Autumn Flame (Seasons #2 )

Chapter 22: One More Light

I stumble down my street leaning onto the girl under my arm heavier than I should. If I put any more weight on her, I'll crush her like a paper toy. She's a short pixie-cut brunette with chipmunk cheeks and small dark eyes. A tourist from Sweden or Lithuania, I have no clue. She was at the bar when I started drinking to forget, and now we're stupid drunk and giggle as we make our way back to my place.

She runs a finger down my neck as she slurs, "My New York boy."

"You sure your friends are okay with leaving you alone with me?" I grin. "I could be your New York serial killer."

She leans back and squints, studying my face the way drunk people will look at you like an abstract painting. "No. This is nice boy face," she says, accented.

We're a stumbling mess up the stairs and shushing each other loudly when we reach my door. I drop my keys onto the floor. I lean down to pick them up and when I lift my head back up, I spot a sheet of paper sticking out between the doorframe with two words scribbled onto it:

Macaroon bench.

I flip the sheet, looking for more letters, any more words. I shake it as if an explanation will magically fall out of it. There is only one person who could've written it.

When did she leave this? How long ago? Did I just miss her?

The bar girl's hands wind around my chest. She murmurs something accented in my ear that I don't register.

Should I even go? She's probably gone by now.

I shake my head and the events from the afternoon flood back in. She should be getting engaged right about now. This note must be old already. She won't be there.

But... what if she is? And what if she is right now? What does she want with me?

"What are you waiting for?" bar girl whines. "Come on, let's go inside so I can take your pants off, New York boy."

I hold her hands away from my belt and sigh. I lean my head against the wall and close my eyes. "I'm sorry," I say to the bar girl. "I can't tonight. Come on, I'll get you a cab to your hotel."

I put her in a car, then hop in one myself. No time for the subway. I clutch the note in my hands and notice them trembling. My chest feels tight, and my throat is parched. I haven't had any water in hours and it's showing.

I jump out of the car at the first sight of Central Park and run even though I'm in no condition to do so. I sweat like I've never worked out in my life, and I fear I might have alcohol poisoning when I get stitches in my side. What is my body even doing?

I am completely out of breath when I round the bench and reach for her shoulder.

It's an older woman sitting with her dog at her feet.

"I'm sorry," I apologize. "I thought it was someone else."

The lady looks me up and down with the disgust reserved for drunken idiots and rises to her feet, leading her dog away from me. I would too, lady.

I jog down the path in case I just missed her, but she's nowhere near this bench. I throw my hands over my head, spinning in a circle. Which way was her apartment?

No, I can't show up at her door. Turd the Third will be there. They'll be celebrating their engagement and I'll be some random sweaty dude at the door knocking way too late. They'll tell Mr. Beau what happened, and it'll cost me my internship. I can't.

I return to the bench and sit down. The night with the macaroons plays in my head. The hug, the way she held onto me and I onto her, like a crossroads moment when I should've chosen differently.