48. “Something changed with me.”
“SOMETHING CHANGED WITH ME.”
HALE
She pulled me through the door before I could say anything else.
The key card dropped somewhere, her bag hit the floor, and then her hands were on my face, my neck, pulling me down like she could not stand another inch of air between us.
I kissed her back the same way, with nearly four months of quiet rooms behind it.
Her skin was colder than I remembered. Her face sharper beneath my hands, her lips dry from months of recycled air and wind.
But she felt like Yasmine.
We stumbled backward together, neither of us leading. She hit the edge of the bed and sat hard, and I followed, knees on the mattress, her legs wrapping around me and pulling me in.
“Hale—”
“I know.”
“I can’t—”
I kissed her before she could finish.
We weren’t careful. We weren’t slow. Just hands, mouths, breath, closing distance that had nothing to do with miles.
Her nails dragged down my back. My mouth found her throat. She kept touching my face, even when I was inside her, like I couldn’t be trusted to really be here and she needed to keep checking I was.
I understood.
I’d been doing the same thing since she opened the door.
Her fingers dug into my shoulders like she had to put the months somewhere.
I let her be mad about it.
She said my name when she broke.
I followed a second later, my face pressed into her neck, breathing her in like I’d been underwater.
Afterward, we stayed tangled together, her hand moving slowly over my chest.
“How long have you been here?” she asked.
“Since yesterday.”
Her head lifted. “Yesterday?”
“Yeah. I didn’t know when you were getting in,” I said. “Just knew I needed to be here when you did.”
Her hand stilled. “Hale.”
“Hmm?”
“Your father.”
“He’s okay.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. Same as he was when you left.”
She exhaled. “Okay.”
“Nothing changed with him,” I said. “Something changed with me.”
She pushed up onto her elbow. Her eyes were red. Tired. Still the prettiest thing I’d seen in months.
“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me how you got here.”
“You sure?” I asked. “I don’t do short.”
She lay back. “I’m asking Hale Henry for a story. I have time.”
So I told her.
“I didn’t have a passport, so I drove to Dallas and convinced a woman behind bulletproof glass that I needed one faster than was reasonable.”
Her mouth curved. “Did you charm her?”
“Paid an extra fee.”
“So no.”
“I was charming while I paid it.”
She laughed and I felt it against my ribs.
“From there, Austin to Los Angeles,” I said. “Window seat.”
“On purpose?”
“Figured if I was going to do it, I ought to see it.”
The takeoff was something I still didn’t have words for. The acceleration pressing me back. The ground tilting away. The roads I’d spent my whole life driving shrinking into pencil marks beneath me.
“I’d never seen home small enough to hold in one look,” I said.
She listened.
“You trusted a machine you couldn’t fix?”
“Had somewhere to be.”
Her hand tightened over my chest.
“LAX was next,” I said. “Sat there a few hours watching people move through that airport like crossing oceans was regular, everyday behavior.”
“For some. If they’re lucky.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I’ve spent my whole life in one place. That’s not a bad thing.”
“No.”
“It was a good life. Just…small. I’d built the walls in too close, and by the time I noticed, I was used to keeping them there. Then you left.”
She lifted her head.
“I’m going to make it bigger,” I said. “For you. And for me. Mostly for me.”
“What changed?” she asked, quiet.
“My father told me to go.”
Her brow pulled together. “He knew?”
“No.” I swallowed. “He didn’t know he was talking to me. Didn’t know he was talking about himself.”
I told her about the park. The chess game.
“And he told you to go?” she asked.
“He told me my father would want me to. I’ve been telling myself I stayed because he needed me. Some of that was true.”
“But?”
“I was scared,” I said. “You saw it before I did. I’d made my world smaller than it needed to be.”
“What?”
“The study. That first night at the farmhouse. You said my life didn’t make sense.”
“Hale,” she whispered, “I’m sorry, that wasn’t—”
“No. You were right, in a way.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know, but I’d gotten too comfortable standing still.” I held her gaze. “You were the reason I wanted to leave. And you’re the reason I want to come home.”
Her breath caught, and she kissed me again, slower this time, like she was making sure. When she pulled back, her eyes were wet.
“You told me you loved me at the airport,” I said. “I heard you.”
“I know, I was there.”
“I should have said it back.”
“Hale,” she smiled. “I knew.”
“Still should have said it.” My hand tightened around hers. “I love you, Yasmine.”
The breath that left her shook on the way out.
I kissed her forehead.
Then her cheek.
Then her mouth.
“Ten days,” she said.
“Ten days.”
“I don’t want to waste any of them.”
“We won’t.”
“Promise?”
“I crossed an ocean.”
Her laugh broke through the tears. “And a whole day. You lost a Tuesday.”
I was quiet long enough that her smile slipped.
“Yeah,” I said. “That one cost me.”
“Hale...”
“I know.” I pulled her closer. “I’d still come.”
“Okay,” she said, and let me keep the choice as mine.
She settled against my chest.
“What do you want to do first?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I’ve been doing things for four months.” Her arms tightened around me. “Just stay still.”
So I did.