“Whitney-Morgan, the investment firm and bank.”
“Oh,” I say. I have heard of it, of course, nothing good.
There is a moment’s pause. We are offered champagne and lunch. One of the best meals I've ever had. A variation of fish on a mustard-cream sauce, along with roasted beans and Creme Catalan for dessert.
Time flies by, and I realize I am not at all scared of flying in a private jet, which leads me to conclude that it’s not the flying. It’s the people.
I catch myself staring at her whenever I get the chance.
The closer we get back home, the more reality is catching up with me. Returning home to the place where the rules apply.
We land.
Walk down the stairs leading to an airfield.
“Listen, Amelie,” I begin.
“Don’t,” she says and turns on the stairs, “Leave today as it is. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
I want to argue, but she comes up a step, grasps my face with one hand, and kisses me.
“I want to remember this just the way it is,” she whispers back against my lips. “Reality can have us back tomorrow.”
With that, she lets go of me.
We are picked up by a black Range Rover.
“Hey Alex,” says Amelie to the uptight man waiting for us by the door. “Is she here, too?”
“No,” he says very efficiently, but then his mask slips as he puts a hand on Amelie’s shoulder to say silently. “She’s not good, things happened.”
“What happened?” asks Amelie immediately, and I just watch her switch into an entirely different mode.
“She almost OD’d the night before. Was a close call. I sat with her all night.”
I see the fear in Amelie’s eyes. I see how much she cares, and suddenly, it clicks.
They might not be in a relationship.
But Amelie loves her.
She loves her.
And while it is the last thing I should do in a situation where I just learned someone almost OD’d, I can’t help but feel a stitch in my chest. A stitch that asks me where it leaves me, when she is in love with another woman.
The entire ride in the car, I say nothing.
Because she warned me to stay away. She warned me that she is a mess. But I couldn’t. She couldn’t.
“Everything alright?” she asks me.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I say. We both know it’s a lie because I am a terrible liar.
“Miss McKenzie, where would you like to go?” asks the man named Alex.
“50 West 84th,” I say, lost in thought, caught in an emotional storm.
We reach my home.