Just One Kiss - J. Saman Page 0,63

even dawn, but I’m awake. I’m always awake, even when I’m not, and since my phone has, unfortunately, become another appendage, it’s consistently with me.

It’s a New York area code.

Goddammit! I suck in a deep, shuddering breath of air that does absolutely nothing to calm me, then I respond in the only way I can.

Me: Who is this?

The message bubble appears instantly, like he was waiting for me. Like there is no way this is a wrong number. Like his fingers couldn’t respond fast enough.

Unknown: You know who this is. Come home.

I don’t respond. I can’t. I’m frozen. It’s been four years. Four fucking years. And this is how he reaches out? This is how he contacts me? I slink back down into my bed, pulling the heavy comforter over my head in a pathetic attempt to protect myself from the onslaught of emotions that consume me. I tuck my phone against my chest, over what’s left of my fractured heart.

I’m hurting. I’m angry. I’m so screwed up and broken, and yet, I’m still breaking. How is that even possible? How can a person continue to break when they’re already broken? How can a person I haven’t seen in four years still affect me like this?

I want to throw the traitorous device into the wall and smash it. Toss it out my window as hard as I can and hope it reaches the Pacific at the other end of the beach, where it will be swept away, never to return. But I don’t. Because curiosity is a nefarious bitch. Because I have to know why the man who was my everything and now my nothing is contacting me after all this time, asking me to come home.

Unknown: I’m sitting here in my old room, on my bed, and I can’t focus. I can’t think about what I need to be thinking about. So, I need you to come home.

I shake my head as tears line my eyes, stubbornly refusing to fall but obscuring my vision all the same. Nothing he’s saying makes sense to me. Nothing. It’s completely nonsensical, and yet, it’s not. I still know him well enough to understand both what he’s saying and what he’s not.

Me: Why?

Unknown: Because I need you to.

Me: I can’t. Too busy with work.

That’s sort of a lie. I mean, I am headed to New York for the Rainbow Ball in a few days. But he doesn’t need to know that. And I do not want to see him. I absolutely, positively, do not.

Unknown: My dad had a stroke

My eyes cinch shut, and I cover them with one hand. I can’t breathe. A gasped sob escapes the back of my throat, burning me with its raw taste. God. Now what the hell am I going to do? I love his father. Jesus Christ. How can I say no to him now? How can I avoid this the way I so desperately need to? Shit.

Me: I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Is he okay?

Unknown: He’ll live, but he’s not great. He’s in the ICU. Worse than he was after the heart attack.

I shake my head back and forth. I can’t go. I can’t go home. I was there two months ago to visit my parents and my sister’s family. I have work—so much freaking work that I can barely keep up. I don’t want to see him. I won’t survive it. I’ll see him, and I’ll feel everything I haven’t allowed myself to feel. I’ll be sucked back in.

Things are different now.

They are. My situation has changed completely, but I never had the guts to call him and tell him that. Mostly because I was hurt. Mostly because I felt abandoned and brushed off. Mostly because I was terrified that it wouldn’t matter after all this time apart. If I see him now, knowing how much has changed…Shit. I just…Fuck. I can’t.

I don’t know what to do.

I’m drenched in sweat. The blanket I sought refuge in is now smothering me. I’m relieved his father is alive. I still speak to him once a month. Wait, let me amend that—he still calls me once a month. And we talk. Not about Jameson. Never about him. Only about me and my life. I’m a wreck that Jameson is contacting me. I can’t play this game. I never could. It was all or nothing with him.

Unknown: I miss you.

I stare at the words, read them over again, then respond too quickly, Liar.

Unknown: Never. I miss you so goddamn