Choose Me (The Me Novellas) (5 page)

“You need to do this,” Ellen insisted.

“But he just made my reservations,” I fumed. “Didn’t ask, didn’t discuss
…
just made them.”

“And that upsets you,” she said.

“Of course it upsets me,” I said. I rolled my eyes and tried to not take my frustration out on her. “How presumptuous is that?”

“Oh, it absolutely is,” she agreed. “But it tells me something.”

“That he’s an arrogant asshole?”

She chuckled. “Well, maybe a little. But it tells me something else.”

“What?”

“That he wants you,” she said. “Badly enough that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.”

I’d hung up and stewed over her words for the better part of the afternoon. She’d answered Andy’s question, loud and clear.

I couldn’t afford to say no. Not if I wanted to make an impression in the art world.

I’d waited until the evening to call Yuri back. Had a glass of wine with the pot roast dinner I’d made, talked things over with Andy. He was supportive in a clenched jaw sort of way. I knew he wasn’t crazy about the way Yuri had acted but he was the first to admit that it was important I go.

A voice sounded over the loudspeaker at the airport startling me.

“And your plane gets in at 5:30?” Andy asked.

I nodded. “Yes.”

“OK.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I wish I was coming with you. You know that, right?”

I nodded again. I did know. He’d looked at airfares on Monday, found one that wasn’t horrific. But then one of his clients had called, the one who owned the house off Weaver Lake. They weren’t interested in renting properties anymore. And they’d asked Andy if he was interested in buying. It was the opportunity he’d been waiting for. So I’d told him to stay, to focus on working towards one of
his
milestones. Owning a house. That was how we could be together, even when we were apart.

“And you have Lance’s number? His address?” he asked.

I felt in my jeans pocket, my fingers touching the folded-up sheet of paper. “I have it.”

He frowned. “I can’t believe I’m sending you off on a trip some random guy has paid for. To stay with some other random guy.” He shook his head in disgust.

“Stop,” I said. “Yuri fronted the money for the gallery. That was it.” I hesitated. “And Lance
…
well, Lance is just that. Lance.”

As soon as I’d decided to go to DC, I’d started looking at hotels. The gallery was in Northwest and Yuri had advised me to stay as close as possible. Unfortunately, all of the hotels in that part of DC charged more for a one-night stay than I paid in monthly rent. And since I knew that staying in any other quadrant put my life at risk—at least, according to Yuri—I was stuck.

Until I remembered Lance.

Lance from high school. Lance who had been a good friend until he’d moved to the East Coast the summer of our junior year. Lance who was also an artist—he was a playwright now—who had recently moved to Washington, DC.

Lance who was very much gay.

“I know, I know,” Andy grumbled. He put his arms around me. “But I think I’m allowed to be a little put out by you staying with another guy.”

“It’d be no different than me staying with Katie,” I reminded him. “Just remember that.”

“Trying.”

I glanced at my watch. “I should probably go. Get in line.”

Andy sighed. “I know.” His arms tightened around my waist. “Just don’t wanna let you go. Which is totally irrational.”

I hugged him back. Part of me didn’t want to go, either.

“It’s only a weekend,” I said.

“No, it’s not.”

“OK, a little longer than a weekend,” I clarified. “It’s Thursday. I’ll be back Monday. Four days.”

“Five,” he mumbled against my shoulder.

“Whatever. Today doesn’t count,” I told him. “Monday shouldn’t, either, since I’ll be back that night. Three days. See? The time is already flying by.”

He squeezed me. “So illogical.” He lifted his head and kissed me soundly. “One of the many reasons why I love you.”

I kissed him back. “Why else?”

“Because you’re funny,” he said, his lips dotting my cheeks with kisses as he spoke. “Smart. Talented. Beautiful.”

My heart fluttered in response. Even after two years, his words still had that kind of effect on me.

“I love you, too,” I told him. Unexpectedly, I felt my eyes fill with tears.

He noticed. “What’s wrong?”

I brushed them away with an impatient hand. “Nothing. Just gonna miss you.”

He smiled. “Good.”

“Good?” I snorted.

“Yes. Good. Miss me tons. And then come back to me.” He stared at me. “Got it?”

I nodded.

“Promise?”

“I promise.” I held him tight, pressing my body against his.

He kissed me again, quickly this time. “You need to go.”

“OK.” But I said it reluctantly. I picked up my carry-on and looped it over my shoulder with painful slowness.

Andy reached down and pulled up the handle of my bag. He handed it to me.

“Find me as soon as you land?” he asked.

“I will.” I turned to go.

“And Meg?”

I glanced over my shoulder.

“Hit this milestone out of the park.”

EIGHT

Flying into National Airport in DC was like flying into a postcard. The monuments loomed on the horizon as we began our descent, the Washington Monument serving as our personal welcoming beacon. I stared out the window from my seat, my mouth agape as I spotted landmark after landmark, buildings I’d only seen in books and on television. The Washington Monument,the Jefferson Memorial and the grassy expanse of lawn that separated them. Out of the corner of my eye, the Jefferson Memorial, perched on the edge of the river. The fall colors here were muted, not as pronounced and I knew that the seasons hit later here than in Minnesota. The trees were close to summer foliage, a palette of lush greens, just a twinge of yellow hinting at the changes to come.

I called Andy as soon as I was off the plane. It rolled me over to voice mail, which I expected. It was an hour earlier in Minneapolis which meant he was still in the middle of his workday. I knew he had interviews lined up for an apartment in Dinkytown, knew he was planning to meet with the Weaver Lake homeowner soon.

Lance was waiting for me at baggage claim. He stood at the exit, his eyes scanning the throngs of people entering the baggage claim area. He hadn’t changed much in the years since I’d last seen him. Tall, slightly built, blond hair cropped close, warm green eyes. He enveloped me in a bear hug.

“Oh my gosh, you look exactly the same,” he gushed, his eyes roving over me. “Same beautiful hair, same beautiful eyes.”

I smiled. “Shut up.”

He laughed. “I’m serious. You know I love your hair.”

He grabbed my bag and wheeled it behind him as we made our way through the airport. Plenty of female heads turned as we walked, their gazes frank, assessing. He wore designer jeans and a fitted Western-style shirt that he’d probably picked up from Urban Outfitters. A pair of tan and brown Bapes completed his outfit. He was hip and beautiful and, to the untrained eye, a fine-looking heterosexual male.

Except I knew better.

“Where’s the rest of your stuff?” he asked. “What baggage claim are you at?”

I shook my head. “I don’t have anything else.”

Lance frowned at me. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Like?”

“Um, like your
art
.” I’d told him a quick version of why I was in town.

“Oh,” I said, shaking my head. “No, they were shipped separately. They’re already at the gallery.”

Yuri had made arrangements to have my pieces shipped the same day he’d made my airline reservation. Again, without asking.

“Excellent.” Lance smiled. “So, we can go back to my place and then grab dinner?”

“Sure.”

I followed him through the walkway to the parking garage. He stopped in front of a shiny red Mini Cooper.

“Nice car,” I said.

“Right?” Lance said. He stowed my bag and hopped in the driver’s seat.

“Alright,” he said as he navigated out of the parking garage. “You said you’d share details when you got here. You’re here. Share.”

So I did. He drove out of the airport and onto a parkway that paralleled the river and I filled him in on what had happened over the last week. He’d known I had my own studio—we’d kept in touch sporadically via email and text—but he didn’t have details about the exhibit or why I was coming to DC, other than my half-hearted explanation that it was “for art.”

“Wow,” he said, his eyes drifting from the road to me. He looked impressed. “Good for you, Meg.”

I nodded. And then I told him about Yuri.

“Oh my God.” His alarm was sincere. “Are you serious?”

“Yep.”

He let out a whistle as we crossed a low bridge into the city. The monuments were off to the right and it suddenly felt surreal to me, sitting in a Mini Cooper with a friend I hadn’t seen since high school, crossing the Potomac River into the Nation’s Capital, preparing for a prestigious art show. One week earlier, I’d been sweating bullets over the tiny show in Minneapolis. And now here I was, a thousand miles away
…
on multiple levels.

“He sounds brazen,” Lance said. “Arrogant.”

“He is.”

He glanced at me. “Any chance he’s gay?”

I laughed. “Um, I don’t really know.” Not if you asked Andy, I wanted to tell him. Andy was convinced Yuri had developed the hots for me during our five hours of minimal interaction at last weekend’s art show.

“Hmm.” Lance hit his blinker, turning left on to a street bustling with cars and pedestrians. “We need to find out.”

“Where are we?” I asked, scanning the scene in front of me. It reminded me of Uptown with the shops and restaurants but there were high rises mixed in, too.

“Georgetown,” he told me. “It couldn’t be better, you know.”

“What?”

“The location. My place is three blocks from here. The gallery where the show is? It’s only six blocks up M. You can easily walk there.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t known that. He’d said he lived nearby when I’d called and begged for a place to stay, but that’s as far as we’d gotten.

“Not that I’ll let you,” he said.

“Let me what?”

“Walk. I plan to be your personal escort this weekend.”

He pulled into the driveway of a tall building, a modern highrise with walls of windows, and followed the road as it wound its way to an underground parking garage.

“You live here?”

He nodded. “Isn’t it awesome? Just wait until you see the inside.”

He waved a card in front of a sensor and the striped bar lifted, allowing us access to the garage. He parked and, after grabbing my bags, crossed the garage, making our way toward a set of double doors. The lobby of the building looked like a hotel lobby, with sitting areas filled with overstuffed arm chairs and coffee tables, thick area rugs positioned over the polished floor.

Lance led me to a bank of elevators. He punched the button for the tenth floor, the doors opened and we stepped inside. The elevator rocketed upward. I gripped the railing to steady myself.

A quick left down the hall and he stopped at the second black door and inserted his key.

“Home sweet home,” he announced, throwing the door open and ushering me inside.

My eyes widened in surprise.

A spacious apartment greeted us, decorated sleek and modern. Black leather couches, a round glass-top coffee table. A massive flat-screen TV mounted on one wall, a series of black and white photographs on another. A bank of windows offered a view of downtown DC, the Washington Monument visible behind the buildings across the street.

Lance was doing well for himself. Really well.

“This is amazing,” I said, swiveling so I could take in the whole space.

“Pretty nice, right?” he said, grinning.

“Did you win some big playwright prize I don’t know about?” I asked. I couldn’t begin to imagine how much a place like this would cost.

He laughed. “Not even close.”

He rolled my suitcase across the wood floor and into the bedroom. The only bedroom.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” I offered.

Lance shook his head. “No way. You’re a guest. And guests get the master suite.”

I peeked my head through the open doorway. A king-sized bed with a black leather headboard, a black and silver satin comforter stretched across it. A black dresser and matching nightstands, each sporting nickle-plated lamps. More black and white photographs grouped on the walls but these were candids. Pictures of Lance and his friends in DC, in New York, on the beach. Photos of Lance with his family—I remembered his parents—and with another man, dark-haired and slightly older.