Book 4 - Page 103 (1/2)

That workday, my G.o.d. You know the kind. Seconds are actually minutes, and minutes are hours, and the entire day goes by in the span of a decade. By the end of it I’d thought about the evening so many times that I started to suspect I had made up Niall Stella in the first place and this entire situation was a figment of my imagination.

Finally, it was five thirty and the office started to thin out. I slipped into the bathroom in the hall on my way out to check my makeup and clothes and was jolted out of my odd fugue into a full-on panic.

My silk top was ma.s.sively wrinkled and sweet Jesus what was I thinking this morning? My sa.s.sy-short skirt suddenly seemed extremely short. s.l.u.tty short. What-do-you-charge-per-hour short. I groaned and leaned in closer to the mirror. My mascara was smudged . . . basically all over my face, and my blush had been rubbed off entirely.

I did what I could to fix the mess, but the problem was that I was so nervous I wasn’t sure I would be able to keep down the water and crackers I’d barely managed at lunch. Should I stay in the bathroom in case I’m going to throw up? Should I carry an extra bag? Why had I waited so long to go see him? What if I couldn’t manage to get a word out?

But then the oddest thing happened: I laughed. I was freaking out over seeing Niall Stella. I was checking my makeup and contemplating vomiting and worrying I would be mute or rambling.

This was normal. This was what I did.

Without another look in the mirror, I grabbed my purse and walked from the bathroom.

Hallway, elevator, street. Seventeen blocks, one bridge, and there I was. On the corner, making a decision.

That was when my heart decided to explode and my blood evaporated and I lost control of my brain.

He didn’t know I was coming. I hadn’t seen him or spoken to him in over two months. I asked him to give me time, and he had . . . I was grateful and mad about that at the same time. What if he had moved on? That would break me more, I thought, than the unknown. I could keep walking forward and head home to a quiet flat. I could do cereal for dinner and Community reruns until it was time to sleep, then get up and do the same thing tomorrow. I could keep working at this easy, boring job until it was time to move, and then I could disappear from the city entirely without ever having to face this. Someday I might get over Niall Stella.

Or, I could turn right, walk two blocks to his flat, sit on his stoop, and wait for him. I could tell him I still wanted to try and then let him tell me yes, or tell me no. If he said no, I would go home and do the cereal and the sitcom and the eventual painful heart repairs. But if he said yes . . .

There wasn’t a choice, not really.