Page 130 of Off-Limits as Puck

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PS: Apartment 412 is two blocks south. Take your time deciding if you want to kill me or kiss me.

I leave the jersey where she can’t miss it and let myself out, heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. Either this is the romantic gesture of the century, or I’m about to discover that Chelsea’s tolerance for surprises has limits I just obliterated.

Back in my apartment, I pace and check my phone obsessively. No messages, no calls, no indication that she’s arrived yet. I make coffee I don’t drink and order takeout I don’t eat and generally behave like someone who’s wagered his entire future on a single grand gesture.

At 4:17 PM, my phone buzzes.

Chelsea:Found your gift.

That’s it. No follow-up, no indication of her emotional state, no clue whether I should be preparing for forgiveness or homicide.

Me:And?

Three dots appear and disappear for what feels like seventeen hours.

Chelsea:I want to kill.

Chelsea:You’re insane.

Me:Good insane or bad insane?

Chelsea:I haven’t decided yet.

Me:Take your time. I’ll be here.

Chelsea:That’s the problem.

Me:What’s the problem?

Chelsea:You’re here. In my new city. Making it impossible to pretend this isn’t real.

Me:Do you want to pretend it isn’t real?

Chelsea:No. But I wanted to be scared by myself for a few days before being scared with you.

Me:Want me to go back to Boston and pretend I never came?

Chelsea:Don’t you dare.

Me:So what do you want?

Chelsea:I want you to come help me unpack. But I also want to maintain plausible deniability about how happy I am that you’re here.

Me:Noted. I’ll try to contain my charm.

Chelsea:Your charm was never the problem.

Me:What was the problem?

Chelsea:That your charm makes me want to do stupid things like believe in happy endings.

Me:What if I told you I’m starting to believe in them too?

Chelsea:I’d say you’re probably concussed.

Me:Or in love.

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