Chapter 21
Iexpected a lot of things to happen today. Getting a text from her wasn’t one of them.
Kitten:
Hey, do you have plans for today? There’s something I’d like to show you.
I read it three times—four, if I’m honest.
Me:
Not a thing planned, so you’ve perfect timing.
Her reply lands before I’ve time to blink. A pinned location, a few lines of instruction.
Kitten:
It’s about a three-block walk. June and I are sharing a room, so it’s probably best if we meet there. Wear something warm and a hat if you have one. See you in thirty minutes?
Thirty minutes. Christ above. That’s nowhere near enough time to get myself together.
Me:
I’ll be there, lass.
I toss the phone on the bed and stare at the open suitcase like it might suddenly grow something decent to wear.
All I’ve packed is training gear. Track pants, kits, things made for sweat, not her eyes.
After a bit of rummaging, I settle on the only thing that passes for normal: black sweats, black T-shirt, black hoodie. Simple, safe, grand.
No hat, though. Brilliant, Gallagher.
Me:
You’ve a hat I can borrow?
Thiago answers quick as ever.
Thiago:
Yeah, do you need it? I can swing by. I’m heading out to lunch with a few of the guys.
Me:
Room 823.
Thiago:
See you in ten, champ.
I head into the bathroom and crank the water till it stings.
Steam fogs the mirror while I scrub like a madman, as if I can wash the nerves off.
What in God’s name is she planning? A walk?
Coffee? A talk I’m not ready for? I’ve faced full stadiums screaming my name and never felt this kind of flutter in my gut.
By the time I step out, towel slung low on my hips, there’s a knock at the door.
“Hold on,” I mutter, tightening the towel before opening up.
Thiago stands there grinning, baseball cap in hand. One look at me and he bursts out laughing.
“Hermano, you answer the door like that on purpose? Trying to start rumors?”
“Feck off,” I say, grabbing the hat. “Cheers.”
Before I can shut the door, he glances down the hall and lights up.
“Catalina! You going out, girl?”
My stomach drops.
She’s right there, coming down the corridor, dressed casual but radiant all the same. Her eyes widen when she spots me half naked, color blooming high on her cheeks. Sweet Jaysus.
Thiago, oblivious as ever, keeps chatting. “We’re heading to lunch. You two wanna join?”
“I've plans,” I say, too quick.
“Same here,” she adds, still looking at me with that shy, guilty little smile. “But I’ll see you guys later.”
She waves and keeps walking, and I watch till she turns the corner.
Thiago smirks. “Ah, plans, huh? Interesting.”
“Thanks for the hat, kid. I’ll bring it back later.”
I shut the door before he can add another word, then hear him call out for Catalina to hold the lift.
Leaning back against the door, I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
Deodorant. Bit of cologne. Hoodie on. Hair refuses to behave, but at this point, I look as if I’m pretending not to care, close enough. Wallet, phone, keys. Right so.
I’ve no business feeling this nervous. It’s just a girl, just a walk, but nothing about her has ever felt simple.
I pace the room once, twice, maybe three times before forcing myself out the door. Hat in hand.
Toward Sixty-ninth and Second.
I spot her before she spots me.
She’s on the corner, head down, thumbs flying over her phone. Black sweats, black trainers, a worn Backstreet Boys tee, beige trench that catches the light each time a cab goes past. Backpack over one shoulder, black hat pulled low, hair loose and soft around her face.
And Christ above, she’s the only thing that matters on the whole street.
People swarm by, some with dogs, some with coffees, all lost in their own little worlds.
Then she looks up.
A small smile, just for me. Subtle and deadly.
“Just in time,” she says, waving me on.
I follow.
We cross with the crowd, the city humming, and she heads down the stairs into the underground. The air changes—damp, metallic, alive.
At the turnstile, she scans her phone, and the gate clicks open. She nods for me to go first. I hesitate half a heartbeat, then push through. She follows, gliding beside me like she’s done this a thousand times.
“Come on,” she says. “We’re taking the Q. It’s almost here.”
She moves as if she knows every inch of the place. I trail after, trying not to look like a tourist. It’s loud and fast and confusing as hell but thrilling all the same.
Another set of stairs, deeper still. The train roars in as we hit the platform. She grabs a pole and steps inside like she owns the car. I follow, half awe, half survival.
Toward the back where it’s quiet, she drops into a seat.
“Hat,” she says, nodding at the one in my hand.
I put it on, still catching my breath.
She stares for a moment, then bursts out laughing.
“What?”
“I said to wear a hat so you’d blend in,” she says, eyes bright. “I think a Strikers logo might do the opposite.”
I reach up, feel the raised stitching under my thumb, and groan.
“It’s all I had,” I add. “Don’t usually wear hats. Thiago lent me this one.”
She laughs, reaches up, and swaps the hat for her own. She loosens the strap, tugs it down over my hair, and tilts her head, pleased with herself.
“Much better,” she says softly, close enough that her perfume hits me square in the chest. “May I take a picture?”
I nod, trying not to show how rattled I am. She snaps one and turns the screen toward me. Her hat’s black, and in white cursive on the front it reads Boss Babe.
I can’t help it, I laugh loud enough to turn a few heads. She just beams wider.
“Nobody cares what you wear here. I just don’t want you recognized. You should be able to enjoy this properly.”
I look at her, my chest doing that maddening thing again. “And where are we going, then?”
She grins, eyes glinting with mischief. “We’re going to have a really, really good hot dog.”
Half an hour later, we’re still on the same train. People have come and gone. Students, suits, tourists, but she’s been steady beside me, scrolling, humming under her breath.
Stops flash by. Times Square, Union Square, Prince Street, Canal.
Then the car tilts hard left, sharp enough to send my stomach south. Rails shriek, and it feels like we’re about to fly off the bloody track. I grab the pole nearest me, holding tight.
She doesn’t even blink.
“This means we’re nearly crossing into Brooklyn,” she says, calm. Then she nods toward the far end. “Come on. Let’s move, you’ll want to see this.”
She stands, trench brushing my knee, and moves a few seats down. I follow, clumsy as a first-year.
The car’s nearly empty now. She steps up by the doors, one hand on the rail, and I take the spot just behind her. The ceiling bar’s too low, so I end up holding the one right above her head.
She’s tiny beside me but somehow fills every inch of space. Her perfume drifts up, something warm, clean, and sweet, and it’s driving me half mad. I want to close the distance, breathe her in, but I don’t. I can’t. Not yet.
If she asked me to follow her off this train and into the sea, I think I would.
Then the darkness breaks. Light floods the car, and the city explodes open. All around us, the city thunders past, but it feels like it’s only the two of us breathing. The Brooklyn Bridge stretches ahead, golden in the afternoon sun.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she says.
“Aye,” I murmur. “It is.”
But what I’m really watching is her reflection in the glass, soft, golden, alive.
“I’ve always wanted to walk across it,” I say quietly. “You can still do that, right?”
“Oh yeah,” she says, turning toward me. “It’s a big tourist stop.”
She catches me still standing close, arms braced around her like I’m built to shield her, and something flickers in her eyes.
I ease back a step. She slips into the seat again, her coat brushing my arm as she passes.
I sit opposite, just watching. God help me, watching her might be my favorite thing.
“Are we almost there?” I ask.
“Another fifteen minutes or so.”
I glance up at the map, tracing the dots.
“Are we going to … Coney Island?”
And she smiles, slow and dangerous, the kind of smile that could ruin a man in one heartbeat.
And I know, without a doubt, I’m already past the point of return.