Page 13 of Not a Strong Enough Word

Some things never change, indeed.

“Why are you here?” I ask. “And how did you get my address?”

Five years ago, in a fit of rage or depression or whatever you want to call it, I packed up a duffel bag and ran. After wandering for about a year, I had a service pack up everything that was important to me—which wasn’t much—from my condo in Roger’s Park and put it up for sale. That was when I came back to Chicago to move into this tiny apartment in the South Loop. It took me six months before I could call Trina again to tell her I was alive. I made her promise never to tell Ryan, swore her to secrecy. It took another two months of her building up my trust before I even gave her my new address. I never gave it to Ryan. Never called him. Never texted. I still go out of my way to avoid driving near his old place.

It’s not that I didn’t want to see him again. I did…and looking at him now, I remember even more clearly the way his body felt against mine, the way his lips brushed against my skin, the way his words sounded as he whispered them into my ear. But I was too afraid. If he had been angry with me or if I had ruined his career, I never would have forgiven myself. And so it just became easier to stay away for good. I convinced myself it was for the best.

But as his dark eyes search mine with a mixture of sadness and concern, I can see that he might have missed me almost as much as I missed him. And I don’t know what to do with that information.

He clears his throat, breaking us out of whatever tense moment we were sharing. He lifts the portfolio from under his arm. “I have notes for you. And your address is on the contract.”

Of course it is. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. But I certainly never thought Ryan would just show up at my apartment.

“That doesn’t exactly explain why you’re here,” I say over the noise from my television. “You could have sent the initial notes through Trina.”

“Do you want me to send my notes through Trina? That’s not typically how I work, but—”

“No,” I cut him off. “I don’t know why I said that. It’s not how I work, either.”

He idly fidgets with the gold ring he wears on his right middle finger. It was a gift from his late father, who passed away when Ryan was in high school. I hadn’t noticed it the other day, but he never took that ring off when we were together. He left it on while cooking, jogging, in the shower, while he slept. While we slept. While he made love to me, the edge of it scraping against the skin of my hip as he pressed his long fingers into it…

“Can I come in?” From the timbre of his voice, it sounds like his thoughts went somewhere similar.

“Um…” I look down at my purple satin pajamas, the one luxury I cannot live without. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“It’s a better idea than me standing in the hallway.”

He has a point. I open the door wider, and he walks inside. “Let me go put on something more appropriate.”

“I’ve seen you in less.” He smirks again as the door snicks shut behind him.

I gape at him. “Ryan,” I whisper.

He shakes his head quickly. “I’m sorry. I was trying to be funny.”

Blinking, I huff lightly. “It was. But maybe…too soon?”

“Fair.”

We stand awkwardly just inside my door, unable to move or talk or look anywhere but at each other. All the while, I’m acutely aware of my rumpled pajamas, my unshaven legs, my messy hair, the face I scrubbed clean after therapy. Not that it matters what I look like to him. Not anymore.

Ryan is the first to break the silence. “It’s good to see you.” From the way he says it, I can tell he means it. It actually eases some of my self-consciousness.

“I’m sorry how all that went down the other day.” I smile a little. “I’d say it wasn’t my idea, but I went along with it. I should have told Trina—”

“No,” he cuts me off. “It was a brilliant move on her part.”

“Because you never would have read it if you knew it was me who wrote it?” I guess.

“Casey likely wouldn’t have,” he admits. His brown eyes pin me to the spot. “But I would. I’ll read anything you write from now until the end of time.”

“Even if I have another mental breakdown?” It’s my turn to try to be funny, but it falls flat.

“Even then,” he says with a marked intensity. “I never meant to be your enemy, Scarlett.”

A lump rises in my throat. I try to swallow it away, but it’s too thick. “I know. I’m sorry. I can’t… I don’t want to talk about this.” I shake my head to clear it, trying desperately to find safer ground. “You said you had notes?”

Ryan regards me for a moment longer, then takes a few steps further inside to lay the portfolio on my kitchen table. Doing so brings him close enough to me that I can smell the almond and vanilla notes of his cologne. It threatens to pull me back under memories of him, but he speaks before I can go too far down.