He knew why he’d wanted to kiss her. Why he still did. He could still feel her on his lips, on his lap.
In his head like fog, like honey that buzzed. Is this what it had felt like to kiss Sam? (He couldn’t remember just now, he didn’t want to.) If it had been like this, maybe nine years wasn’t such a long time to get over Sam, after all.
In all the time Lincoln was working at The Courier, reading Beth’s mail, thinking about her, he’d never really believed that there was a course of events, a path ahead of him or a route through the space-time continuum that would lead to this.
Yes. Beth. That just happened.
And maybe …maybe it was still happening.
Lincoln jerked to his feet and checked his pocket for his car keys. How long had it been since she’d left? Thirty minutes? Forty-five? Beth would still be at The Courier. And Lincoln didn’t have to keep a respectable distance anymore. He didn’t have to wish and pine and feel guilty. He didn’t have to do the honorable thing. Or maybe it was that the honorable thing had changed the moment Beth sat down next to him. Everything had changed.
Lincoln parked behind The Courier, by the loading dock. Half a dozen trucks were already waiting there, idling, while crews packed them with stacks of first editions. He ran in through a garage door, bypassing the employee turnstile—the guard on duty recognized him and waved—then bolted up the stairs to the newsroom like he was running for his life, like he was on deadline. Like if he stopped, he might settle into his old self, get trapped in his old loop.
Chuck looked up when Lincoln rushed past the copy desk. Lincoln nodded and kept rushing. He looked over at the city desk—no Beth. The back of the newsroom, the Entertainment section, was dark, but Lincoln kept going, trying not to think about all the nights he’d walked this path after he was sure she was gone.
She was there, on the phone. Sitting in her dark cubicle, the monitor lighting her face like a candle.
“No, I know,” she said into the phone. Her hair was all-the-way down, she wasn’t wearing her glasses. She still looked half dazed and overkissed. “I know,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “Look, this won’t ever …”
Lincoln stopped at the cubicle next to hers and tried not to breathe like a quarter horse. Beth glanced up, saw him, and lost the rest of her sentence.
He didn’t know what to do then, so he smiled, hopefully, biting his lip.
“Thank you,” she said into the phone. “I know. Thank you …Okay.” She hung up and gaped at him.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I can leave,” he said, taking a step back.
“No,” she said, standing. “No. I …”
“I thought we should talk,” he said.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay.” Lincoln nodded.
There were maybe two feet and a cubicle wall between them.
“Or maybe we shouldn’t,” Beth said, folding her arms.
“What?”
“I just feel like, if we talk about this, it could go horribly wrong. But if we leave it like it is, maybe it can go on feeling, I don’t know, somehow horribly right.”
“Like it is?” he asked.
“Sure,” she said, talking too fast. “We can meet in dark theaters …and if I need to tell you something, I’ll send it to someone else in an e-mail.”
Lincoln stepped away from her, like she’d hit him.
She scrunched up her face and closed her eyes. “Sorry,” she said. “Sorry. I warned you. I’m no good at talking. I’m better on paper.”
She knows, was all Lincoln could think. That I’m the creep. Not the cute guy. She knows …And she still sat next to me.
“Are you done?” he asked.
“Embarrassing myself? Probably not.”
“With your review.”
“Such as it is.”
“Then come with me.”
Lincoln held out his hand to her and felt like he’d won something when, after another dazed moment, she took it. He started walking out of the newsroom, wishing he knew where to take her. It’s not like The Courier had a romantic courtyard hidden away. Or a balcony. Or a corner booth.
They ended up at the break room.
“Wait,” Beth said, as he pushed open the door. The room was dark. The tables were gone. The vending machines were still there, still lit and humming, but they were empty.
“It’s closed,” Beth said quietly. “There’s a new one downstairs. This is going to be office space, I think, for the Web people.”
She looked down the hall, nervously, and drew back her hand.
“Perfect,” Lincoln said. He stepped into the break room and held the door open for her. She looked up at him, surprised, and followed. The door swished shut behind them, and Lincoln stopped for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the Pepsi machine light. There was a clear space against the wall, next to the Coffee-Mat. Beth followed him there—he kept expecting her not to—and they sank to the floor, facing each other.