Mists of the Serengeti(87)

You’ve ruined me, Jack. But it’s okay. I’m good, I’m well, I’m freaking magical. But you want to know something pathetic? I’ve subscribed to all kinds of flight alerts. Every time the price drops on airfares to Tanzania, I get a notification. And every time, I stare at the screen, a click away from getting on a plane so I can see your face again. Because I miss you. Because, so what if you didn’t invite me? So what if the memory of me is starting to fade?

That’s usually the point I tell myself you’re a shithead, Jack. How could you let me go? How could you just go along with this no-contact bullshit and not fall apart like I do? So many times a day. Yup. You’re a shithead, Jack. I hate that I miss you. Summer is here, and it’s warm and beautiful, and I miss you. I miss you so much.

I held the photo to my chest and closed my eyes. Some circles never close, some wounds never heal. Love is like that. It leaves you forever open, forever vulnerable.

I took a deep breath and got up. It was time to move on, time to open the door and allow myself other possibilities, even though sometimes at night, if I listened closely, I could hear my heart saying Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack.





JEREMY EVANS ARRIVED early for our dinner date. The doorbell rang while I was drying my hair, upside down. I flipped it back, ran my fingers through it, and went downstairs to get the door.

“Hello, Rodel.” It wasn’t Jeremy. It was Andy, the estate agent through whom I’d bought the cottage. He’d called to offer his condolences on Mo’s demise, but I had not seen him since I’d returned from Tanzania. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d pop in, see how things are going. Everything all right with the house?”

“Yes, thanks. Everything’s fine. I’m really happy with it.”

“Good, good.” Andy shifted from one leg to the other. “Well. I was thinking maybe you want to give it another shot and go for a drink? The last time was . . . it was terrible, finding out about your sister like that. I didn’t want to rush you, but since I’m in the area and all, I thought . . . you know. Why not?”

“That’s very sweet, Andy.” It wasn’t going to happen, but he was so earnest and awkward, I wanted to let him down gently. “I’m actually waiting for my date. He should be here any minute now.”

“Oh.” He colored. “That’s fine. I was just checking on the cottage anyway.” His eyes settled on the window box. “Nice flowers.” He patted them like they were little old ladies. “Well. Have a good . . . date.” He waved goodbye and took off.

I shut the door and went back upstairs. My hair was still damp, but it would have to do. I was putting my makeup on when the doorbell rang again. I glanced at my watch. I still had fifteen minutes. I finished swiping on my lipstick and smoothed my dress. It was a pretty shade of coral, made for picnics and ice cream and sunshine. The skirt flared out and ended just above my knees. I picked up my sandals, grabbed my bag, and headed downstairs.

“I’m sorry, Jeremy. I’m not quite—” My heart slammed in my chest as a black-clad figure straightened, filling the entire frame with his broad-shouldered physique.

Not Jeremy.

Jack.

Jack Warden was standing at my door—dashing and beardless, his thick, tawny hair tapered neatly to his collar. T-shirt, jeans, polished oxford shoes, and a pair of ear buds dangling around his neck—a picture of devastatingly cool urbanity.

He looked good. He looked fucking amazing. And it packed a power punch right to my gut. The shock of seeing him, the shock of seeing him like that, with nothing obscuring his face—the square cut of his jaw, the way his lips looked rounder and fuller, his blue forget-me-not eyes, so vivid and real and in my face—it robbed me of my breath. I stood there frozen, sandals in my hand, gaping at him. And suddenly, it struck me. It struck me hard.

“I’ve been living with a broken heart all this time,” I said it to myself, finally admitting the truth, but he caught my words.

A muscle clenched along his jaw. “You know what’s heartbreaking?” He slipped his hands into his pockets, as if to keep them from touching me. “It’s not when bad things happen to you, or when your life turns out completely different from what you thought it would be, or when people let you down, or when the world knocks you down. What’s heartbreaking is when you don’t get back up, when you don’t care enough to pick up the million broken pieces of you that are screaming to be put back together, and you just lie there, listening to a shattered chorus of yourself.

“What’s heartbreaking is letting the love of your life walk away, because you can’t give up your work or your home to go with her, because everything you love gets taken away from you. So I’m saying no to heartbreak. Right here, right now. This is me getting back up, crossing an ocean and coming straight to your door, Rodel.

“I can’t unlove you. And I can’t stop thinking about you. So I’m here to say the words because I never said them and that is what’s breaking my heart. I’m not saying them to hear it back. I’m not saying them so we can have a happily ever after. I don’t know where you’re at, or if you still think about us, or if we can even make it work. I’m saying them for me. Because they’ve been growing in my chest with every breath I take, and I have to get them out or I’ll explode. I love you, Rodel Emerson. That’s what I’m here to say. This is me, unbreaking my heart. I know it’s selfish and thoughtless and just plain arrogant to show up like this, but I couldn’t go another day without seeing you.”