"My place is closer," he said, his voice thick with sleepiness.
"Your place is a glorified closet," I murmured, my hand finding his in the dark.
"It's a studio with character."
"It's a studio with a futon that hasn't been comfortable since the Clinton administration."
He laughed, the sound vibrating against my coat."It was free.Found on the curb."
"My place has a bed," I said."And a shower with two heads.And towels that actually absorb water."
"That's corporate cable news money talking," he teased, tilting his face up."You've become such a snob, Nelson."
"I've become a man who knows what he's earned," I countered.
The cab took a turn too fast, throwing him more firmly against me.I didn't let him go.I put my hand against the back of his head, my fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.He was so warm.
I kissed him.
It wasn't the frantic stolen moments in my dressing room.It was a slow, unhurried kiss that tasted of wine and the end of a very long day.It was the kind of kiss you give someone when you aren't worried about the clock.
He pulled back, settling his head on my shoulder again."I had a really good time tonight," he whispered."Even with Jillian being a menace."
"She's a treasure," I said, the words feeling surprisingly true."In a 'highly combustible' sort of way."
The cab slowed as we approached my building — the glass and steel monolith I'd called home for years.I watched the doorman step out from under the awning, his face a mask of polite indifference.
For years, this had been my sanctuary.I'd come home to the silence, to the empty rooms, to the apartment that felt like a hotel suite because I didn't want to leave a mark on the world.I had confused being controlled with being alive.
But now, as I stared at Jimmy — at the wreck of his auburn hair, at the bridge of his nose, at the way he was already half-asleep against my shoulder — I felt something monumental happen.
It was the feeling of a fault line finally giving way.A slow, heavy shift of tectonic plates that I'd spent thirteen years trying to hold in place.
I knew the word.I'd been avoiding it for days, editing it out of my internal monologue like a clumsy piece of dialogue.I'd told myself this was nostalgia, mixed with a massive dose of physical chemistry.Hell, I'd even wondered if I was afflicted with a schoolboy crush.
But here it was, undeniable and enormous, arriving in the back of a cab with a cinnamon air freshener.
I was falling in love with Jimmy again.
Not the version of him from thirteen years ago — the boy on Morningside with the loud laugh and the radical dreams.I was falling in love with this man.The one who pushed me, the one who saw through my armor, and the only man who'd ever made me come completely undone.
The cab came to a full stop.The doorman opened the door.
"We're here, Jimmy," I said, my voice cracking just enough for him to notice.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes and giving me that crooked, sleepy smile that always felt like a punch to the gut.
I looked at him, and for the first time in ten days, I stopped counting.Because the count didn't matter anymore.The tightrope was gone, and I'd already fallen.
ChapterTwenty-Eight
Jimmy
The calendar invite didn't arrive with a red exclamation point or a high-priority flag.It just slid into my inbox at 4:12 PM on a Monday, nestled between a tedious budget reconciliation from the graphics department and a cryptic lead from a Pentagon source who was finally ready to name names.
Quick chat.No agenda.— Bruce
In the ecosystem of cable news, "no agenda" was the most dangerous agenda there was.It was the corporate version of "we need to talk."