“No. She’s gone for the day.”

I start jogging for the elevator banks.

“Wait! Ryan! You need to know about Carrie’s promotion! She’s getting — ”

I see the door for the stairs and shove it open, pounding my way downstairs, Chloe’s words fading as I run.

This time, toward her.

Not away.

Chapter 15

CARRIE

"You're my beautiful best friend, the person I want to wake up with, get stuck in airports with, make love on the beach with, laugh and cry and sing karaoke and have kids and get old until we forget everything and only remember each other."

"I’m older than you are — I'll forget everything first."

"I'll be there to remind you. I'll remember every single day of our lives and I'll whisper it in your ear until you can see it all again."

My breath catches in my throat and a little sob escapes. These are the exact words I have wanted to hear from Ryan for so long, longer than I even knew, and I can't believe I am hearing them now.

From Dermot Mulroney. In "Starcrossed." Thanks, Hulu.

I reach for the remote and click the volume down a notch.

With my chopsticks, I dig around in my container of lo mein, looking for any stray shrimp that escaped my notice. When you’re alone, you can do that. You can forget table manners and pick out the best bits for yourself. Yet another benefit to being single.

BZZZZZZZZZZ

Door buzzer. Probably someone in the building forgot their keys.

"Yes?"

"Pizza," a deep male voice announces.

I glance over at the table. Yep, there's my lo mein. Pretty sure I didn't order pizza?

"Not mine," I say into the intercom.

"Shelton, apartment 3B. Sausage and mushroom, extra cheese. Paid for."

That's what Ryan and I always ordered. Must have come up in their system by mistake.

Great. It's like the entire world is trying to remind me of what I almost had, and lost. WTF?

"Okay, come on up." Might as well. I buzz him in, then crack the door open and start rifling through my wallet for tip money. I can hear the delivery guy's steady footfalls as he climbs the stairs. Nothing in my wallet but a twenty-dollar bill, and that's too much even if it is a third floor walkup. I pull open a kitchen drawer and I'm searching for my spare cash envelope when the door swings in.

"Just one sec," I tell him, still digging through the drawer. "I didn't order that, but I guess I can wrap it up and have it tomorrow."

"You can," he replies. "You can have it tomorrow or the day after. Or now if you want."

NoNoNo.

I look up, very very slowly. There’s no pizza box on the counter.

"NoNoNo," I whisper.

"Yes," Ryan says firmly. "Repeat after me: Yes. Yes, please. I will have that today, tomorrow, and forever. Thank you."

My tiny apartment suddenly seems so vast, like the ceiling has been ripped off and I’m blanketed by the night sky, stars shining, clouds covering the moon as if it’s being modest. I inhale, then exhale. I know I’m alive, because every bit of my skin prickles, excitement rocketing through my blood. Ryan wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t — if he didn’t — right?

“Ryan, what are you doing here?”

“I... was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop in,” he says with a tone of finality, as if there’s nothing to question, no reason to wonder.

I close my mouth and breathe carefully through my nose, his cologne just strong enough to make my knees weak. Finally, I slowly turn. His back is to me as he closes my door. The same strong, powerful shoulders that faced me at the Chatham Beach Inn our first night together. My eyes comb over his body, taking in the snug business-casual slacks, the business shirt and tie, the dark suit jacket. He looks like any businessman in the Financial District, coming off the Commuter Rail for his day at work on State Street.

Only hot as hell, poised and sophisticated. Why is Ryan wearing a business outfit?

And why is he here?

“This neighborhood isn’t on the way to anyplace,” I argue. Trust me. I know.

“I haven’t been able to find my, um, cuff links?” He’s such a liar. Those golden eyes are wide and seeking, his hair longer now, brushing against the tops of his eyebrows. The look he gives me is a dare. “I haven’t seen them since the wedding, and I thought maybe you have them,” he continues.

“For Pete’s sake, Ryan. Every girl in the world uses that excuse: ‘I think I left my earrings at your place, can I come over and look for them?’”

He looks sheepish — or pretends to. “Where do you think I got it?” The grin that makes his face light up is like watching the sun rise over the ocean. You know it’s coming and you know it will be a spectacular sight, but when you actually experience it you’re changed forever.

I glance around for something to throw at him, but there’s nothing that I wouldn’t mind if it broke. There’s another apple pie I made yesterday, but that would make a huge mess. I need to touch something, hold it in my hand, cradle it to remind myself I’m still part of this world, because there’s no way Ryan is doing this. And then I need to throw it at him, because “Where do you think I got it”?

No way. This can’t be real.

He notices me scanning the counter. “Don’t hurt me,” he says with a little grin, mouth pulled to the side, dimples on display. I forgot how irresistible that grin is. But then it fades, and he’s looking at me seriously.

“I hurt enough, Carrie. I hurt so much I can’t breathe. And you know what the worst part is? I think you hurt, too.” One step closer, he moves with that liquid grace he possessed in bed. My belly tightens and my heart starts to move faster and faster, as if chasing time.

“Me?” I draw myself up with what dignity I can muster, juggling my body’s response to him with my rational mind’s defense of my hurting heart. “Hurt? Why would you think that? I’m fine,” I lie. “Everything is great. I’ve been offered a promotion. I am moving to San Francisco, probably.”

His jaw drops a little in surprise, chin pulling back, hands going to his hips. “Did you say San Francisco?”