11. Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Sharon
We step out of the elevator on the 86th floor of the Empire State Building, and when I glance at Jon, I notice that his face has lost all its color.
"I'll be fine," he says, glancing at me. "I just need to breathe in some fresh air."
I realize the elevator ride made him ill. He said he deals with nightmares, panic attacks, and claustrophobia. I've now witnessed all three. I swallow the lump forming in my throat and try to act as if nothing's wrong.
"The views from up here are unreal," I say, riveted by the breathtaking vastness of the city. I can't help but feel very small and insignificant.
The wind gusts at this height are merciless and quickly whip my long hair into a tangled mess.
"The day I should've put my hair up," I say, gathering all my hair to one side. "It's so windy up here. I swear I can feel the whole building swaying under my feet."
"Do you want me to braid it for you?" Jon asks, sweeping a strand away from my face and pulling it behind my ear.
"You know how to braid hair?" I ask skeptically.
"I do!" he says.
"I don't believe you."
"You want to bet?"
"Sure," I say. "Go ahead, let's see what you can do."
My hair is long and wavy. Curly when it feels like it, and today, it feels like it.
He stands behind me and sweeps my hair back, running his long fingers through it. Why does this feel so intimate? He sections my hair into three parts and starts braiding, not detangling the bottom of each strand as he goes.
"Jon," I laugh, "I can tell it's going to get very tangled if you don't —."
"You must trust the process, Miss Hansen. Since we don't have a rubber band, I have to get creative."
"Yeah? Well, good luck!"
"Now, let me just flip this section over and through. Give it a little pull like this, and voila!"
“How did you do that?!” I ask, pulling the braid to the side to take a look.
I stare at Jon, wide-eyed and speechless.
"One of my many talents," he says, smiling.
And kissing being another .
"What the heck?" I ask, chastising myself for the intrusive thought.
"What?" Jon asks. "Did you say something?"
"No," I say, wanting to slap myself.
"Ready to go up to the observatory on the 102nd floor?" he asks.
"As ready as I'll ever be. Will there be enough oxygen up there?"
When we exit the elevator, Jon takes an audible deep breath.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
"Yeah," he says. "It was just a little crowded in there."
"Um, where are the walls?" I ask, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Jon takes a few steps towards the windows.
"Coming?" he asks when I don't move.
I take a few tentative steps forward, but the closer I get to the windows, the more anxious I feel.
"I think I can see everything from here, thank you."
"You're afraid of heights?"
"No," I say. "I'm afraid of falling. What if one of those windows is not installed correctly? I'm fine right here, thank you."
"You can hold onto my arm if you want."
I instinctively reach for him, and as soon as I slip my arm through his, I feel better. Safe.
He puts his hand over mine and glances at me.
"Do you want to get a little closer? Or we can stay here."
I take a few more steps until we're an arm's length away from the windows.
"Thank you for bringing me up here," I say. "I feel like I'm on top of the world."
"You're welcome."
"I'd like to take the stairs back down." I say, "Would that be okay?"
He grins, knowing I'm giving him an exit that doesn't involve an elevator.
"Thank you," he says.
***
The long walk back to the hotel puts us both at ease. Between my fear of heights and his fear of enclosed spaces, we're both thankful for the solid ground under our feet.
"Where did you learn to braid women's hair?" I ask, wondering if he used to braid Susan's hair for her. The sudden chill of jealousy I feel doesn't go unnoticed.
"I learned it watching two of my students braid each other's hair during class."
"You allow hair styling in the classroom?"
"Of course not," he says. "I had to physically separate two sixth graders who had a death grip on each other's hair during a fight. They had pulled clumps of hair out. It was pretty traumatic."
"Poor girls," I say sympathetically.
"I'm not talking about them," he says. "I'm talking about me. It scarred me for life."
I laugh.
"Anyway," he continues, "I kept them in detention after school and made them braid each other's hair as a punishment."
I laugh again, realizing this story makes me like this man even more.
We enter the hotel and walk down the hall to the stairwell, but there's a sign on the door that reads Temporarily Closed .
"We can wait," I say, glancing at Jon.
"It could be hours before they open it. We have to meet Mom and Dad at the restaurant in an hour."
"I don't have to change," I say.
"It's okay. We can take the elevator."
"Are you sure?"
"If I can go up to the 102nd floor of the Empire State Building, I can go up to the seventh floor. No sweat."
"Okay," I say.
We step into the elevator, and I press the button to the seventh floor. Jon looks at me as if all his concentration is centered on my gaze.
"Your face is already doing a great job at distracting me."
I laugh and look up, watching the numbers above the elevator doors light up one by one, signaling our ascent. After the fifth floor, there's a screeching sound and a jerking motion before the elevator stops.
"What happened?" I ask, looking at the lit number five that's not flipping to six.
Jon presses the button to the seventh floor, but nothing happens. He presses the first, the second, and the rest of the buttons to no avail.
"The elevator is stuck between floors," I say, using a calm tone but feeling a little frantic.
Jon takes a deep breath and tries the buttons again. When nothing works, he puts the palms of his hands on the elevator doors and looks down, studying the floor. His muscular arms and toned back are tense under his T-shirt as he leans into the doors as if wanting to push them open.
I press the call button and wait but get no response. I press the emergency button several times until I hear someone's voice.
I look at Jon, whose face has taken on a ghostly pallor.
"Hi," I say. "We're stuck in the elevator and need help."
"Which elevator, Miss?" comes a woman's voice at the other end.
"The one nearest the staircase."
"That's elevator number two, which is closed for repairs."
"What?!" I ask. "Why wasn't there a sign on the doors?"
"Hey, Frankie!" I hear the woman's voice calling. "Did you put the Out of Order sign on elevator two?"
"I thought you said to put the Temporarily Closed sign on the stairs."
"Geez, Louise, Frank! Now we have people stuck in the elevator."
"You said the stairs," Frank says, followed by a long pause. "I'm sorry, Diane. Please don't look at me like that."
"This is what happens when you don't listen," Diane sounds annoyed.
"Excuse me," I say. "How long will it take to get us out of here?"
I glance at Jon, who's taking deep, cleansing breaths in an attempt to remain calm.
"Give us twenty minutes, Miss. We'll send help as soon as possible. Just hang tight."
"What choice do we have?" I say under my breath.
"I heard that," comes the voice. "No need to get testy, ma'am. We'll get you out of there shortly."
"I'll be okay," Jon says. "I just need to sit for a minute."
"Okay," I say. "I'll sit with you."
I take his hand, and we slide down to the floor and sit side by side against the wall while we wait for help to arrive.
After a few minutes, Jon's breathing regulates, and the color returns to his face.
"Why are you an only child?" he asks, sitting with his legs bent and elbows resting on his knees. "There should be more of you."
"Why?" I ask, glancing at him.
"Beauty like yours should be multiplied over and over again."
I look at him, expecting him to laugh, but his eyes reveal that he's being serious.
I look away because if I don't, I fear I might lean into him and kiss him.
"Mom had a complicated delivery when I was born. She can't have more children. One of my earliest memories is of my mother, in a fit of anger, screaming at me, saying, ’It's your fault! I can't give your father a son because you broke me.’"
"How old were you?"
"The first time? Four."
"I'm so sorry," he says.
"It's okay," I say, wanting to steer the conversation away from me. "What about you? Why were you an only child for twenty years?"
"I always wanted siblings but never asked why I was an only child. When Mom was pregnant with Noah, she confided in me and told me she wanted to teach and felt one child was enough to form a family with my father while still leaving her the time and energy required to pursue her personal interests and career goals. I remember watching her as she said this. She was smiling and gently rubbing her belly, loving the life she carried inside her. Noah wasn't a mistake, or a procedure gone wrong. Noah has enriched our family in so many ways."
"I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Noah," I say. "It might not be the best time to say this, but I'm glad I'm here. Stuck in an elevator? No. But sitting here with you? Yes."
His gaze is so piercing that it reaches deep inside me, touching a part of me that was always reserved for someone else.
"You must be feeling better," I say when a wide grin spreads across his lips.
"You know," he begins, "you still owe me a kiss."
"Pardon me?" I ask as my heart begins to flutter.
"I won the bet."
"What bet?"
"We bet on whether or not I could braid your hair. That braid is still going strong, so you owe me a kiss."
That slight flutter I felt two seconds ago quickly turns into a band of wild horses galloping inside my chest.
"Sorry for pointing out the obvious," I say in protest, "but we never discussed what was at stake."
"We didn't discuss it, but it was always a kiss."
"And what would I have won?” I ask, trying to maintain my composure.
"That would've been up to you," he says, "but you didn't win. I did."
"You're feeling better, I see."
"A kiss would help."
"Jon, what you're doing is called blackmail!"
The sound of his erupting laughter fills the small space and makes me realize he's kidding.
"I can't believe you!" I say, laughing and giving him a little shove with my shoulder.
"You should've seen your face!"
He's laughing so hard I think I see tears in his eyes.
"Oh, you think you're funny!"
"What if I was serious about collecting on the bet?"
"I would have paid up," I say, with all the bravado I can muster. "A bet is a bet."
"Really?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.
"Yeah. Really."
"The next time we kiss, it'll be because you asked."
"Don't hold your breath."
"I bet I can have you asking me for a kiss before the doors to this elevator open."
"Oh, no," I say. "I'm not falling for that trick again. No more betting!"
We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes before curiosity gets the best of me.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"What?" he asks.
"What is Susan like?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because I'm curious, and we have time to kill."
"As you know, Susan's father and my dad are business partners. She was having problems maintaining her grade point average, so Dad asked me if I would tutor her. We started spending time together, then going out, and finally, we were seeing each other exclusively."
"Is she beautiful?"
"Yes. She's the quintessential California girl. Blond hair, blue eyes, sun-kissed skin."
I make note of the fact that she's the exact opposite of me.
"Any chance the two of you will get back together? Especially now that she lives here?"
"No," he says. "Absolutely not."
"Did you love her?"
"I did. I loved her, but I wasn't in love with her."
"Is there a difference?"
"After that relationship, I'm convinced there's a difference."
"How?"
"I never once thought about what our children would look like."
I recall our conversation about having children and him wanting daughters. He thinks about being a father; he just never thought of it with her .
"Most people would say you're too young to think about that, but I can relate. You said you wanted daughters."
"After Noah was born, I realized I wanted to be a dad someday. I'm old enough to be his father, and before I joined the military, we were attached at the hip. He's been more like a son than a brother."
"That's sweet," I say.
"What about Jimmy?" he asks. "What was Jimmy like?"
"You knew Jimmy," I say.
"I only knew him for eight weeks."
"He was my childhood friend. My high school sweetheart. I would have married him, and we would have lived happily ever after. What we had was special, safe, and forever."
"What else?" he asks.
"What else?” I ask, turning to face him. "What do you mean? What more could there be? I think forever covers everything."
He angles his entire body towards me so he can face me. He's relaxed with one elbow still resting on his knee, but his eyes are studying me with so much intensity that I feel a wave of excitement wrap around my heart and squeeze.
"Was it strong, scary, exciting?"
"What?" I ask, feeling at a loss for words.
"Did he take your breath away?" I feel his gaze slowly, meticulously sweep over my face and settle on my lips.
"When you were with him," he continues, "did you feel like you were standing on the edge of a precipice? Scared but excited, knowing what awaited you on the other side would be the happiest moments of your life?"
I don't think of Jimmy when I try to find an answer, and that hurts. I admit it. I think of Jon and me standing atop the Empire State Building. The view from up there is something I'll always remember. It was spectacular, but what was more thrilling was standing on the edge with him .
His nearness is dizzying, and the scent of his cologne is inviting, but what has left me breathless is his question, which is more intimate than the kiss we shared last night.
"Jon Linder," I say when it finally dawns on me, "you're talking about sex."
"No," he says calmly. “I’m talking about chemistry."
"Chemistry is overrated," I say, almost defensively.
"We're sitting on the dirty floor of a broken-down elevator. I haven't touched you, but what I feel is happening between us is scary, exciting, and strong enough to set us both on fire."
"It's just you, Jon," I lie , defiantly tilting my chin. "I don't feel a thing."
I quickly stand to my feet and fold my arms across my chest.
Jon stands and looks down at me. I feel cornered because I can't exactly walk away.
He grins and curls his fingers around my arms.
"Are you mad at me?"
"Jimmy and I had chemistry. We loved each other, and I resent anyone who has the gall to question my feelings."
"I'm sorry," he says, sounding genuine.
When I refuse to look at him, he lifts my chin with his finger until our eyes meet. My resolve to be angry is strong, but my knees betray me and instantly go weak. When his thumb sweeps over my bottom lip, all my senses, including my common sense, go up in flames, and I speak two little words I might regret later, "Kiss me."