Page 107 of Off-Limits as Puck

“I said bullshit. You don’t fly halfway across the country to watch someone through windows unless it’s about you. At least partially.” He leans against my rental car, making himself comfortable. “So what do you want, Hendrix?”

“I want her to be happy.”

“She is happy. Well, getting there anyway. Try again.”

“I want to tell her I’m sorry. For how everything ended. For the cost.”

“That it?”

I look back at the community center, at Chelsea in her element, and feel the truth clawing its way up my throat.

“I want to tell her I miss her. That the interview wasn’t just about fairness—it was about still being in love with someone I can’t have. That every good thing I’ve done since Chicago has been me trying to become someone worthy of what we had.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Frank studies me with sharp eyes. “You planning to tell her any of that?”

“No. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you here?”

Before I can answer, the community center doors open and teenagers start filing out, probably heading to whatever teenage wasteland awaits them in Phoenix strip malls. I should leave. Should get back in my rental car and pretend this whole trip was about visiting Matty, who’s doing better in Vegas rehab but still has no idea his brother is having geographic breakdown in the desert.

Instead, I reach into my backseat and pull out the flowers I bought at a gas station an hour ago. Sunflowers, because they seemed appropriately Arizona and because Chelsea once mentioned loving them during some session where we were supposed to be discussing my anger management techniques.

“Flowers,” Frank observes. “Classic move.”

“They’re not... it’s not romantic. They’re just—”

“Son, you bought flowers for a woman you flew two thousand miles to watch through windows. If that’s not romantic, romance is dead.”

Chelsea appears in the doorway, saying goodbye to the last few kids, ruffling hair and promising to see them next week. She looks tired but satisfied, like someone who’s done meaningful work and knows it.

“You should go talk to her,” Frank says.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because what if she doesn’t want to see me? What if I make her life complicated again? What if—”

“What if you grow a pair and find out?”

But I’m already walking toward the building, flowers clutched like a shield against whatever’s about to happen. Chelsea’s back is to me as she locks up, keys jangling in the kind of quiet that makes every footstep sound like thunder.

I get within ten feet before I lose my nerve.

This is stupid. Selfish. She’s built something good here, found peace in this desert exile, and I’m about to contaminate it with my presence. Like a virus that destroys everything it touches.

I back away, then turn and walk quickly toward the parking lot before she can notice me. But flowers don’t exactly blend into Arizona landscaping, and I’m holding them like evidence of my emotional crimes.

“Hey!” Chelsea’s voice, sharp with surprise.

I freeze, caught between running and turning around. The smart choice is running. The smart choice is always running when it comes to Chelsea Clark.

I turn around.

She’s standing in the doorway, hand shading her eyes against the desert sun, looking exactly like every dream I’ve had since Chicago. Older maybe, more settled, but still fundamentally herin ways that make my chest tight.

“Vegas?” she says.

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