ODESSA

“You sound depressed.” Carly chomps her gum on the other end of the phone. Desperate for the comfort of a familiar face, I called her the second I landed in New York. “You okay?”

“Been a long day. Got to the airport way too early. Just tired.”

I don’t tell her about Beckham and the outburst and the sex or any of it. It’s irrelevant. Over and done. An error in judgment not worth rehashing.

“Do you want to come over tonight then?” I inject a lighter tone in my voice to hopefully throw her off. “Feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“Hm.” Carly hesitates. “Actually, I was supposed to meet up with some people from work.”

“Oh,” I sigh. “That’s fine.”

Heading toward baggage claim and hailing a cab shortly after, I jet home with intentions of holing up for the weekend. Halfway home, I see a missed call from Beckham. No text. No voicemail.

I don’t call him back, mostly on principle. I didn’t fly all the way back home just to accept his apology so he can feel better about being a giant asshole.

* * *

Saturday I meet Jeremiah for coffee at his request. I briefly mention the Salt Lake City trip, and he asks questions and pretends the answers don’t bother him.

Slipping his hand across the table to cover mine, our eyes lock.

“I miss us, Sam,” he says. “I want you back. I need you back. Going a week at a time without talking to you? I can’t. I can’t do it anymore. I need an answer.”

He flashes a bleached smile that makes me happy and sad all at once.

“Excuse me. I’m so sorry.” A middle-aged woman taps him on the shoulder, her phone in hand. She has Midwestern tourist written all over her face, and she reminds me of my mom. “You’re Jeremiah Crawford, the chef, right?”

“Yes, ma’am, I am.” He twists to face her, flipping his charm on like a switch.

“I saw you on a billboard in Times Square this morning. Your show is my favorite,” she gushes, placing a trembling hand across her heart. “Would you mind taking a picture with me and my husband?”

A pot-bellied man with aviators stands behind her, not nearly as happy as his wife.

“I’ll take the picture.” I rise and grab her phone as the three of them pose. The camera on her phone flashes and the picture that pops up shows two of the three of them wearing grins wider than their faces. Jeremiah loves the attention.

“Thank you so much!” The woman blows him a kiss as her husband steers her away by the elbow.

“Welcome to the rest of your life,” I say as we sit down.

“Aw, Samantha, it’s fun,” he says. “Pretty cool knowing I can make someone’s day like that. Wish you’d smile that big when you see me.”

My head cocks to the side, and my eyes fall on my ring-less fingers. For the life of me, I can’t remember when I stopped smiling around him.

“I’m smiling on the inside,” I tease.

“I’m being serious here.” Jeremiah’s expression fades into worry. “I messed up. I’m not perfect. I’m asking for a chance to make it right. And if you still don’t want to marry me, I’ll leave you alone. I promise. Just give me a chance, Samantha. I’d have never asked for a break if I knew it’d make you fall out of love with me.”

“The fireworks are gone.” I pick at my nails, my head tucked. “I miss that crazy, stupid, reckless love we used to have. We couldn’t get enough of each other. Nothing could’ve come between us back then.”

“Babe, that kind of love is only temporary. After it fades, after the newness wears off, this is what’s left.” He widens his arms. “This is what’s forever. Ask your parents. Ask mine.”

If this is our forever, I don’t want it.

I smirk, rolling my eyes. “Your parents can’t keep their hands off each other. They act like they’re still newlyweds. And my parents are more friends than anything else, bound together by their five kids. We’ll never be your parents, and I don’t want to be like mine. Not in that way.”

“So you’re saying it’s the end of the road.” Jeremiah’s nostrils flare as he leans back in his seat, his bruised ego showing. “You’re saying you don’t love me. You don’t want to be with me. We’re not getting married.”

The words aren’t as hard to swallow when I hear them come from someone else’s lips. In my head they’re terrifying. Final. Nonsensical.

I take in a sharp breath, my gaze drifting into his. “I’m sorry. You’re not what I want anymore.”

“Shit, Samantha. What the hell do you want?” Jeremiah’s pointed question comes out more defensive than anything else, as if he can’t possibly fathom the thought of not being good enough for someone.

For the first time in my life, I have no idea what I want. I thought it’d be terrifying. Turns out it’s not at all. It’s sweet liberation.

Peering at Jeremiah, I feel at peace for the first time in over a month. He’s going to be fine without me. His career will take off. He’ll meet some celebrity-chef groupie or B-list actress and live happily ever after. I’ll see him on cable from time to time hocking brightly-colored cookware on QVC or catch re-runs of EAT ME, JEREMIAH!

And I’ll be perfectly at peace with my decision.