Page 71 of Speak of the Devil

It’s only been fifteen minutes since I arrived, since I checked the time to make sure I got it right, since I showed up at her apartment as we had scheduled through texts. Fifteen minutes, hoping she comes home. Doubts kick in again.

I’m wasting my time.

She’ll never forgive me.

I won’t get the chance to explain.

For all I know, the paperwork has already been signed, sealed, and delivered to her attorney, and I planned all this for nothing.

Is she blowing me off?

Busy with patients even though she supposedly was given the extra day off?

Did her car break down running errands and her phone died? She was in an accident? Or she eloped with a boyfriend that I’m not totally sure she doesn’t have. Millions of scenarios could keep her from going. She wouldn’t hold back from telling me if she had changed her mind. Not Cat.

I shake my hands to loosen the nerves free. This worked in the past. Performing in front of crowds of twenty, thirty, even fifty thousand screaming fans doesn’t faze me. A certain audience of one has me pacing her parking lot like the fucking stalker I’ve become.

“Waited long?” Cat asks.

I look over to find her standing behind her car, looking like sunshine on a rainy day in a yellow sundress and white sneakers. With a bag in one hand and her purse in the other, they swing in her hands as she walks toward me.

I almost open my arms, ready to catch her like I used to—to hug her to me, to kiss her neck and head, those pink lips, and every other part of her. I shove my hands in my pockets instead, but I’m so fucking relieved she’s here.

“No. Just got here.”

“That’s good,” she says, stopping in front of me. “I felt bad for being late, but since you weren’t here?—”

“I arrived fifteen minutes ago.”

“Right on time.” A smile wriggles the corners of her lips, soothing my nerves and erasing any doubts I had. Staring up at me, she says, “I have my stuff packed inside.” Cat’s not cold, but she’s not receptive either. I definitely have my work cut out for me this weekend. I expected no less.

“I can put it in the car while you finish.”

When she opens the door, flashbacks of our argument, of me being out of line, run through my head. Judging by how she pauses in the doorframe with her shoulders tense, I assume Cat feels the same. My heart rate increases, sweat dots my palms, and I can barely meet her eyes when her head turns in my direction. Her smile is gone, too.

“Back to the scene of the crime.”

Reminding myself of the strides I’ve taken to prove to myself and her that I’m a different man, I try for a reassuring smile. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for leaving that day.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it again. Waving me inside, she disappears behind the door. When I enter the apartment, she’s unpacking the bag. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I stopped at the pharmacy to get my prescription. It wasn’t ready, so I had a delay.”

I stand in the doorway, trying not to invade her space. Not again. Get in and get out. Give her room. “It’s okay. Did you get what you need?”

“Yes. I also got you something.”

I hadn’t realized I was keeping my eyes glued to the floor until I forced my gaze to her. “You did?”

“Don’t get too excited,” she says with a little laugh. “It was an upsell at the register.” She digs her hands in the bag again, then tosses something silver and small to me.

It’s hard and has little buttons. “What is it?”

“It’s a beatbox. The switch is on the side. I tested it to make sure it worked.”

I roll it around my hand and flip on the switch. Pressing the red button, it kicks into a beat on repeat.

She says, “I know it’s dumb, but I?—”

“It’s not dumb. I like it.” I push the blue button. These beats are the worst. I was hitting better beats in third grade, but what do I expect from a register upsell?

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