Page 60 of Haunted

“And then, years later, after a lot of ups and downs, I finally crossed a line, and you sent me away. So I went home and cried for a while. And then I went off to the Marines because I couldn’t sit at home and mope.” He pauses. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course.”

He smiles at me. “The reason I joined up was because I thought that if I came back in my uniform, you’d take one look at me and…”

I can’t help grinning at him. “And drag you into bed?”

“Among other things. But then you disappeared…”

“And eventually, you married someone else,” I finish.

“Yup. On the rebound from the only man I ever really loved. And now it’s your turn. Tell me the story of how Jonny on the Spot came to be.”

He puts his hands behind his head and leans back.

“Wow. Okay. Where to even start? I guess I was being a bit sentimental. I was also thinking that maybe, just maybe, you’d see the video and reach out to me, even though I had been the one who closed that door. But then I remembered you were married, so I decided I would just document my day and my travels. That first episode was so amateurish, but somebody noticed it and recommended it to friends, and people asked me questions. So, I made another video to answer questions and show a few more things. And then another, and another…and that’s how it started.” I shrug.

Lance leans toward me, touching my chest with the tips of his fingers. He doesn’t meet my eyes. “And did you fall in love?”

I hesitate. “I thought I had, once.”

He glances at me and real hurt flashes across his face for an instant. “Tell me the story.”

I touch his cheek. I want to tell him that nobody has ever held a candle to him, but he’s staring at me intensely, and I swallow the urge to minimize. He wants facts. “It was in my third year of filming, and he reached out to me and suggested that I come north to Rajasthan. He met me at the train station when I arrived in Jaipur. He introduced me to his family, took me to see the sites. I got weeks’ worth of content in the first day alone.”

“Was he handsome?”

“Very. And intelligent. And witty. From the very first moment we met, I was bowled over. And then when my visa was expiring, he suddenly started suggesting I return to America with him.” I pause. “It turns out he sought me out because he wanted to get out of India. What he wanted the most from me was my passport.”

Lance recoils. “He told you this?”

I nod. “Eventually. Once I got over the shock, I talked to some other expats, who all said variations of ‘What did you expect?’ I’d never felt so stupid. After that, I was more careful.” I pause. “Okay, enough of my sad love life. Tell me about your ex-husband. Was he good to you?” I’m not sure what I want to hear more: that he was awesome and Lance never suffered, or that he was terrible.

“Nash wasn’t good to anybody. Not even himself. He drank. A lot. And for a while, I did, too. You know how some people bring out the very worst in you? Well, he did. Every time.”

I swallow hard and put my hand on his hip, and my heart breaks open from longing. I want to keep this version of Lance Broussard. The one I have right here.

He looks at me like he’s reading my mind. “I fucked it up the first time. I suffocated you. I did everything wrong.” He searches my face. “But I never, ever didn’t love you with all my heart. Please. I’m begging you.” His eyes glisten. “I’m begging you.”

“You broke my heart,” I confess, and it comes out in a sob that I can’t control. He’s broken me. All that pain just ripples out in a torrent of words. “Do you know how hard it was to look at you and know I had to walk away? Do you know what it cost me to say no?” I palm away the tears.

“I think maybe I do,” he says. “But at the time I just thought it was me.” He purses his lips. “You broke my heart, too, Jonny. A hundred times over. But if there is still one tiny piece of the boy that loves me in there, I will keep fighting for it, no matter what the cost. If you said that you would have me.”

I swallow hard. “Have you? Have you?” I take a deep breath and feel myself teetering on the edge of the abyss. I want to laugh and cry and sob and spend a week just making love to this wonderful man. For a second, the words don’t come at all.

“Would you?” He looks at me with naked hope. “Would you stay? Here—with me?”

For a second the words don’t come at all. Right now there is nothing in the world that seems more right than staying here with Lance Broussard, and that is exactly the problem. This morning I had a woman’s blood under my fingernails. I don’t trust anything I feel today.

“Ask me again,” I say. “In a week. When I’ve slept and I’m not—” I gesture at all of myself. “When I’m calmer. Ask me again then and I’ll give you a real answer, and you’ll know it’s a real one.”

He takes that in. I watch him decide not to argue with it.

“In a week,” he says.

“In a week.” I take a breath. “But if you wouldn’t mind me hanging out with you today, I’d like that very much.”

And then, because I can’t help it: “For what it’s worth, I think I’d rather be your Parker Bishop than the world’s Jonny on the Spot.”