Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
Dice
You’re worth every hard good-bye.
Rayne answers my knock. One look at me, and she offers a consoling arm squeeze before stepping aside. “Lot’s in her room.”
I nod, drop her duffel bag on the floor, and head down the hall.
The door’s ajar. She’s on the bed, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them.
The gold bracelet gleams on her wrist. My mix is playing.
I tap lightly on the wood. Her head turns at the sound.
Our eyes lock, and my heart punches slow and hard behind my ribs.
She stands. Queenie follows, slinking around my ankles before she strolls from the room like she knows this is it.
“Hey,” Lot says.
“Hey.”
We don’t move at first, simply staring at each other, so much beating between us. Everything said… and not said. Her beautiful eyes are rimmed pink, like maybe she already cried. I hate that I wasn’t here to hold her when she did.
But I’m here now.
I cross the room in three strides and pull her in. She comes willingly, hands fisting the back of my hoodie. Mine circle her waist, feeling the way she fits against me. My lungs fill with her scent, clenching to breathe in warm vanilla and coconut.
“I hate saying goodbye,” she whispers. “I didn’t want it to be this hard.”
I reach up, lifting her face to trace her jaw, the curve of her cheekbone. “You’re worth every hard goodbye.”
A tear rolls down her cheek. I catch it with my thumb, but another follows. And another.
“Shit.” She lets out a watery laugh. “I wasn’t gonna do this with you.”
“We said we’d be real.”
“This is too real.”
There’s a lump in my throat, jagged and cutting, that doesn’t allow for words. I just hold her tight, as if I can absorb her into my skin.
When Toni Braxton’s achy song, “Un-Break My Heart,” comes on, I move my lips to hers. A kiss steeped in grief, in heat, in something deeper. Something unnamed, unclaimed, but there.
I close the door and we undress each other without speaking. Our eyes and hands are louder than the silence. But it’s not rushed. Not wild. Not teasing. It’s just… us.
We fall to the bed, and I gather her beneath me, our arms and legs intertwined. When I slide inside her, it’s slow. Sacred. My whole body responds—my heart, my soul, every part of me she’s touched.
We move together. Our breaths are sighs. Our moans are like confessions. Her mouth finds mine, soft and open. When she comes, her body quivers, my name on her lips like a song I never want to end. It shreds me. I pour out my release, leaving a piece of myself inside her.
Shattered, we hold on to each other long after the tremors fade. Our cheeks pressed together, skin damp, tears shared in the dark.
“Don’t go,” she whispers. “Stay the night.”
She didn’t have to ask.
We catch snippets of sleep. Wake up. Make love again. Always holding on like we can stop time from tearing us apart.
But when the alarm sounds, it does.
Lot whips around, frantic and irritated.
Not enough sleep and she forgot to pack some things under the bathroom sink.
That jolts me out of my depressive thoughts and into action.
I help her gather up the last-minute items. Charge her phone.
I scramble an egg for Queenie—hiding the cat sedative—and load Lot’s bags into the trunk.
Once the meds kick in, we get a stoned Queenie into the carrier, and I buckle her in the back seat for the long drive.
Rayne slides behind the wheel, leaving Lot and me on the sidewalk.
“Don’t forget me,” she says, half teasing.
“Never.” And God knows I tried before. “Text when you land.”
“I will.” She looks up at me through her fringe of lashes. “Guess this is it, then.”
I don’t want it to be. But I don’t say that. Instead, I draw her to me, burying my face in her neck. She grabs on too. We’re both shaking. Christ, I’m gonna miss her so fucking much.
“We might have to count this down, Jones,” she whispers, trying to smile. “On three, we let go.”
“Make it ten.”
We hug harder while she counts. Slowly. At ten, we let go. Hell if I know how I managed it.
I open the car door for her. She kisses me. Quick. Final. Heartbreaking.
“Later, Jones.”
“Later, Web.”
And then she’s gone.
I just stand there, watching the taillights disappear. Still not moving when they do. For minutes. For a goddamn eternity.
The morning birds chirp like nothing’s changed, but everything has. I feel gutted. Like someone carved me open and scooped out everything that mattered.
Why the fuck did I let her go like that?
I’m the one who said I wanted us to be real.
But I wasn’t. Not even close.
I didn’t say what I should’ve. What I wanted to say. I held back, hiding behind long stares and soft touches instead of calling it what it is.
Because I was too damned scared.
Of loving her.
Of failing her.
Of not being the kind of man that can make a relationship work.
And yeah, scared that maybe I’d put it out there and she wouldn’t feel the same.
All excuses. I know that. And the longer I stare down the empty street, the more the truth eats through the bullshit.
I can’t let her leave again without telling her how I really feel.
Fuck fear. Fuck living with regret. I’m doing this.
I check the time. Rayne’s house to O’Hare? Ninety-six minutes. Give or take. I sprint to the car, nerves and excitement riding alongside me.
Traffic’s jammed up as I near Chicago. The expressway is packed as far as I can see. I cut off two drivers. One gives me the stink eye, the other the finger, but I make it to the airport in record time.
Now, which terminal? Checking the options, I find that all domestic flights depart out of 1, 2, and 3. I try calling Lot, and it goes straight to voicemail. I take a wild guess, park in short-term, and bolt to Terminal 2.
Please let this be the right one.
I run through the sliding doors, chest heaving, eyes scanning the crowd. Suits. Backpacks. All a blur. No sign of Lot’s walk I’d know anywhere.
She’s already got a fifteen-minute lead.
I dart to the departures board, dodging a stroller and some guy’s saxophone case. So many cities. Too many flights. Okay, okay. New York. JFK or LaGuardia? There are two departures around ten. She lives in Brooklyn. I Google it fast, only to find out it could be either.
I go with JFK. I can’t explain why. Call it gut instinct or blind faith. Whatever it is, my feet are already moving. The flight leaves in forty-five minutes at 10:08. Terminal 3, Concourse K. I follow the signs. Thankfully, no train is needed. Just a walk. In my case, a mad dash.
I keep my eyes peeled for Lot as I skirt around the travelers, narrowing my focus, adrenaline surging. I reach security. Lines stretch like mazes as TSA barks instructions. I don’t see her.
Did I guess wrong? Do I backtrack? Do I just wait and say what I have to say over the phone? No, I need to see her. In person. Look her in the eye. And then—
There she is.
Far line. Gold clips and mahogany locs. Jacket over one arm, Queenie’s carrier in her other hand.
My heart lurches.
“Boarding pass, sir?” the agent asks, stopping me from going any farther.
“I don’t have a flight,” I say quickly. “It’s important that I catch up with someone in line.”
“I can’t let you in without a boarding pass.” Her tone invites no debate. “You’re going to have to step aside.”
I’m too close to back off now. This agent isn’t going to budge and if I shout for Lot and pull her out, she could miss her flight. Not doing that.
I pivot, finding the shortest line at the nearest airline desk, and book a one-way flight just to get inside. Then I rush back with a boarding pass in hand. The agent waves me in.
Lot’s going through security now. I’m so close. I weave around the waiting passengers to get to the front. “Sorry, urgent matter.”
Some grumble, but most let me butt ahead.
I dump my phone in the bin. Almost there. But the metal detector flags me. I forgot the damn watch. The agent motions me to the side. He waves the body wand, then clears me.
I take off running, only slowing down when I catch sight of her sitting at the gate with Queenie beside her. I work to regain my breath, to calm the rapid pounding in my heart.
She pulls out her phone. And mine vibrates in my hand, Web lighting up the screen.
“Hi?” I answer, still breathless.
“I saw that you called. Missing me already?”
“You have no idea.” I take a step forward. “Look up, Web.”
“Why?” she asks, even as she does it.
Her eyes land on me and her mouth falls open.