Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
DO YOU WANT ME TO LEAVE?
Connor
Gretchen needs you.
Talk about my personal kryptonite. Even if I’m three years too late to play the I’ll-always-show-up-for-her card, a week and a half of Gretchen’s radio silence still wasn’t enough to stop me from getting on this plane.
“I don’t want her to be alone,” had been Drew’s words to me earlier. While I rushed to wrap things up at the office, I asked my best friend to explain the situation to me. He didn’t have much to offer other than that he suspects Gretchen is hiding something.
The guilt nearly destroyed me on the spot.
If Drew knew half the truth I’ve kept from him, he wouldn’t have asked me to come, that’s for damn sure.
I made him a promise. A promise that I broke three years ago in colossal fashion.
But she had kissed me back. Like, really kissed me. For long minutes that felt like an eternity and the blink of an eye all at once, that balcony was heaven on earth. Until it wasn’t. Until my guilty conscience grabbed me by the balls and I stopped it.
I told myself that it was the right thing to do as Drew’s threats and warnings from years past echoed furiously in my ears.
What Drew’s cautionary voice didn’t account for at the time—and that I learned too late—is that, while Drew is my best friend, Gretchen was an unexpected bright spot that had been slowly, innocently burrowing into the deepest corners of my heart since we were kids.
We both grew up and suddenly, my heart wasn’t just a heart anymore.
It was a Gretchen shaped ball of hope. And that hope fell dead in my wake with each step I took in the opposite direction.
The jolt of the plane hitting the tarmac startles me awake. The haunting melody of James Morrison’s “Don’t You Forget About Me” drifts through my headphones. The higher powers-that-be must have my name on their bingo card today. I press the skip button.
My gaze turns toward the window. In the distance, beyond Phoenix proper, a sea of orange-red hued mesas pierce the blue sky above. The late-June heat practically rises off the rock formations in every direction.
I toggle off airplane mode on my phone and wait for it to recalibrate to the new time zone. Gretchen landed a few hours ago. Surely she’s been in touch with Drew by now, but I still don’t have any messages from her.
The fasten seat belt sign goes off and everyone rushes to stand.
I’ll never understand the whole let’s stand up so we can wait plane debarkment philosophy.
As the sound of passengers collecting their luggage from the overhead bins fills the cabin, I remain in my seat and navigate to my texts to let Gretchen know I’ve landed.
I’m mid-text when a message pops up on my screen.
Gretchen
I’m at your gate.
Ten minutes later, I step off the jet-bridge into the crowded gate area. Headphones looped around my neck, I eagerly scan from left to right. It’s her long black hair I spot first. Her face comes into view as she bounces on her toes to look over and around the other passengers.
Her shoulders dip in relief when I step into her line of vision.
Just like when she answered that door eleven days ago, the stupid grin on my face can’t be stopped.
The return smile that curls the corner of her lips is less gleeful-delight like mine and more irritated-amusement. Beautiful, all the same.
“Are you always the last person to get off the plane?”
“Yes,” I deadpan.
She pins me with those dark eyes, beguile gleaming at their centers. The urge to scoop her into a hug is so natural, so intense that I almost miss her next words.
“Hmmm. So, is that, like, your superiority complex or something?”
I blink. “My…superiority complex? Wasn’t aware I had one.”
She scoffs. “All men have a superiority complex, Connor.”
A laugh bursts out of me and her almost-smile goes rogue, face bright with joy.
“Do tell how letting everyone ahead of me off the plane equates to a superiority complex,” I say.
“Easy,” she shrugs. “That plane and all the other lowly passengers are mere peasants at your feet. Everyone else files off the plane row by row, you know, as normal people do, while you sit in your ivory tower of judgment thinking to yourself, ‘these poor people have it all wrong.’ I bet at least half a dozen people offered to let you go in front of them and you just kept your headphones on and pretended not to hear them.”
I purse my lips.
Her brows lift. “I’m right,” she adds.
“I didn’t say that.”
She leans in conspiratorially. “You didn’t have to.”
“Maybe I prefer the comfort of my seat instead of standing shoulder to shoulder with a bunch of sweaty strangers.”
“Airplane seats are not comfortable,” she retorts as she crosses her arms over her chest. I order my gaze to avoid the hint of cleavage that peeks over the neckline of her white tank top.
I lift my hat to run a hand through my hair, stifling another smile. “When you’re six-two sitting in the window seat and the options are”—I hold out one flat palm—“mediocre chair and”—I hold out another palm—“hunchback of Notre Dame, the answer is pretty straightforward.”
Gretchen’s lips fold inward, her own wry smile barely in check. “You see, maybe the window seat was your first mistake.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers when you buy the ticket three hours before take-off.” I lower my head. “My options were limited.”
She takes in a deep breath, releasing it on a heavy sigh. “Right.” She clears her throat and fiddles with the handle of her carry-on. “Well, I’m sorry you got dragged into?—”
“Don’t be sorry,” I say pointedly. “I’m not sorry.”
Her expression sobers as luggage wielding strangers whizz by, streaks of color zigging and zagging in a blur all around us.
Our gazes lock. Memories of conversations and touches and kisses materialize in the two feet of space between us.
I wonder if her heart pounds as hard as mine does when she looks at me in that way that makes time stand still?
“Excuse me,” a stranger says from my left, breaking our stare.
I move aside to let him pass. A breath later, when I step back into my previous position, the moment’s over.
Gretchen opts for a subject change. “Did Drew tell you anything about what’s going on?”
“Nothing. You?”
Shaking her head, she worries her bottom lip. Nervous fingers fidget with her luggage handle again as she avoids my stare.
“I’m sure everything’s fine, Fish.”
Her startled eyes jump to mine like I’ve just slapped her.
“Are you alri—” I begin as someone slams into me from behind and I’m pushed forward. Instinctively, I grab Gretchen by the arm to keep us both from toppling over. The offending stranger hollers a quick apology over his shoulder as he sprints off and I steady myself on my feet .
Reluctantly, I remove my hand from her arm as I pretend not to notice the electricity that pulses through my fingertips where my skin touched hers.
“I’m sorry,” I say, desperate to get a read on her thoughts.
“For what?” Her throat bobs. “For calling me that or for bumping into me?” Her shoulders may be square and her spine straight, but I recognize the ruse.
All the signs are there—no eye contact, the luggage handle she can’t decide if she wants up or down, unsteady feet shifting beneath her. She’s uncomfortable.
I said the wrong thing.
With a restrained release of breath, I squeeze the back of my neck. “Both, I guess.”
She nods imperceptibly before she finally meets my gaze, her face and tone both schooled into the same forfeiting expression.
“Look, I know I said I wasn’t ready to talk, but I’m not under any ridiculous assumptions that we’re gonna be able to spend the next five days together and not talk about it, so I?—”
“Why have you been ignoring my texts?”
“What?”
“You weren’t ready to talk and that’s fine. I’ll wait. But what about my other messages?” Her eyes bounce around so fast I can’t catch them.
“I didn’t see your other messages.” She swallows, voice sinking to a whisper. “I blocked your number.”
I blink. Sorrow and disbelief stab at that three-year-old wound until it’s ripped clean open. “You blocked me?”
“It wasn’t gonna be forever, okay? I just…needed…I have a lot on my mind and I needed to not think about”—she waves a hand between us—“this right now.”
My chin drops to my chest. I take in a hard sniff to squelch the emotion I already feel at the back of my throat.
She blocked me.
When I lift my head, I find her glassy-eyed gaze and I force myself not to look away. My resolve does nothing to steady the quiver in my voice. “Gretch, if you don’t want me here, I’ll go buy my return ticket right now. No hard feelings, I promise. I don’t wanna be here if you don’t want?—”
“That’s not what I’m?—”
“Do you want me to leave?” My voice rises above the fray, landing decisively on the woman in front of me who looks like she’s carrying the burdens of a thousand men.
With every silent beat, her shoulders soften, but the tears are right there, ready to fall at any moment. Finally, she whispers, “No.”
That’s all I need to know. “Let me see your phone.” I hold out my hand.
“Why?”
“Because I’m not letting you block me.” I curl my fingers toward my palm. “I’ll wait until you’re ready to talk, you have my word. But you don’t cut me out in the meantime.” When she makes no move to reach for her phone, I add, “Give it.”
She pulls her phone from her pocket and drops it in my hand. “You’re already unblocked, dumbass. I texted you fifteen minutes ago, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I quip, my smirk a reflection of hers. “Tell it to the judge. Passcode?” I ask.
“0630,” she says.
I tsk. “Your birthday? Seriously?”
“Seriously. What’s yours?”
I input her password. “0817,” I say as I navigate to the contacts icon on her home screen.
“Your jersey numbers? Seriously?” She clutches her chest in mock outrage.
Chin still to my chest, my fingers freeze. I grin devilishly as I eye her from beneath lifted lashes. Gretchen Fisher remembers my jersey numbers.
She holds my stare for only a second before she rolls her eyes to the rafters and says, “Oh, shut up!”
I bite back my proud retort, confirm that she’s left me unblocked, and hand over her phone. Once she stuffs it back in her pocket, Gretchen yanks the handle of her rolling bag to the highest locked position. I take the carry-on she has draped over her shoulder and throw it over mine.
I nudge my head toward the exit, signaling for us to go.
“Thank you.” Her words come quiet, reminiscent of the shy nine-year-old girl I met thirteen years ago. I look over at her and she says it again. “Thank you for coming.”
“You’re welcome.”