Chapter 18
Jade
After the last pharmaceutical rep leaves, Carlos and I are done for the night.
We pack up the brochures and my computer as the hotel staff stacks chairs and cleans the room.
I yawn—a lot—even though it’s only nine o’clock.
I already told Tessa and Luc I was too tired to do anything else, and even though I would have loved to have dinner with my friends, I just can’t.
I think the Propranolol is making me tired. Well, that paired with digging deep with this new presentation, sharing a personal story that I don’t tell many people. It was more exhausting than being nervous and nauseous and sticking to the old script.
But this time, my hands didn’t shake. My heart raced, especially when my picture came up on the big screen, but I wasn’t nauseous. I don’t share it often, or even talk about my time in treatment. My best friends know, of course, but now Carlos—and an audience of hundreds—know about it.
Emma had been the first one to bring up therapy and medication.
She’s been getting treatment for perimenopausal ADHD, and suggested I talk to someone ASAP.
I called Manny, and thanks to my persistence and the amazing health care system I was able to see a doctor two days later.
Then I went down a rabbit hole of research—side effects, pharmaceutical studies—and yesterday I got my hands on Propranolol.
A therapy appointment was harder to get, but Emma called a friend of a friend and they had a chat with me off-book. I’d liked her—she’d immediately made me feel comfortable and was impressed with my self-imposed exposure therapy.
I have a real appointment next week. In the meantime, I had this new presentation.
My friends and I had debated about this plan, and I’d brought it up with the therapist. How would I feel using my own personal experience to talk about my work?
Would it bring up old pain, make me a “survivor” again instead of someone who’s just living her life?
Or would the connection it gave me to survivors and advocates be worth showing them what it was like for me?
It was worth it.
Wordlessly, we make our way to the elevators. As soon as I press the button, the left bank dings, and the doors slide open.
In the elevator, I lean against the mirrored wall. Carlos has his hands in his pocket, looking down at his shoes.
We pass three floors before he glances up at me. “Thank you for sharing.” His delivery is soft, solemn.
“I finally took your advice,” I say.
“You really took my advice,” he continues. “I’m glad you told me. Us,” he corrects himself.
We arrive at our floor and Carlos puts his arm out, holding the door open for me and gesturing for me to go ahead.
I wonder what he’s thinking about. It’s been a long time since I’ve told anyone, and most of the people tonight wanted to tell their own story and be heard. That’s my job, and I was happy to do it.
“Goodnight,” I call to Carlos as we pass his door. He doesn’t stop, though. He closes the few feet to my door, and I turn to him.
We’re barely a foot apart, and Carlos’s hands are in his pocket as he studies me. His gaze moves from my eyes to my mouth and then up to the crown of my head, where my ponytail sits, and then follows the curve of my hair over my shoulder where it rests.
I hold my breath as he reaches out. His hand pauses, and his eyes meet mine, asking for permission. I nod, and Carlos picks up a thick cluster of my hair.
“You were great tonight. I hope . . . I hope that it helped you to talk about it.”
“It did,” I say, my voice a whisper until I clear my throat. “It did. It’s been a while, and it helps me to remember why I do what I do. Why we do what we do.”
And then, Carlos gives my hair a tug. On face value, it’s ridiculous, like a schoolboy teasing a crush.
But there’s something in the way he watches me, combined with how raw and exposed I feel.
The tug catches me off guard, lights a fuse, and my stomach flips while my lips part and a small gasp escapes me.
Carlos’s gaze flies down to my mouth and I’m very aware of how my lips feel right now; loose and plump. I don’t know which of us moves, but it feels like we’re getting closer to each other—
Behind me, a door opens.
We both freeze. Carlos’s hand is still in my hair, my breath still caught in my throat. The door closes again—someone just stepping out to check the hallway, maybe, or retrieving something left outside.
The spell should break. We should step apart, laugh awkwardly, say goodnight.
But Carlos doesn’t let go of my hair.
His eyes are dark, searching mine. “Jade,” he says, and my name has never sounded like that before. Low and rough and wanting.
I should be smart. Professional. This is my colleague, we work together, the tour is barely halfway over.
“Yes?” It comes out breathier than I intended.
“Where were we?” He takes a half-step closer, and suddenly my back is against my door, the handle digging into my hip, and Carlos is right there. His hand slides from my hair to cup the side of my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone.
My hands come up to rest on his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through his shirt. “I think we were about here,” I whisper.
His smile is small, almost hesitant, and then he closes the last bit of distance between us.
The kiss starts soft. Tentative. Like he’s giving me every chance to pull away. But I don’t want to pull away. I’ve been thinking about this since the sex shop, if I’m honest. Since he looked at me with heat in his eyes before shuttering it away.
I press up on my toes and kiss him back.
That’s when something shifts. Carlos makes a sound low in his throat and his other hand finds my waist, pulling me closer. The kiss deepens, and he tastes like mint and something else that’s just him.
His lips are softer than I expected. Careful but increasingly insistent. When his tongue traces the seam of my lips, I open for him, and the kiss turns into something that makes my knees weak.
I slide my hands up to his shoulders, then into his hair—surprisingly soft, just a little bit of silver at the temples threading through the black. He makes another sound when I tug gently, and I feel his fingers tighten on my waist.
We kiss until I forget where we are. Until the hallway and the hotel and the tour all fade away and there’s just this: his mouth on mine, his hands holding me like I’m precious, the way my whole body feels like it’s waking up after a long sleep.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Carlos rests his forehead against mine, eyes closed.
“That was . . .” he starts.
“Yeah,” I agree, even though he hasn’t finished the sentence.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, and there’s something in his expression. Not regret—thank god, not regret. But wonder, maybe. Like he’s just as surprised by this as I am.
He kisses me again, quicker this time but no less devastating. Then he steps back, and I can see him gathering himself, putting his professional mask back in place. But it doesn’t quite fit anymore. Not when I can still see the heat in his eyes.
“Goodnight, Jade.”
“Goodnight, Carlos.”
I watch him walk the few steps to his door. He glances back once before disappearing inside, and I catch myself smiling like an idiot.
Inside my room, I lean against the door and touch my lips. They’re still tingling.
My phone buzzes with a text. It’s our group chat, checking up on me.
Sara
How was the presentation?
I look at the message for a long moment, then respond.
Me
Tell you tomorrow. It was . . . really good.
I don’t mention the kiss. Not yet. It feels too new, too fragile, like talking about it might make it disappear.
Instead, I get ready for bed with a smile I can’t seem to shake, and when I finally fall asleep, I don’t dream about falling off stages or losing my hair.
I dream about dark eyes and gentle hands and the way Carlos said my name like it mattered.