Chapter 27
Carlos
The next evening, I’m feeling human again. The fever broke, my energy returned, and I’ve been working from home, catching up on everything I missed while being sick.
Izan lifts his head from the floor two seconds before there’s a knock at the door. It’s nearly eight in the evening—too late for Fernando to stop by unannounced, and I’m not expecting anyone.
I open the door to find Jade standing in the hallway, still in her work clothes, her rolling travel bag at her feet. She looks tired. Beautiful, but tired.
“Hi,” she says. “I hope it’s okay that I just . . . showed up. I texted but you didn’t respond.”
I pat my pocket—empty. “Sorry. Come in.”
She steps inside and Izan immediately trots over for his customary greeting. She bends down to scratch his ears, and I notice the tension in her shoulders, the way she’s holding herself together by sheer force of will.
“How was Marseille?” I ask, closing the door behind her.
“It went well.” She straightens, meeting my eyes. “Stephan was great. Very professional, very competent.”
“But?”
A small smile tugs at her lips. “But it wasn’t the same.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest. “No?”
“No.” She rolls her bag to sit by the door, like she’s planning to stay for more than a minute. “He didn’t know that I needed quiet backstage before we started. He tried to make small talk.”
“Unforgivable.”
“Right?” Her smile widens slightly. “And he didn’t check that I had the clicker before we went on. Just assumed I’d grabbed it.”
“Did you?”
“Yes, but that’s not the point.” She’s moving into the living room now, perching on the edge of the armchair like she did a few days ago.
But this time there’s less formality to it; her foot swings.
“He didn’t translate as fast as you either.
I had to keep waiting for him to finish. The pace was off.”
I sit on the couch, angling toward her. “That must have been jarring.”
“It was.” She pauses, her eyes finding mine. “You always knew. When I was ready to move on, when I needed an extra beat, when I was about to say something that needed careful translation.”
“We practiced together for weeks.”
“No, it was more than that.” Her voice is soft now. “You paid attention. You knew me.”
The past tense sits heavy between us.
“The rest went well, though?” I ask, needing to keep this conversation from going where we both know it wants to go.
“Really well. Great engagement from the audience. Several patients came up afterward to share their stories.” She smiles, but there’s something wistful about it. “One woman told me I gave her hope. That was . . . that was everything.”
“That’s what it’s about.”
“I know. You taught me that.” She looks down at her hands. “When we started this tour, I would have given anything for someone else to be giving those presentations. Anyone else.”
I remember. Her request to Rebecca. The desperation in her voice when she said she wasn’t the right person for this.
“And now?” The question is out before I can stop it.
She looks up, and the honesty in her eyes nearly undoes me.
“Now I wouldn’t change a single thing.”
The air between us feels charged, heavy with everything we’re not saying.
“Not even Berlin?” I ask quietly.
“Not even Berlin.” She holds my gaze. “Because Berlin led to everything else. And all of it . . . all of it led to becoming someone who could stand on that stage in Marseille yesterday and actually mean it when I talked about hope.”
“You did that. Not me.”
“We did that.” She leans forward slightly, one hand on her knee. “Do you remember what you said to me after the first personal presentation? When I finally shared about being sick as a kid?”
I remember every conversation we’ve had, but I shake my head anyway, wanting to hear what stood out to her.
“You said ‘you took my advice.’” Her voice mimics my surprise from that night. “Like you couldn’t believe I’d actually listened to you.”
“You’d spent weeks fighting me on everything.”
“I had. But you were right. About the presentations, about connecting with patients, about . . .” She trails off, looking away. “About a lot of things.”
“Not everything.”
Her eyes snap back to mine. “No?”
“No.” I lean forward too, mirroring her posture. We’re closer now, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. “I was wrong about you being unprofessional. Wrong about the lunch thing. Wrong about thinking you couldn’t handle this tour.”
“You were right that I had stage fright.”
“You were brave enough to do it anyway.”
We’re staring at each other now, and I can’t look away. Can’t pretend I don’t notice the way her breath has quickened slightly, the way her eyes drop to my mouth for just a fraction of a second.
“Carlos,” she says, and my name on her lips sounds like a question.
“Yes?”
“Why did you really not want me on this tour?” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “At the beginning. Was it really just about the professionalism thing?”
I should lie. Should give her the easy answer about workplace boundaries and appropriate behavior.
Instead, I tell her the truth.
“You scared me.”
Her eyebrows raise. “I scared you?”
“From the first day I saw you walk into our office, you scared me.” I run a hand through my hair, trying to find the right words. “You were so . . . unapologetic. So comfortable in your own skin. So ready to challenge everything I thought I knew about what’s appropriate or professional or right.”
“And that scared you?”
“Terrified me.” I meet her eyes again. “Because I knew—I think I knew even then—that you were going to upend my nice, settled, uncomplicated life.”
She’s very still, watching me.
“And I was right,” I continue. “You did. You made me question everything. Made me want things I thought I was too old for, too settled for, too—”
“Happy with your life?” she finishes, and there’s no bitterness in it. Just understanding.
“I thought I was.”
“And now?”
The question hangs between us. I could end this conversation, remind us both that she’s leaving.
Instead, I hold her gaze and let her see the truth.
“Now I’m not so sure.”
She draws in a sharp breath. Her hands grip the arms of the chair like she’s holding herself in place. Keeping herself from moving.
“We said professional only,” she whispers.
“We did.” But I don’t want her to go.
She doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
Izan sighs heavily from his bed, like he’s disgusted with both of us.
Jade breaks first, and looks away. I don’t want her to leave, and my stomach rumbles.
I pull out my phone and offer a compromise. “Why don’t we order food?”
Jade glances back at me, a little wary, a little hopeful.
But then she smiles. “Deal.” She joins me on the couch, kicks off her shoes, and tucks her feet underneath her.
There’s a little overlap of her knee to my thigh; once I hand her my phone for her to pick her food, I’m tempted to put my hand on her thigh, but I chicken out.
Instead, I scroll through the TV shows until we settle on an American crime procedural and the food arrives.
We dig in, and Izan gives Jade his best begging eyes for a few minutes, but her attention is rapt on the TV screen, and eventually he gives up and plops down next to the expensive memory foam dog bed—not on it. Next to it.
I’m full, and warm, and Jade’s thigh is pressed next to mine and Izan is snoring in the corner . . .
When I next open my eyes, it’s dark. The streaming service asks “are you still there?” and Izan still snores peacefully. I’m reclined, pressed into the corner of the couch, my arms wrapped around Jade. My arm rises and falls with her chest, her breath tickles my neck.
What woke me?
I listen, quieting my breathing and willing my heart rate to calm down, and ignore the fact that Jade is pressed against me. My erection is an entirely different matter, but it doesn’t make any noise.
A car honks.
My neighbor’s TV is a low hum.
“No,” Jade says just under my chin. The word is clear and firm, and a few seconds later it’s followed by a twitch and a gasp.
I pull away just enough to see her face. Her eyes are closed tight, a frown marring her face. “Jade?”
Her eyes snap open and something hits my chin hard.
“Oh shit,” Jade exclaims in English. “Carlos, are you okay?”
She looks up at me with wide eyes, her hands on her cheeks and her mouth making a perfect O in surprise.
I taste blood.
I sit up and Jade follows.
“I am so sorry. Carlos?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I assure her.
“I was having this dream where . . .” Her eyes widen even more and her hands fly to her head.
Her hair has been up in its usual ponytail all day, but now her hands scramble at it, pulling the band out that holds it up.
Her fingers comb quickly through her hair and she inspects what she can see of her hair, slightly sagging in relief.
My bitten lip forgotten, I drop my hand down to the couch and grip the cushion. “A dream where what?”
Jade looks at me and raises for a moment. “A dream where all my hair falls out. It doesn’t happen often, but it feels . . . very real.” Her lips tighten.
“Hey,” I say, and reach for her. She comes willingly to me, and I settle us back on the couch, side by side. My arm is under her neck, and curls up to her shoulder. I use my other hand to smooth her hair back and then to run my fingers through it.
Jade sighs, bone-deep, and relaxes into me.
We might not have consciously cuddled before, but now we are.
We stay like this for a long time, our breathing matching, while I play with her hair.
Just when I think I might never get tired of this, Jade squirms a little closer to me, and I’m reminded that my body really likes Jade being next to me.
I kiss the top of her head and then rest my chin on her forehead.
A few more heartbeats, and Jade nudges my chin with her nose.
My pulse picks up, my stomach tightens in anticipation. I think about all of the things I want to do right now, and every leap forward is subsumed in breathing Jade in.
Slowly, glacially, our faces align.
All it takes is one stuttered breath, one tilt of my face, and my lips are on hers. The kiss is delicate, almost painfully slow. I trace my fingers down from her hair to cup her cheek, and soften my lips more.
It builds like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I take my time easing my lips over hers, ignoring the way her mouth opens and her tongue teases.
I want to kiss her like this.
When I finally let the tip of my tongue touch hers, Jade groans, and then cuts her groan off abruptly and pushes me away.
“Are you . . . bleeding?” She squints at me.
I trace my tongue over the tender spot where I bit myself. I’d forgotten, but I can barely taste the iron anymore. “Shit. Yes. I’m sorry.”
I start to pull away but Jade grabs the back of my neck and pulls me back in for a hard kiss. “It’s my fault, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” It comes out ragged.
She smiles through the next kiss, and deepens it. Now they are slick and drugging kisses, and I roll slightly to be on top of her. I’m so tall that we don’t quite line up unless I try to, and right now, I don’t want to try.
It’ll all be over too quickly.
Jade must sense my intentions because she huffs in frustration, her hips tilting up looking for mine. I pull back and hover above her.
Her eyes open to half-lidded, and I think of a cat, though I’ve given her nothing to purr about yet. Her hair fans out on the couch cushion and her lips are kiss-swollen.
“There is a different way to think about this,” I whisper.
“A different way than trying to stay professional? We work together. I’m leaving soon. I get the idea that you don’t think we’re compatible in the bedroom.”
“That didn’t feel like we’re incompatible,” I point out. “But maybe leave the riding crop at home.”
Jade grins. “It’s not usually a first-date accessory anyway.
” She shifts a little and I slide off her to the side, wedging myself between her and the back of the couch.
“I haven’t been on a date in a while,” she admits.
“I mean, I haven’t even had a partnered orgasm in a while and the last one hardly counts anyways because I did all the work. ”
“It’s been a while for me too.”
Jade twists and shifts again, turning so that we’re facing each other. “How long is a long time?”
I face the ceiling and run a hand through my hair, thinking. “Fifteen years?”
Jade jackknifes up, scaring Izan who huffs from the floor, and looks down at me. “Fifteen years? Wait, wait, you mean a date, right?”
“No, I mean . . . partnered orgasms.”
Her eyes widen even further. “Carlos, when I said a long time, I meant like ten months. Fifteen years? My god, I would—” She cuts herself off and contemplates. “Sorry. I don’t know what I would do. And I didn’t mean to project onto you. If you’ve been . . . happy, then I guess that’s . . . fine.”
I chuckle in amusement, and then sit up and pull her closer to me. “I was happy.”
A smile curls her lips. “Was.”
“Yes.”