Just One Kiss - J. Saman Page 0,64

much.

I think I just died. Everything inside me has stopped. My heart is not beating. My breath has stalled inside my chest, unable to be expelled. My mind is completely blank. And when everything comes back to life, I’m consumed with an angry, caustic fury I never knew I was capable of.

Unknown: Are you still there?

Me: What do you want me to say?

Unknown: I don’t know. I’m torn on that. Please come home.

Me: Why?

Unknown: Because I need you. Because he needs you. Because I was always too busy obsessing over you to fall for someone else. Because I need to know if I’m making a mistake by hoping.

I shake my head vigorously, letting out the loudest, shrillest shriek I can muster. It’s not fucking helping, and I need something to help. Clamoring out of bed, I hurry over to the balcony doors, unlocking them and tossing them open wide.

Fresh air. I need fresh air. Even Southern California fresh air. A burst of salty, ocean mist hits me square in the face, clinging to the sweat I’m covered in. It’s still dark out. Dawn is not yet playing with the midnight-blue sky.

I stare out into the black expanse of the ocean, listen to the crashing of the waves and sigh. I knew about him. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t Facebook-stalked him a time or twenty over the years. Forced myself to hate him with the sort of passion reserved for political figures and pop stars. But this? Saying he misses me?

Me: Seeing me won’t change that. But if you’re asking, you are.

He responds immediately, and I can’t help but grin a little at that. You still care about me, Jameson Woods. When I catch the traitorous thought, I shut it down instantly. Because if he cared, if his texted words meant anything, then I wouldn’t be here, and he wouldn’t be there, and this bullshit four a.m. text conversation wouldn’t be happening.

Unknown: I’m not asking. Seeing you might change everything. But more than that, I need you here with me. My father would want to see you. Come home.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him!

Me: I can’t come home. Stop using your father to manipulate me.

Unknown: It’s the only play I have. You can come home. I know you can. Are you seeing someone? Before you respond, any answer other than no might kill me right now.

I growl, not caring if anyone walking by hears. How can he do this to me? How can he be so goddamn selfish? Doesn’t he know what he put me through? That I still haven’t found my way back after four years? I shouldn’t reply. I should just throw my phone away and never look back.

Me: No. And you’re a bastard.

Unknown: YES. I Am! Please. I am officially begging. Really, Lee. I’m not even bullshitting. I’m a mess. Please. Please. Please!!!!

Me: …

Unknown: What does that mean?

Me: It means I’m thinking. Stop!

My eyes lock on nothing, my mind swirling a mile a minute.

Lee. He called me Lee. That nickname might actually hurt the most. And now he’s asking me to come home. Jameson Woods, the man I thought was my forever, is asking me to come home to see him. And for what? To scratch a long-forgotten itch? To assuage some long-abandoned guilt over what he did? Why would I fall for that?

I sigh again because I know why. It’s the same reason I never bring men home. It’s the same reason I haven’t given up this house even though I don’t fully live in it anymore and it’s far from convenient. It’s the same reason I continued this conversation instead of smashing my phone.

Jameson Woods.

The indelible ink on my body. The scar on my soul. The fissure in my heart.

Unknown: …

I can’t help the small laugh that squeaks out as I lean forward and prop my elbows on the edge of the railing. The cool wind whips through my hair, and I hate that I feel this way. That I’m entertaining him the way I am.

Me: What does that mean?

Unknown: It means I’m getting impatient. Please. I need you to come home. I know I’m a bastard. I know I shouldn’t be asking you this. But I am.

Unknown: Aren’t you at least a little curious?

YES!

Me: NO!!!!!!! And bastard doesn’t cover you.

Unknown: Please. It’s spinning out of control, and I need to see you. I need to know.

Me: You already know.

Unknown: About you?

Me: Yes, or you wouldn’t be texting me at four in the morning.

Unknown: It’s seven here. Does that mean you’ll come?

Me: …

Unknown: …

Me: Yes.

My phone slips from my fingers, clanging to the hard surface of my balcony floor. My phone buzzes again, a little louder now since the sound is reverberating off the ground. I don’t pick it up. I don’t look down. I don’t care if he’s thanking me or anything else he comes up with. I don’t care. I don’t want to know.

Because I’m busy getting my head on straight.

Locking myself down.

I’m worried about his father and I want to see him, want to make sure he’s okay with my own two eyes.

I’ll go home and I’ll see him. I’ll see him, and I’ll do the one thing I was never able to do before. I’ll say goodbye. My eyes close and I allow myself to slip back. To remember every single moment we had together. To indulge in the sweet torture that, if I let it, will rip me apart piece by piece. Because I know what I’m in for, and I know that once I step foot off that airplane, nothing will ever be right again.

* * *

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