Long Ball(67)

I grab the back of his neck, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss. The way he kisses spreads warmth to every part of my body. Consuming, demanding, insistent. This could be the last kiss of my life and that would be fine by me.

He breaks away and grabs the sheet before it falls away completely, covering my skin again. “Okay, you are trouble.” He shakes his head and bites his lip, pressing one last soft kiss to my mouth. “If I don’t leave right now, I’m going to be late.”

What will he be late for? I don’t ask.

He takes a step away and turns back, pulling out his phone. “You should give me your phone number or email address.”

Oh, I want to. I’d love to see Dylan again, spend more time with him, but that feels more like overindulging in something decadent and ultimately bad for my health. I forget myself when I’m with him and I have obligations. Besides, what future do we really have?

I take a breath. “Every minute I’ve spent with you has been amazing. But it’s not like we’re going to be bumping into each other a lot. I think we should move on and leave this as a vacation fling for you, and a wild goodbye to Chicago for me.”

Dylan’s little smile is sad. “You’re probably right. We won’t even be living in the same state.” He tucks his phone away and we stand awkwardly for a moment.

I hate that I’m disappointed that he didn’t push further. But it’s the best thing. It’s the right thing.

It’s the easier thing, too, in the long run.

I want to know where he lives, but the less I know, the easier it will be to forget him—though I don’t think I’ll ever really forget him.

“I’ll walk you to the door.” A flash of out of place silver catches my attention on the way through the kitchen. “Oh, your shades.” I grab them from the counter and hold them out.

He takes them, opens the arms and slides the sunglasses onto my face, lightly tapping the tip of my nose. “Keep them. They look better on you.” With that, he turns and leaves my apartment.

I lean against the door and let the strange sorrow settle over me. This was a perfect way to end my life in Chicago—by trying on someone else’s and doing something fun and completely out of character. A wild goodbye.

Odd that this adventure has also made leaving much sadder than it was before.



As much as I want to focus on the future, thoughts of Dylan capture me the whole flight to Boston a couple days later. To stave off the mid-flight chill, and hide my hickeys, I wore a scarf—the same one he’d tied my hands with. I cross my legs, too aware of the throbbing between my legs that will never be relieved.

I should have taken his number.

For what? We have no future together; it’s better I didn’t take his contact information. Look at what happened—two days in his presence and he had me doing things in public. The best part—or the worst, depending on how I choose to look at it—I don’t even feel bad about it.

No, I can’t have his number. I’d call him. And he’s far too tempting, the type of guy who doesn’t help with goals, the type of guy who distracts, and I’ve worked too hard to let that happen. This way, he’ll always be the perfect memory of the time I went a little wild before knuckling down. A memory that will put a sparkle in my eye when I’m eighty that makes the grandkids wonder what I’m thinking about.

I hope.

I flip through the inflight magazine, focusing on nothing, memories of him drifting in and out of my head. We’re midway through the flight before I finally sigh and decide to put Dylan behind me once and for all.

Well, maybe not once and for all.

I plug earphones into my phone and take advantage of the airline’s Wi-Fi to search for a song. Dylan never told me the title, but I know the band’s name is Fallen Angels. I want to hear it again—hear the soundtrack that is Dylan—so badly that I’ll listen to their whole album.

Or both their albums, I see as I load up the bands website. They have two. I skim the front page, looking for the buy links and gleaning some info as I do. They’re a newer band. Hugely successdful. Their first album went gold, then double platinum. Then they released the next album. Currently they’re on a world tour with a few stops in America.

They played Chicago the night before last. Which seems oddly coincidental and I wonder if that’s why Dylan was in town. Then half a second later I know it was why he was in town.

My fingers freeze their scrolling and my heart pounds loudly in my ears. Because in the middle of the page I find a picture of the band—five tattooed, rocker guys.

And Dylan is the frontman.

Holy shit.

In a slow motion slideshow, memories flash through my mind.

The guy fistbumping Dylan at the bar.

Dylan asking if Alex was the fan when I told him she was the one who really bought him the drink.

The way he evaded my pressing when I said he had a great voice when he sang in my apartment.

The looks he got when we went to Millennium Park—it wasn’t because people were judging him for his appearance.

His acceptance of my lack of interest in personal details about him—he was probably relieved I wasn’t prying like everyone else.

The big shades he wore that are now on my head.

How the operator of Tilt looked the other way when Dylan broke the rules by standing behind me, and then took me to the stairwell.