Chapter 13: The Napkin

Ronan shut the door and stood with his forehead against it.

"He loves you," he said, to the wood.

"He loves being the man who gets to say so."

"That too." He turned around. "Tell me you won't go home with him."

"I'm standing in your kitchen in your shirt."

"That's not what I asked."

"I'm not going home with him, Ronan."

His shoulders came down.

Then they went up again, because he was a man who couldn't leave a sore tooth alone.

"Why did you never call?" he said.

I stared at him.

"Call what?"

"The number. I wrote it down for you."

"What number?"

"Seven weeks, Jessa. I thought you'd decided I was a mistake."

"You left before dawn."

"I had a call."

"You left the bed cold and no note. I woke at five and the side next to me was cold."

"I left a napkin," he said.

"There was no napkin."

"In my scarf pocket. I put it there so you'd see it when you picked up the scarf."

"I never went through the pockets. It was on the chair. I took it because it smelled like you."

I heard how that sounded and kept going.

"Then I put it in my bag and didn't look at it for seven weeks."

He didn't move.

I crossed to the tote on the counter and turned it upside down.

Lip balm, keys, a hospital bracelet, two pens, a crumpled receipt from Kerry's bakery.

Nothing else.

I ran my hand around the inside and felt the lining.

The seam at the bottom had split years ago, and I'd never fixed it.

I worked two fingers into the gap.

Something stiff slid against my knuckle.

I pulled out a cocktail napkin, folded in quarters and gone soft as cloth.

The ink had bled a little in the fold.

Ten digits, and under them, in square black capitals: CALL ME. R.

I held it out, and my hand was shaking.

Ronan took it and didn't read it.

He didn't need to.

"It fell out of the pocket," I said. "It's been in my bag the whole time. Under the lining."

"Seven weeks."

"I thought you left because you'd gotten what you came for."

"I came for you," he said. "I'd have crawled to the airport on my knees to get back."

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