Adam slipsout of the booth with a teasing squeeze to my hip and a, “Don’t go anywhere, trouble,” and I watch him walk away, admiring his broad shoulders that taper to a slim waist, his lean and tall build. Watching him alone makes my stomach do gymnastics. I’m still flushed from fucking, still high off the way he looks at me like I hung the damn moon. I’m breathless and so happy, I feel like my chest is about to burst.
His phone dings against the table, and I glance at it out of instinct. I’m not snooping, really, I’m not. The screen just lights up, and my eyes … catch something.
Flight confirmed: One way ticket to Lisbon — August 21st
Apartment access details: check-in code and key instructions
Lisbon, Portugal?
My heart trips. My smile falters. And I blink at the glowing screen like maybe it’ll shift, maybe I read it wrong, maybe there’sa reasonable explanation that doesn’t make my chest tighten or my skin prickle or that little voice in the back of my mind go, ‘Of fucking course. Everything’s too good to be true. HE is too good to be true.’
He’s never mentioned Portugal, not once. Not in our endless emails that dipped into fantasies and confessions. Not in bed, not over coffee, not during grocery store flirting, or when I almost set his kitchen on fire. He never said anything about planning a trip, let alone leaving the country.
Also, a one-way ticket?
There’s a dull throb in my chest I know all too well.
It’s the same one I used to get before a door slammed. Before a man changed his mind. Before I was left hung out to dry.
I know I should wait. I know I should breathe, that the rational thing is to stay in the booth, wait for Adam to come back from the bathroom, and ask him. Just ask and let him explain.
But I don’t because history is a heavy, burdensome thing. And mine has made me an expert at bolting before I become the fool again. My last situationship taught me that confrontation doesn’t end in clarity; it ends in yelling or gaslighting or tears or all of the above. I want none of them, so I do what I’ve always done when something starts to crack.
I grab my bag, slide out of the booth, and run, leaving pieces of my broken heart as I do.
8
ADAM
Iget to our booth and find Amelia gone. I scan the crowd, thinking maybe she went to the bathroom or grabbed drinks from the bar.
Her drink is still there, sans bag.
The only thing on our table is my phone, and I grab it immediately. The screen lights up with an email from my sister about the plane ticket and accommodation details.
My mind scrambles, but my heart stops.
Amelia must have seen this. I never mentioned Lisbon to her, maybe because we were too busy learning each other’s desires. To be perfectly honest, the trip hasn’t crossed my mind since I met her.
Panic sets in, crawling up my spine like ice. I text her immediately.
Where did you go?
Amelia, please.
Talk to me.
No reply, so I shoot her another message.
It’s not what you think. Please just let me explain.
I call, and it goes straight to voicemail.
My mouth is dry. The bar lights are still pulsing red across the walls, but it’s like the air’s been sucked out of the place. Everyone’s dancing, laughing, shouting over music, and I’m frozen.
I throw cash on the table and shove through the crowd, pushing into the night.
My apartment. Maybe she went there. Maybe she’s there now, curled on my couch, waiting for me to explain.
