Page 31 of Angel Eyes

My phone vibrated again, and I fished it out, my pulse tripping over itself and revealing far too much. While my brain might have a clear understanding of the dynamic between me and Gabriel, my body wasn’t getting the memo.

Was he looking for me? It had been at least a few minutes since he’d sent the first message—had he made it upstairs? I glanced down.

Kyle.

I stared at his name flashing across the screen. Seriously, could the man have worse timing? I spun around, ducking under the stalls to make sure the bathroom was empty before answering.

“Hey,” he grunted, the steady tap of a keyboard clicking in the background.

Hey?

“What the hell, Kyle? I’ve called you like a hundred times. Where on earth have you been?”

“I’ve been busy. We’re in the middle of trial prep, and I’ve been working crazy hours. I assumed if it were something important, you would have let Ember know.”

“So, let me get this straight—you didn’t return my calls because you thought what I had to say wasn’t important? You’ve got to be kidding. You’re my boyfriend. Whether or not it’s important, I should be able to call you without you blowing me off.”

The sound of the keyboard stopped. “Juliet, don’t act like a child. I realize I may have neglected you a bit over the last few days, but—”

“Few days? Try weeks.”

“Days, weeks—whatever. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that you’re the one who took off to another country. Sorry if I don’t have time to coddle you from four thousand miles away.”

“Coddle me?” I set the phone down on the edge of the sink, placing it on speaker. “Okay, seriously, what is your problem? I get that this whole Paris thing was sudden and maybe you feel like I’m interrupting your plans—”

“Torpedoing them would be a more accurate description. Honestly, what the hell are you thinking? You are single-handedly risking everything we’ve worked for these past years.”

A hard lump rose in my throat, my ears pounding with a rush of blood.

“You should be here,” he barreled on, “not off wasting time writing poetry or whatever the fuck it is you’re doing. Did you even think about the ramifications to your career? You should be focused on impressing Tom if you want to be considered for equity partner in a few years.”

I paused at the sound of footsteps in the hallway, but the door remained closed.

“And what if that’s not what I want?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it’s what you want. It’s what we’ve always wanted.”

I shook my head. “No, Kyle, it’s what you’ve always wanted. I’m still figuring it out. All I know is, before I came here, I was really unhappy. And I tried to keep my head down and forge ahead, but coming here woke up a part of me I didn’t realize had been lying dormant. I know it will be an adjustment, but I want to take writing more seriously. I might even have a shot at publication and who knows where that could lead.”

“Oh, give me a break, Juliet. That’s a hobby, not a career. Are you seriously going to throw away everything you’ve worked for so you can spend your life making up stories?”

“It’s what I love, Kyle. It’s who I am.”

I was holding my breath. Maybe the whole world was holding its breath.

Please say you support me. Please tell me you understand.

“Un-fucking-believable. Who are you right now? I don’t know if this is some kind of premature midlife crisis, but you need to get your head on straight before you lose your opportunity.” He paused. “Before you lose me.”

My entire body went rigid. Before you lose me. Did he really say that? I braced myself against a wall, swallowing lungfuls of air, but I still couldn’t get enough oxygen. And my face—why was my face wet? Grabbing a handful of paper towels, I glanced in the mirror to find my cheeks streaked with tears. I hadn’t even realized I’d been crying.

“Shit, I shouldn’t have said—”

“No, I’m glad you did. It needed to be said. To tell you the truth, I think you love the idea of me, Kyle. The version of me that’s cooperative and pliable and spends seventy hours a week at work without complaining. But the real me? You don’t know her at all. And you sure as hell could never love her.”

A protracted silence echoed through the phone as the distant sound of music vibrated against the door. I waited for him to say something, to tell me I was wrong. Because, surely, I had to be. I stared at my reflection, the past four years flashing before my eyes. Four years of birthdays, family get-togethers, weddings, holidays. Nights spent working late and sharing cartons of Chinese food across a conference table. Sundays grabbing brunch near Central Park with our friends. It all had to count for something. It just had to.

“Kyle?” My voice was a broken thing, and I hated the sound of it.

---