Chapter 4 — James #2
I'm still working on it when I pull into the parking lot.
Her car is there. Third row from the entrance. Which means she's here. Which means I can't back out now.
I walk to the lobby and ask the front desk for her room number.
The kid working the desk gives me a skeptical look. "I can't give out guest room numbers."
"Can you call her room and tell her James Callahan is here to see her?"
He considers this, then picks up the phone.
I wait, my heart doing things it has no business doing.
"Ms. Holt?" The kid's voice is professionally neutral. "There's a James Callahan here to see you. Should I send him up?"
There's a pause, and I can't hear what she's saying, but I can see the kid's expression shift.
"She says she'll be right down," he tells me.
I wasn't expecting that.
I move to the lobby seating area and try to look like I'm not completely out of my depth. Like I show up at women's hotel rooms unannounced on a regular basis.
The elevator dings.
Tess steps out, and my breath catches.
She's wearing sleep clothes, soft pants and a t-shirt that's slightly too big. Her hair is down, loose around her shoulders. Her face is bare of makeup. She looks tired and beautiful and I want to pull her into my arms and tell her I'm sorry for every moment I've wasted being too careful.
She walks over to where I'm standing, and I can see the wariness in her eyes.
"James. What are you doing here?"
"We need to talk."
"We tried that. It didn't go well."
"I know. That's my fault." I take a breath. "Can we go somewhere? Your room, or my truck, or—"
"My room is fine."
She turns and heads back to the elevator, and I follow.
We ride up in silence. She doesn't look at me. I can feel the tension radiating off her, can see the way she's holding herself, like she's bracing for impact.
Her room is on the third floor. She unlocks the door and I follow her inside.
It's generic. Beige and impersonal. Her laptop is open on the desk, assessment files spread around it. Her bag is by the door.
She turns to face me, crossing her arms. "What do you want, James?"
This is it. This is where I either find the words or I lose her.
"I want to tell you why I didn't have an answer earlier," I say. "When you asked what I wanted."
"Okay."
"It wasn't because I don't know. It's because I've spent my entire adult life being careful with what I say. With what I feel. And the idea of telling you what I actually want terrifies me."
Her expression doesn't change. "Why?"
"Because what if you don't want the same thing? What if I say it and you tell me I'm wrong? What if—" I stop, make myself look at her directly. "What if I tell you I've been half in love with you for fourteen years and you tell me it was just sex?"
The silence that follows is heavy enough to crush me.
Tess stares at me, her arms still crossed, her expression unreadable.
"Say that again," she says finally.
"Which part?"
"The part about being in love with me."
My heart is pounding hard enough that I can feel it in my throat.
"I've thought about you every day for fourteen years.
I've compared every woman I've dated to an eight-week relationship I had when I was thirty-four, and none of them have ever been you.
When you walked into my station yesterday, it felt like everything I'd been missing just walked back into my life.
And when we had sex in my truck, it wasn't just physical for me.
It was—" I stop, struggling for words. "It was everything. "
Tess's eyes are very bright.
"You left," she says, and her voice is rough. "Fourteen years ago, you let me go. You said the timing was wrong. You said—"
"I said a lot of things that I've regretted ever since.
" I take a step closer. "I was thirty-four and you were twenty and I convinced myself that the age gap mattered more than the connection.
I convinced myself that letting you go was the mature choice.
And I've spent fourteen years wishing I'd been brave enough to ask you to stay. "
"And now?"
"Now you're thirty-four and I'm forty-eight, and the gap doesn't matter anymore. Now I know exactly what I'm walking away from if I let you leave tomorrow. And I don't think I can do it again."
She's still watching me, still guarded, but something in her expression is shifting.
"What are you asking me, James?"
"I'm asking if you feel anything close to what I feel. I'm asking if there's any chance you'd be willing to try this. Actually try this, not just—" I gesture helplessly. "Not just have sex in the back of my truck and then pretend it didn't mean anything."
"It meant something to me," she says quietly.
"Yeah?"
"I wouldn't have—" She stops, takes a breath. "I don't do casual. I don't have sex with people unless it means something. And you—" Her voice breaks slightly. "You've always meant something."
The words hit me like a punch to the chest.
"Then why did you leave?" I ask.
"Because I was scared. Because at twenty you broke my heart and I've spent fourteen years trying to convince myself I was over it.
And yesterday when you touched me, I realized I'm not over it.
I'm not over you. And the thought of getting hurt like that again—" She wraps her arms tighter around herself. "I didn't think I'd survive it."
I close the distance between us and take her face in my hands.
"I'm not going to hurt you," I say. "Not again. Not if you give me a chance to get this right."
"How do I know that?"
"Because I'm telling you. Because I'm here, in your hotel room, saying all the things I should have said fourteen years ago. Because I'm forty-eight years old and I've spent a decade being too controlled and too alone, and I don't want to be alone anymore. I want you."
Her eyes search my face, and I can see her trying to decide whether to believe me.
"I'm scared," she says finally.
"Me too."
"What if it doesn't work?"
"Then at least we'll know. We won't have to spend another fourteen years wondering."
She's quiet for a long moment, and I can feel the exact second she makes her decision.
She reaches up and covers my hands with hers.
"Okay," she says.
"Okay?"
"Let's try. Let's actually try this."
The relief that floods through me is strong enough that I have to close my eyes for a second.
When I open them, she's smiling. Small, tentative, but real.
I kiss her.
It's different from the kiss in the bay, different from the frantic heat in my truck. This is slow, deliberate, full of everything I've been trying to say and couldn't find words for.
When we break apart, she's breathing hard.
"Stay," she says. "Tonight. Stay with me."
"Are you sure?"
"I've been sure about you since I was twenty years old. I just needed you to be sure too."
I pull her close and hold her, and it feels like the first deep breath I've taken in fourteen years.
"I'm sure," I tell her. "I'm completely sure."