Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 48372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Christmas.
New York.
I remember when I loved the winter.
Hardly anybody calls the next day. When people do, I make up excuses to stay in—like that I’m working.
I paint icebergs alla prima in the afternoon on my deck. The deep blue ocean, frozen white. My hands are painful red when I finish the last layer—despite my fingertip-hole gloves—but I think it’s a winner. I get my phone. Download Instagram again and post it to my stories on a whim.
Delete the app.
I go to his page. There’s a picture of him in a charcoal suit with a pale blue tie. He’s looking up a little, like there’s someone on a ladder just above him making him smile. I can tell he’s still doing his own Insta. The caption reads just, Merry, merry. Understated. Unassuming. Luke.
I zoom in on his face. Is he thinner? My conscience claps back: Do you want him to be?
I delete the app. By bedtime, I can tell I’m getting fucking sick. I was born a little early—32 weeks—and my lungs are shitbags. Always have been. Kind of glad for the distraction of it this time.
The next day, I get a holiday card from fucking Lana and her husband. Laughing makes me cough, but I do anyway. It’s so fucking funny, I pin it to the fridge.
There’s just a little whiskey left. I swallow all of it and lie on my bed till the popcorn ceiling starts to take form as shapes. It’s an artist thing, I think. I say thank you to my brain, because it’s sort of awesome getting entertainment from your ceiling.
The next few days smear into one another. My phone’s broken for a few of them; I’m too tired to take it to an Apple store. I work on the portrait bust that I call Vake. Luke and me…his eyes and brow and jaw, my mouth and cheeks and hair. Commissioned piece.
I work for five hours and have to lie down. Fireworks wake me. Has it really been that many days? It’s New Year’s Eve? I try my phone, and now it turns on. There are nineteen voicemails. Shit.
I sit up, sloughing off the covers. Something hot and thick rolls through me. It’s this prickling heat that makes my arm hairs stand on end—something I didn’t think could really happen outside badly written fiction or narcotics withdrawal.
Somehow, I just know. I lunge for the phone—still on my bookshelf where I left it. Nothing’s on my screen, but I check texts, and there it is. He’s at the top, and when I click his name, I see a blue box that says: Skywalker started sharing location with you. Would you like to share yours?
I know before I check. I fucking know—or maybe I just really want to. Either way, it’s true. Luke is at a hotel in Manhattan.
I share my location with him. Then I put my coat on.
* * *
Luke
I’m playing with fire, and I know that. Still, I walk down to the lobby in his hoodie and stand by the elevator bank. He knows where I am—or at least that I’m at this hotel. I shared my location with him: something I learned from Pearl, back when she was new and hell bent on letting me know where she was along her errand route.
I make a quick scan of the entry hall—more like a giant atrium, with three banks of elevators, pale gray marble floors, walls of windows, and a bunch of chandeliers that look vaguely spider-like. It’s just packed enough so I don’t feel like I stick out, but not so busy I’m too worried about drawing eyes.
I stuff my hands into the pockets of the hoodie, fix my gaze on the main doors. Revolving doors. I feel strangely still, almost apart from everything around me as I stand with my shoulder blades pressed to the wall behind me. For a second, my face does that thing where it goes burning hot—something that never happened until I met him. I pull my phone out for distraction.
I check my phone, and cold sweat prickles my skin. He’s shared location with me, too, and he’s close. I squint and make the map bigger. He’s a block or two away.
My heart is pounding as I watch the people coming through the doors. A girl with sequined antennae. A group of young guys wearing pale blue down jackets. Someone in a tan coat.
That’s him.
I can tell on the next stride. His height and lankiness, that certain square of his shoulders. The way he moves…this really easy sort of walk. He lifts his head and scans the room. I look right at him as my knees go weak. I take in his light beard and his long hair, pulled back. I look at his mouth and find he’s too far for me to see clearly.