Chapter Twenty-Four
Jackson stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, willing himself to get a grip.
“Come on, man,” he said, glaring at himself. “Just get it together and go back up there.”
The problem was, he was crying like a baby.
He hadn’t cried—at all—since the funeral of his mother ten years earlier. Before that, the last time he’d cried was when he was sixteen and his father had died after a short, terrible battle with lung cancer.
He knew, on some level, that what he was feeling now was wrapped up in that loss, at least a little bit.
It felt like reliving the worst moments of his life.
And of course knowing that a woman he’d just met was dying wasn’t remotely the same as suddenly losing his father at such a young age.
But he already cared for her, deeply. He hadn’t even realized just how much he felt until she’d delivered her news, and it had seemed as if the bottom had dropped out from beneath him.
He hated himself a little for the way he’d just abruptly stood from the table and hurried off, but he didn’t want her to see him cry.
And it wasn’t because he was embarrassed, at least not entirely. The issue was more that he knew he didn’t have the right to that depth of pain when it came to her. And what kind of a support system could he possibly provide if she delivered news of a diagnosis dry-eyed and he burst into tears?
But she hadn’t seen him cry—and she wouldn’t. He’d be sure of that. He wiped his eyes, took a deep breath, and then turned on the faucet to splash a bit of water on his face. He dried off with a paper towel and then, giving himself one last look of warning in the mirror, he headed for the door.
He climbed the stairs back to the bar slowly, giving himself a pep talk on the way. Right now, she needs your support. You’ve got to put your own issues to the side. The thing he’d actually come here to do—telling her the truth about who he really was—was now the furthest thing from his mind.
Besides, even though she seemed convinced that it was the end of the road for her, what if it wasn’t? What if there were strings he could pull that could help her?
He emerged into the bar, forcing himself to smile bravely. He could do this. He could be strong for her.
But then he realized that the table they’d shared just moments ago was empty. He scanned the bar quickly, dread rising in his chest, but she was nowhere to be seen. He locked eyes with the bartender, who shook his head and walked over.
“She left a minute ago,” the bartender said, and without missing a beat, Jackson ran for the door and looked up and down the street. But there was no sign of Julia, and he knew she was gone and that he’d screwed it all up, perhaps irrevocably.
Deflated, he turned around and headed back into the bar.
“You okay, mate?” the bartender asked.
“I’m an idiot,” Jackson said. “Did she… Did she look very upset?”
The bartender hesitated. “She didn’t look happy.”
Jackson cursed to himself. “Okay. Okay.” He pulled out his phone and realized instantly that while he had given her his number, she had never given him hers.
He cursed again and then looked back at the bartender, who was watching him with concern. “The thing is, I think I’m falling in love with her,” he said, and the bartender raised his eyebrows. “But I might have just lost her.”
“Go after her, then, mate.”
“Yeah,” Jackson said, already heading for the door once again. “I will. Thanks, man.”
Jackson started off walking toward Julia’s hotel, but after a half block, he broke into a jog, earning stares from several passersby.
There was something liberating about being gawked at for doing something strange as opposed to being recognized, though, and as he ran, he basked in the anonymity of being simply an American without manners in a city that prided itself on decorum.
He scanned the streets as he went, but no Julia. He was panting by the time he yanked open the door to her hotel five minutes later and hurled himself at the front desk. The man at reception stared at him as he caught his breath.
“I’m looking for Julia Glover,” he managed to say. He really needed to start getting back to the gym for cardio.
“She is a guest here?” the man asked in perfect English.
“Yes. I don’t know her room number, though.”
The man consulted his computer. “Let me ring her.” He dialed the phone and waited for several beats before shaking his head. “I’m afraid she isn’t answering, sir.”
“Did you see her come back? Beautiful woman, short, dark hair, the most dazzling smile you’ve ever seen?”
The man smiled slightly. “She sounds lovely, sir, but I haven’t seen her.”
Jackson slumped. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”
“Forgive me for asking, but are you Jackson Quick?”
Jackson blinked a few times, thrown by being recognized. He had forgotten, for a few minutes at least, that he was anything but a man on a mission to win back the woman he was falling in love with. “Oh. Yes. I am.”
The man’s smile broadened. “I’m a big fan, sir. Big fan. I’m coming to your show tomorrow.”
“Oh, um, thank you.”
“Shall I tell Madame Glover that you stopped by?”
“No. Please don’t.” The last thing he needed was the hotel clerk sharing his identity before Jackson had a chance to do so himself.
“All right, sir. Mum’s the word.”
“Thanks.” And with that, Jackson headed back out the door, already moving toward the river.
He broke into a jog again, heading first to the bookstands along the Seine and then to the pedestrian bridge they’d lingered on the day before, but she was in neither place.
He checked Notre Dame and then swung by the café across the river from the church—Café Le Petit Pont—because he remembered her mentioning that her daughter was interested in a waiter who worked there.
But there was no sign of Julia—or, for that matter, of a twentysomething woman who might be her daughter.
He racked his brain; had she told him where she was going to dinner?
She hadn’t, and as he stood on the street corner outside the café, he looked helplessly around.
In his direct sightline were at least six dining establishments; there were thousands more throughout the city.
Trying to find her tonight would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.
Finally, he trudged back to her hotel. She and her daughter would return here eventually; they’d have to.
Smiling halfheartedly at the front desk manager who’d recognized him earlier, he pulled his baseball cap from his back pocket, hoping for some degree of anonymity, and settled onto the small sofa in the lobby to wait.
Russ finally found his phone just past three in the morning, after he’d come home from a lousy night at Le Maison Grog and had turned his apartment upside down looking for it.
It was dead and had slipped between two cushions of the couch; his best guess was that it had fallen out the night before when he was making out with Shelby, before they’d moved to the bed.
He plugged it in, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for it to power on.
Finally, his backdrop—a picture of him with his mum and dad, taken three years ago when he was last home in Oz—loaded, followed by a dozen notifications of new messages, emails, and voicemails.
He swiped over to his voicemail inbox, realized he had a message from Shelby, and pushed play immediately, the smile fading from his face as she began to speak.
He replayed the message twice, just in case he’d misunderstood. But he hadn’t. Her words were clear. She was thanking him for showing her a good time and telling him that there was no future for them.
His head throbbed. There was a part of him that wanted to call her back and fight for her.
But it was the middle of the night, and if she was trying to break things off with him, she probably wouldn’t appreciate being woken up.
So what then? A grand gesture? Should he show up to her hotel and tell her how he felt?
But he didn’t even know where she was staying.
Confused and hurt, he finally settled for a text message, reasoning that she’d probably turned her notifications off before bed.
Shelby, I just got your message. I’m really sorry—I’d left my phone at home. I know it doesn’t make any sense. I know we live on two continents. I know you’re in the middle of something complicated. But I thought there was something between us, anyhow. Can we talk?
His finger hovered over the send button for a second as he considered, but then, before he could second-guess himself, he pressed it, sending the text zinging across Paris. When no answer came, he lay down in bed, hoping that tomorrow there would be a return message from Shelby.
Four hours later, as dawn began filtering in, Russ was still awake, staring at the ceiling. And there’d been no answer to his text.