’m overreacting, and I know this.

Pulling in a deep breath, I count to five.

My jaw is tight, but I’m going to try this again.

When she returns in yesterday’s dress, she won’t look at me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have snapped.”

I get no response as she locates her missing shoe under the sofa, takes a seat, and slips it on.

I go to her, lowering myself into the spot beside her. “You don’t have to go.”

“No, I should,” she finally speaks. Standing, she takes a look around at my now-immaculate apartment before eyeing her purse on the back of a dining chair.

“That military school my father sent me to,” I say. “It was brutal. And those years were some of the worst ones of my life. I guess all the order and organization set me off. I shouldn’t have snapped, Keane. I’m sorry.”

She makes her way to the door, leaving me standing in a shallow puddle of my own self-pity.

I’ve never felt so low, never felt so vulnerable.

Turning to me with the softest eyes I’ve ever seen, she says, “It must have been awful for you, growing up thinking nobody wanted you. And now you’ve grown into an adult who doesn’t want anyone. It’s a vicious cycle, and I hope someday you find someone who can break that for you.”

I let her words sink in.

“See you Monday, Calder.”

And I miss her before she’s even gone.

EIGHT THIRTY COMES AND GOES.

Nine AM too.

By ten o’clock Monday morning, I still haven’t heard from Calder, so I make my way around the offices, casually peeking in and searching for the six foot Greek Adonis with lush dark hair and a permanently broody look on his face.

When I get to Mr. Welles’ office, I find the double doors already open, so I stand in the doorway and knock twice.

“Ms. Keane, come on in,” he says when he notices me. “Can I help you with something?”

“I was just wondering if you’d heard from Calder yet this morning? I tried texting him, but he didn’t respond …”

We haven’t spoken since Saturday morning, when I organized his apartment and he responded by telling me to leave. I get that he has issues. We all do. But his might run a little deeper than I originally realized, and I can’t handle the hot and cold, not when I have eighteen days left in the city.

Mr. Welles checks his phone. “I don’t see any missed calls. Then again, he’s not exactly thrilled with me right now.”

He chuckles, as if his son’s frustration is a silly little matter.

“We were on our way to lunch on Friday, and I made a comment that just set him off for whatever reason.” Welles rolls his eyes. “So temperamental, that boy. I thought he’d grow out of it with age, but it turns out it’s only gotten worse. And I’ve never understood what made him that way. He had a dream childhood. Everything he could ever want was right at his fingertips and what did he do? Couldn’t stay out of trouble. I had to send him away. I was working long hours, couldn’t keep an eye on him. He was outsmarting the nanny left and right. So I found one of the top boarding schools in the country, thought it could square him up a bit, give him the discipline I couldn’t. Sometimes I think it did more harm than good.”

If he only knew.

“Anyway, I’m just rambling.” He stands, sliding his hands into his suit pockets. “One of these days, I hope he meets a nice young lady, someone who can bring out a softer side of him. I know it’s in there somewhere.”

“I’m sure.” I nod toward the door. As soon as I get back to my office, I’m grabbing my things and making a house call. “Well, I’ll let you know if I hear from him.”

Before I head out, I fire off one last text.

WHERE ARE YOU?

Thirty minutes later, I’m standing outside his apartment.

“Calder?” I press my voice against the wooden door before knocking. “You home?”

No answer.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING here, Keane?” I yank the earbuds from my ears and let them dangle from my shoulders. My hair is damp, matted with sweat, and my shirt clings to my back, but I feel like a million bucks. It’s amazing what a jog can do to clear your head.

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