Page 58 of ClickBack

Between programs, she scrolls past a thumbnail of a man standing in front of a city at night. Her finger stops, then moves again.

“Not tonight.”

She selects another reunion. I shift to make room when she draws her feet onto the couch.

“Byron hated these,” she says. “Said they were foolish.”

“What do you say?”

“That they are frequently foolish.” She adjusts the throw over her lap. “I still enjoy them.”

“Good. Because I need to know whether that woman takes him back.”

“You don’t want me to tell you what I think.”

“I want to see if you’re right.”

She settles against me with the remote. I stay awake through a disagreement about hotel rooms, an apology nobody accepts, and a break for a preview that tells me almost nothing. By the time the show comes back, Giselle is asleep on my arm.

I watch the rest anyway. In the morning, she’s going to ask.

Chapter 10

Giselle

By ten thirty, the kitchen counter is clean enough to receive company of its own. I have wiped it twice, straightened a stack of mail I need to open, and checked my phone without having sent the message I want answered.

Zion is at Rae’s. Nobody is coming through the door wanting a ride or asking where I put something they left in plain sight. I could go upstairs, get into bed, and enjoy the house to myself.

I want Jarrett in it.

I put down the cloth and pick up my phone.

Me: If I dropped my pin, would you come pick it up?

Jarrett: Drop it, Beautiful.

The man has had dinner delivered here. He knows the address. I send the pin anyway and go upstairs for the shorts I washed this morning.

He arrives with a duffel.

“That better not be an overnight bag,” I tell him.

“Airport. Six a.m. Toronto meeting.” He looks down at my shorts, then back at me. “I had to pack before I forgot what I was doing.”

“Are you going to blame me if you miss your flight?”

“Depends how good an excuse you give me.”

I let him in before the neighbors get the rest of the conversation. At the stairs, he kisses me, and I catch his shirt with both hands. I have spent the evening remembering him. The actual man is warm from outside, smiling against me, and willing to stand there while I make up my mind to let him go.

“Upstairs,” I say.

“I was following you.”

“Then keep up.”

In the bedroom, he sets the bag beside my dresser and studies the bed.