THAT I did always love,

I bring thee proof:

That till I loved

I did not love enough.

That I shall love alway,

I offer thee

That love is life,

And life hath immortality.

This, dost thou doubt, sweet?

Then have I

Nothing to show

But Calvary.

-Emily Dickinson

The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of Heaven mix forever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle.
Why not I with thine? -

See the mountains kiss high Heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What is all this sweet work worth
If thou kiss not me?

Percy Bysshe Shelley "Love's Philosophy"

When Elliot was ten, his father taught him to play poker. It was a short lesson; his son had always been a quick study, something Mr Williams was proud of. It took only three hands before Elliot started winning. After that, it took only five more for Mr Williams to be wiped out completely. They weren't playing for money, but as Mr Williams handed over his pile of Pogs, he proclaimed to anyone who would listen how brilliant his son was. How people would be afraid to go up against him. Mr Williams ruffled his hair and called him "son," but he never asked Elliot to play poker with him again.

That is the only story Elliot has ever told me about his father. I'll never know if that's because it hurts him to talk about his family, or if it's because he wanted to downplay the connection between us. I'll also never know if it's the truth. There are a lot of things I'll never know.

I wouldn't consider myself to be a plotter or a schemer. I wouldn't consider myself to be dishonest. But I plan, and I lie, just like everybody else. I lie to myself most of all. I had thought seeing Elliot would be easy, now that I know the truth. The truth is fact; incontrovertible. I know the truth about Elliot. I'm pretty sure I know the truth about Elliot. I tell myself that nothing good has come out of my friendship with Elliot, but even as I repeat it to myself, I know it's a lie. The real truth, the worst truth, is that I'll never know what the truth is. I have only my convictions and the opinions of my good friend. Which is more than enough for me, it seems. How little we change.

The band is playing The Beatles by the time I reach Elliot, who is still leaning against the banister, watching me approach with neither joy nor apprehension. The smile on his face is charming, but I know not to trust it.

I find the anger rising again in my throat, and again I have to clamp it down. Not here. Not here.

"Annie!" he says once I get within hearing range. "I've been calling and calling. What's up?"

"What are you doing here?" I ask, and I am surprised that my voice is completely calm. Even friendly. My stomach is not.

He looks slightly taken aback, but he doesn't say anything. He waits for me to explain my question.

"You weren't invited."

He cocks a grin at me. "I know, I shouldn't gate crash, but I called your family's place looking for you, and Elizabeth told me about this party, and asked me to come along, so here I am."

"Oh, my family's here, too?" This time my attempt to be civil is not so well hidden. He frowns suddenly, concernedly.

"No, we're coming separately. What's up?" he asks again, sounding for all the world as if he were truly concerned.

Maybe he is.

He's slippery. He's always been slippery.

"Do you want to dance?" I hold out my hand to him, and hand at which we both stare vacantly for a few moments. I don't know where that came from. Neither does he. But he recovers well, as I knew he would, and he looks back up at me, a charming, heart-melting smile on his face, and offers me his arm, which I take.

No, in spite of everything, I can't dislike Elliot. I could hate him, I think, but I could never dislike him.

The dance floor is less open than it was before, the myriad of socially-mobile couples having drunk sufficient champagne not to give a damn if they have rhythm. Most of them do not. The Beatles song has changed to a smooth, soulful, jazzy number I don't recognize. It could well be an original, but I doubt it. I just don't listen to music enough. He picks the spot on the dance floor and turns me into his arms, where we spin on the spot, him leading as much as one leads in this kind of dancing. He holds me close, but not close enough to be creepy.

He understands me very well.

But I'm starting to understand him well, too.

"Tell me, Miss Elliot," he murmurs in my ear, turning me to avoid an ill-placed elbow from another couple, "why is it you haven't been taking my calls? Are you angry at me or something?" And again, that look of concern on his face.

But I have my convictions. I have my convictions.

I pull back just slightly to look at him. I stare a moment longer than he's comfortable with, but he barely shows it. "I know, Elliot." I say it quietly. Maybe at some other stage in my life, at some other distance from this situation, I would find it pitiable that the entire purpose of his life is about to be taken from him. Too bad for him I live in the here and now.

"Know what?" he asks, sounding terribly confused. I probably imagine the almost imperceptible freeze on his face. His smile is still there, that charming, golden-boy smile.

"Don't make this any more awkward than it needs to be, Elliot," I say, not looking away from his face. "You know what I'm talking about."

"Okay, I wish I knew what you were talking about." He says. His eyebrows are pulled down in a frown. "Could you try not to be so cryptic?"

I take a deep breath. As long as I'm vague, he can feign confusion. If I tell him everything that I know, he'll call me crazy. Better not to get any further into either category than absolutely necessary.

"You know this town pretty well, right?" The change of topic seems to catch him off guard. He blinks once or twice then answers.

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Have you heard of a man called General Wallace?"

"Yes, I—" and he stops. We both stop. He looks at me, and his face never changes, but I know he knows. He realizes, if he didn't know before, what it is exactly that I know. He understands that he's failed. He corrects this error as quickly as possible, bringing his smile back with beautiful radiance. But I've seen his face. And he knows it.

"Elliot," I say, and I don't say it unkindly. "I know."

He watches me for one more second, then on some simultaneous impulse we both take up the dance again, if half-heartedly. He doesn't look at me, and I don't look at him.

The song ends, and we separate, but only to stand face-to-face on the dance floor. The other couples dance on, unperturbed. He watches me, his face carefully blank. I watch him, too. I have no idea what my face betrayed. I never know what my face looks like.

I hold out my hand. "Can I borrow your cell-phone?" I'll never know why he does it, but he reaches into his pocket wordlessly, and takes out his phone, all shiny and new, and hands it to me. I look down at it, manipulating the buttons.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

I don't look up. "I'm calling the police."

He chokes on his own laughter. "I'm sorry, what?"

I look up at him. "I'm giving you an out. Leave right now, or I call the police."

"On my phone."

"On your phone."

"I'm sorry," he crosses his arms, still smiling at me, rather smugly, in my opinion, "and what exactly will you tell them? That I felt you up on the dance floor? They're not going to go into a panic over that."

I breathe. It's important to breathe. "I'll tell them you were creating a disturbance. You're here uninvited, you're not one of the family. There are several very influential people here who would back up my story if I asked them to."

"Who? Your soccer friend?" He says it with such condescension that it takes me back momentarily. My surprise must register on my face because he masters himself. "Even if they do come, I haven't done anything illegal."

I look him dead in the eyes, and despite myself, I do feel some pity for him. My voice, when I speak, is as firm as it is gentle. I'm a complicated woman. "We both live in the same world, Elliot. Look around you. Look at where we're standing. We're in the middle of the dance floor at a very large party full of very influential people. It doesn't take much to kick you out of the club. A rumor is enough. Or a scandal at a party. If you walk out of here in police custody, you walk out and you never come back. Maybe if you were really important, of really famous, you could come back. But that's not you. And I'm willing to bet that you have your entire future staked on being able to come back. And, it should also be said that I am close personal acquaintances with Margaret Dalrymple. Which you advised me to be only recently, didn't you? Although I guess you had other plans for that."

He's staring at me, stunned. He's never seen me before.

I wait. I'm courteous, and I give it a few minutes. It can take a minute to get acclimated to the fact that you've lost.

Then I press on. "But if you leave now, there won't be a whisper of a scandal. If you walk out of these doors and never show your face anywhere near me or my family again, then that's that. No more trouble from me, either." Because a bargain has to be struck. And because technically, he's not doing anything illegal. Immoral, yes. But the police can't arrest someone for being an asshole.

He takes it in, the new pieces of information adding weight to his shoulders. He rallies valiantly, but we both know how this is going to turn out. As in, not well.

For him, at least.

"I mean it Elliot. Leave now, or I will put you in the middle of a scandal."

He looks at me, long and measured. I am sure I am a disappointment to him. "Well, we wouldn't want that, now would we?" His face is almost without expression. He's regarding me very solemnly.

I feel the pity rise up again, but my voice is firm. "No. We wouldn't want that."

Finally, he nods his head. Hands in his pockets, he and I stroll together toward the staircase. With Ahmir, this habit is casual, almost unthinking. With Elliot, it is the physical equivalent of holding his tail between his legs. Elliot uses his hands to talk. He's very charismatic.

At the bottom of the stairs, I turn and beckon a security guard from his sleepy post by the back wall. I don't really think Elliot will try to hurt me, but then the truth is that I don't know Elliot very well. If at all.

The elevator is gold-and-mahogany themed. The reflective doors show three very somber people, trying not to make eye contact with themselves. It's harder than it seems. Elliot's reflection is very pale. I feel some satisfaction being right, the vindication of the half-certain, but more than anything, I'm tired. I want to go home and curl up in bed and stay there forever.

Brave new world, with such people in it.

The guard trails behind us as we walk out the door. He's well-disciplined and surprisingly un-macho for a man built like Zeus's father. He's letting me call the shots, which I appreciate.

The front of the building is a long series of old stone steps. I step down them in time with Elliot, then stop three stairs from the bottom. I am king of the castle. He stops, too, and turns to look up at me. I can see the shock in his face, the budding recognition. I am serious. This is the end. And, it turns out, I am not the woman he thought I was, after all.

I take a deep breath, and let it out, not looking away from him. I mean what I say. I say what I mean.

"Goodbye, Elliot." Reaching out to shake his hand seems idiotic, and yet there my hand is, at the ready.

His mouth quirks up as he looks at my hand, but he puts his hand in mine to shake it, then unexpectedly leans in, close enough to murmur something, soft and low, his breath warm on my ear and my jawline.

"I love you, Anne Elliot." Before I can say anything, or think of anything to say, he turns and walks away.

I will never know if he was telling the truth. The possibility of it being true will keep me up at night sporadically for years to come.

I will see him again, just once. I won't be afraid.

I stand and watch him disappear, Chronos behind me, stand and watch him go until he's out of my sight, until his shadows disappear from the sidewalk. I stand and watch him go, and will him far, far away. I wait far longer than I have to before I turn back to the party, where life is continuing. I smile a thanks at the security guard, and he trots up the stairs to go back to his spot watching other people have a good time. I stand in the night, with a light mist falling from the sky, and a cool breeze rising from the east, and I feel so, so old.

How can I feel this old?

It is much, much later that I enter the hall again. The party seems to be winding down. My family has not, in fact, shown up. I would have known. I've been sitting on the steps for two hours.

Nadya and Adam are dancing, and Charlie is being twirled between Charles and Mary. Old couples, social climbers, men in suits, women in dresses, stand or sit and talk and drink and dance together.

I feel tired. I feel cruel. I feel naïve.

I look around the room helplessly, desperate to see someone I know and like. Lou and Hen are sitting in a corner, chairs facing each other, shoes off, their feet in the other's lap. A bottle of champagne is sitting on the table next to them. Perfect.

I grab a champagne flute from a nearby table, not taking the time to see if it's clean. I pull up a chair as well, and, completely uninvited, I approach their conversation.

Luckily, they don't mind.

"Anne!" Hen sits up, and it's clear right away she's tipsy. "Where have you been? You missed Mummy trying to do the Macarena!"

"How are you ladies?" I ask, smiling, sitting myself down. I prefer not to answer questions I don't want to answer.

"Sooooooooooo good," Lou giggles, taking a swig from the champagne bottle. Apparently, there's no need for the dirty flute after all. "It's been a great party, hasn't it?"

I nod, slipping off my shoes. "A great party."

"And you had fun, right?"she looks at me anxiously.

I smile at her. "I had so much fun."

"I'm glad."

Hen catches my attention. "Anne. Did you know that your initials are A and E?"

I raise my eyebrows. "Strangely enough, I did."

She giggles. She's not that drunk. Neither one of them is. "Okay, I know, but that's like the channel, right? A&E. They had the Pride and Prejudice thing."

"Colin Firth," Lou adds. They both make a "mmmm" sound at the same time, and burst into giggles. I can't help laughing, too.

"And my initials are H and M," Hen says, indicating herself with the bottle of champagne. "Like the store."

"I'm L and M," Lou says doubtfully, more worried than perhaps she should be that we can't find an equivalent to her initials. Hen and I look at each other, stymied. Then my head clears.

"L.M. Montgomery. She wrote Anne of Green Gables."

"Full circle! God, I love that movie."

"Are you coming to brunch tomorrow?" Hen wants to know. "Everyone else is."

At my nod, she does a little dance in her seat. I sit back, not caring that my dress is slightly hiked up. The cold, dirty feeling that I had just minutes ago is washing away, and I'm starting to feel human. Better. They make me feel better.

They're saying something else.

"…No, but when you marry Ben, your initials will be LC, like the girl on the Hills," Hen is saying, in a very rational voice.

"That's only if I change my name. I'm not sure I want my marriage to be compared to the Hills."

"Ohh, look at you, Sadie Sadie," Hen teases her, poking her with her toe. Lou laughs, and I chuckle, resting my head against the back of the chair.

"But who else? Ben, obviously, is BC, like 'before Christ,' " Lou says, but Hen snorts.

"It's PC to say 'before common era,' now, you know" she says, handing me the bottle of champagne. I take a tiny sip, then cradle it in my arm for a minute. "Besides, are you really comparing the guy to Jesus? I mean, I know you love him and everything—"

"Okay, who else, who else?" I ask, wanting to avoid the obligatory squabble.

"Ummmm, Harry Harville? H and H?"

"Hilton House?" Lou suggests.

"Hampstead Heath?" is Hen's input.

"Poor Harry," I say, and we giggle again.

"How about Ahmir?" Lou says, craning her neck to see if he's around. I suddenly remember that I haven't seen him since I went to talk to Elliot. Three hours ago.

No.

"Easy," says Hen, banging her hand against the table lightly. "Ahmir and Wentworth. A and W. Like the rootbeer. Done." She raises her arms in mock triumph, turning for an invisible crowd to clap at her.

He must have seen me leave with Elliot.

He promised not to make assumptions.

He can't promise that, not really. Would you be able to?

I stay with Hen and Lou for a few minutes more, but the tension is back in my body, and I am railing at myself for forgetting him. How can I forget him? How do you just forget the man you're in love with, barring any sudden, amnesia-inducing falls from things, etc, etc.

I stand up, making some excuse or other, and pick up my shoes, deciding I can search faster without them.

The French doors to the balcony are open, sending in a cool breeze from the air outside. As I step out onto the balcony, I find Harry leaning against the stone railing, looking down at the cityscape below. I hesitate in the doorway, puzzled by Harry's apparent dejection, but desperate to find Ahmir. He hangs his head, and I make a decision. I walk up quietly, but he still hears me. He turns to look at me as I join him in his leaning, watching cars move about nine stories below us.

"You alright?" he asks. I look at him in exhausted surprise, and nod, smiling slightly. I look down at his hand, which is cupped around something. He obligingly opens it to reveal a tiny golden locket on a delicate chain. When I look up at him, eyebrows raised, he smiles stiffly and opens it, revealing a small, beautifully-done sketch of a man's face.

"I bet you know who that is." Harry says quietly. His voice sounds bitter.

"It's Ben, isn't it?" I know it is. He knows I know.

"Yup. This was made a while ago. I'm giving it to Louisa." He looks down at the picture, turning it around in his hands. The silence stretches out.

"But?" I have to ask.

"But it wasn't made for her. This was done for my sister, Phoebe. It was supposed to be her engagement present."

I have nothing to say to that. I wait, watching him. He looks up at me, and shrugs, turning away to look out over the city. "I've been trying to write some kind of note to go with it all day, but everything I've done is unreadable. Cap's helping me out." He tilts his head back to indicate behind us, and I turn sharply, surprised, to see Ahmir sitting at a tiny circular table, a small stack of arty cards in front of him. He is largely unlit, which explains why I didn't see him before. I open my mouth, stupidly, because I have nothing to say, really. I close it again, but smile at him instead. He gives me only the briefest of glances before he goes back to writing something down on a piece of lined paper. Practice runs.

I am a coward.

"Poor Phoebe," Harry continues, sighing and shaking his head. I turn back to him, my head buzzing. "She would never have moved on this fast. Not in a million years."

I turn, too, facing the skyline, both hands on the stone wall. "No, I don't think she would have. That's not how it goes." I'm talking to Harry, but all my attention is behind me. I want to turn and look, but I don't.

"Not how what goes?" He's turned toward me, his face in a curious little frown.

I shrug again. "Women don't really forget men as easily as men forget women." I say it loud enough to be heard. I will be heard.

He quirks up his mouth. "Oh really? Are you speaking for all womankind here, or just the small, admirable percentage you represent?"

I make a face at him, more to cheer him up than because I feel like joking. He chuckles. He goes on. "I think you have it backwards. I've got a lot of proof. I can't remember a time when I picked up a book or watched a movie or listened to a song that didn't go on and on about how women can't commit. And now you're probably going to say they're all written by men, right?" he smiles at me ruefully, leaning back, his hands gripping the stone for balance.

"Do you read a lot of books written by women?" I ask him lightly. He thinks a moment, and then smiles, which tells me all I need to know. I click my tongue in mock censure, and his smile stretches to a grin.

I tilt my head and look at him. "Do you think Nikki can't commit?"

"Whoa," he says, looking back at me in surprise. "Personal."

"We are talking about womankind," I say.

"Touche. And, yes, of course I think Nikki can commit. I'm just saying that maybe the majority of women, dot dot dot, yada yada yada." He gestures vaguely into the distance, and I smile at him. I turn out, too, and together we look out at the city in companionable silence.

Finally, he turns to me, and says "I don't think you understand men at all if you think that we get over things easily. Even Ben, I mean, he was miserable for so long, you know? Maybe I'm being unfair, because he was a mess, even more than me, and she was my baby sister." He looks down at the railing, his thumb picking at tiny divets in the stone. I reach out compulsively and lay a hand on his arm. There is absolute silence between us. And behind us.

He clears his throat, throwing me a grateful smile. "If I could tell you—if I could just explain, or make you understand how much men can suffer when they're separated from the women they love. Separated from their families. Life on the road, all season, is hard." His voice dips, and he leans in closer to me, desperate to be understood. "I can't take the kids with me wherever I go, they have to stay home most times. Being apart from them, missing them, waiting to be with them again, it's harder than you know. Wishing to be home a day sooner, or even an hour sooner. To see their faces sooner. Whatever the stereotypes are, don't believe them. Real men don't forget."

"No, I don't think they do," I say, finding the words as I say them, and finding most of all that I believe them to be true. "I think guys are capable of great things. But," I say, turning to look at him, not daring to look to my left, not for one instant, "the only thing I'll say, the only point I'll give just to women, is that we love the longest, even when there's no hope. After death, or loss, we hold on. That's just how it is." I shrug, but I've never felt less casual in my life. My skin is crawling with desperation, but I don't know what to do with myself. I need to tell him. I need to explain. I need to know if he understood.

I open my mouth, but Harry has turned to Ahmir before I can say anything, "Any luck?"

Ahmir stands up, slipping a bright card into a sun-yellow envelope. "Not sure yet. We'll find out."

"Thanks, man."

Ahmir hands him the card, and looks at me briefly before he starts rearranging the cards on the table. "My pleasure."

Harry steps into the hall, and at last, at last Ahmir and I are alone. I open my mouth again, and this time I get as far as "Ahmir—" before Adam comes out onto the balcony. He smiles at me, then turns to Ahmir.

"Are you ready to go? Nadya wants to head home, and we can give you and Harry a ride, if you like."

"Yeah, I'll be there in a second." But Adam waits for him, standing in the doorway, and Ahmir and I share only a moment's glance before he's through the door and on his way.

I'm not usually one for swearing, but I can think of a few choice words for this moment, and I say them. Loudly.

Yet again, I've failed. For some reason, it is important that he understand now, right away, what the truth is.

Maybe I'm just tired of waiting. But I have failed.

Tears out of nowhere rise up in my throat, and I breathe carefully, focusing on one particular building, and blinking over and over, lying to myself that as long as I focus and breathe, I'll be able to make it out of here with my dignity.

I hear footsteps behind me, and I turn, but it's Mary. I try not to be too disappointed, but I turn away before she can see my face. Maybe she wouldn't notice anyway. I have to give her more credit than that.

I am a coward.

Mary says something, and I make a noncommittal noise, which seems to be enough. Together, we stare out at the city, feel the wind as it whips up along the building. Mary's hair gets ruffled, but she makes no move to stop it. She really does look wonderful in that dress.

I can't make eye contact for long.

Then, more footsteps, and I hear a voice, loud and clear. "I'll be there in a second, I just forgot my coat," and I whip around, not caring how it looks. Ahmir is there, leaning down to get the coat that is indeed on the back of the chair. But he's looking at me, too, and before I can say anything, he slips his hand into his pocket and takes out a folded piece of notepaper, and puts it on the table. His eyes are dark and desperate, but before I can say anything, he's turned away and disappeared again.

It takes a moment for the situation to sink in, and I stare stupidly after him, until a puff of wind pushes the notepaper across the table, and I pounce to grab it before it gets blown away. Then, once it's in my hands, I start to understand it as a real thing. Alive.

My initials, AE, like the channel, are scratched messily on the front, and when I open it, I discover that it's only a few lines long. At first, I can't read it, but as I move closer to the doors, the light from the hall intensifies, and I can make out what he scrawled hastily on the paper.

Anne-

Don't know what to say, but I have to say something. I can't sit here and listen without saying something. I've wanted to hear you say this for six years. I'm confused, half-agony, half-hope.

You need to know. I never forgot you, not once since we left each other. You are my only plan. Being with you is my only dream. I've been weak, I've been mean spirited and cruel and idiotic, but I have never been unfaithful to you. I am more in love with you now than I was when you left me five and a half years ago. It's been impossible to forget you. Now I don't want to try.

Please tell me that I'm not too late. Please tell me that I'm the only one you feel this way for. You're the only woman in the world for me. A word, or even a look, will be enough.

I have to go. I love you.

Ahmir

I read the letter through twice, barely understanding, then a third time, faster, and my heart begins to pound. I have nowhere to put the letter, but I'll be damned if I put it down. This thing is never leaving my hands again.

"Anne? Are you okay?" Mary has noticed the change in my breathing, and God only knows what my face looks like. Of all the days for her to notice. Of all the moments.

I seem to have lost my ability to speak. I look up at her, and I can feel how wide my eyes are. I nod, jerkily.

"What's wrong?" she comes up to me, and puts a hand on my shoulder. I know she can feel my shaking. I summon my voice from somewhere in my sternum. "N-nothing."

Obviously, she's not fooled.

"You look terrible. Do you want to sit down?"

No, I don't want to sit down. I want to scream or cry or run around. The last thing I want to do is sit.

He only just left. I can still catch him.

I look at her again, unable to formulate a response, and then I take off, darting through the thinning crowd of party guests, people with whom I have chatted and schmoozed only just recently. Past Rochelle, who I didn't even know was here. I only register her face for a moment, but I don't have time to stop. Mary is calling my name, but I ignore it. My feet feel heavy and stupid, but I press on.

He only just left.

The elevator ride is slow, so slow, even slower than the one I took with Elliot. I'm jammed in between two couples, who are slightly drunk and very sleepy. The women are wrapped up in big coats. One man is wearing a scarf. The woman looking back at me from the polished doors is nothing but eyes, nothing but twitching, nervous energy.

I can still catch him.

I don't care how rude it is. When the doors open, I dart out, elbowing my way past the sleepy lady on my left. I leave any protests far behind as I sprint as fast as the heels will allow me to go, which is not fast enough, to the front doors, and then I'm outside and on my way down the stone steps, only slightly careful not to fall and break my head open.

I count every step. I don't know why.

On the sixteenth step, I look up, only to see Adam and Nadya's car take off from the curb. I raise my voice in a shout, some syllable, some word maybe, but the car is away from the curb and off into the night, the same direction Elliot went.

I haven't stopped running, though my shout has momentarily stopped everyone else on the steps and the sidewalk. Only hours ago, I was prepared to create a scandal with Elliot just this way. I wonder what they'll say about me.

I stop at the bottom, out of breath. Twenty-two steps.

The car is gone. Even running my fastest, he's gone. I look around me, helplessly, and half raise my hands only to let them fall to my sides again. Then my own breathlessness catches up to me, and I prop my hands on my hips, gasping for air, looking up at the sky. There are only a few starts out tonight. And they're not my stars.

"Anne?" The voice behind me is familiar, and I turn around to see Charles coming toward me. I'm still panting, and I'm not sure whether my face is red or pale or both. I must look a sight. "Are you alright?"

Again, I make a helpless gesture with my hands. That seems to be enough.

"Mary sent me to find you. She's worried."

I don't know why, but I start laughing. It's only a small giggle, barely perceptible, but he sees it. "She was," he says defensively. I nod curtly, looking away down the street.

"What's wrong?" he comes down to stand next to me, arms crossed. He's taken his jacket off, he must be cold. He must have followed me out here too fast to put it on.

I take a moment to breathe, and then turn to him. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Of course," his brow is wrinkled in a frown. He must be expecting something very bad.

"Can you make sure that Ahmir and Harry are coming to the brunch tomorrow?"

He frowns even deeper, now in confusion. "Of course they're coming, they're Ben's friends."

"No, I want to be sure," I insist, completely out of all rationality. "Can you make absolutely sure that they know where it is, and what time it is?"

"It's not exactly rocket science, Anne. When we say brunch, it's understood that—"

"No, it's not understood!" I say, my voice rising, sounding for all the world like a baby Mary, "I am asking you to do this for me Charles, okay?" I continue in a somewhat more reasonable voice. "Can you? Please?"

"Okay," he says, looking stunned at my outburst. I probably would be too, but I'm too high strung to be able to care. "But I think you need a ride home. Do you want me to take you?"

I shake my head furiously. "No, I'll walk."

He looks at me like I'm insane. Maybe I am. "Walk? It's two in the morning, Anne. You don't even have your coat. You are not walking."

"I'll take the night bus."

"Don't be an idiot. Taking the night bus alone in that dress is asking for trouble. I'll take you, but I have to go tell Mary and the girls," and he turns to climb up the steps, only to stop, still within my peripheral vision.

"Ahmir!" he calls, and I whip around so quickly I get dizzy spots in front of my eyes. "Are you going home?"

Ahmir is standing still on step fifteen, his hands at his sides, watching me. Like I'm watching him.

He doesn't take his eyes off me when he answers Charles. "Not sure yet."

"If you're leaving, can you maybe take Anne home? I have to go in and make sure that everything's getting cleaned up, and then I have a business call in Tokyo that I have to take, and I need to be on time for that. It's that man that I was telling you about, Ahmir, the guy with the three piece-suits and the pocket squares, who wears them when he's playing golf. He's actually kind of a demon…" he trails off.

Ahmir doesn't notice for a few seconds more. "I'll take her home, Charles."

"Thanks. Thanks very much," he says, looking from me to Ahmir and back. He seems unsure of whether or not to leave us, but finally makes up his mind and trots up the stairs.

Ahmir comes down slowly. From my place on the bottom, I gaze up at him, terrified and alive with electric goosebumps. I try to smile at him, but my face isn't working. The only expression it knows how to do is the one it's doing right now.

He comes down, slowly, but finally he's standing next to me. He's so tall that even in heels I have to look up several inches to see his face.

I look down to where I still have his letter clutched in my hand. I try to flatten it out, but the creases are there. I would have to iron it. Stupidly, I consider that possibility.

Where the hell has my sanity gone?

I look up at him. He's watching me as if he's afraid I'm going to hit him across the face. I hold up the note, my hands shaking.

"Are you sure?"

His dark eyes blaze."Are you?"

I take a deep breath. "Absolutely." Then I smile. I can smile.

I'm still panting, still out of breath. But it would be wrong to blame the running.

He reaches out a hand, and I put mine in his. He guides me to step up one stair so that we are face-to-face and eye-to-eye.

He regards me seriously for a moment, then his face changes, and a grin pulls his mouth up at the corners until his face is split from ear to ear in a smile.

"So am I," he says, low, before moving ever so slightly closer to me. It seems like it takes an age, but our lips touch in a kiss. His arms come up around me, and even six years since the last time I've been in them, I know the weight of them, the strength of them. My arms come up, too, and the kiss deepens.

He's the one who breaks it off first, and I make some small sound of complaint because he grins at me. "We should get a cab," he says, watching me, a hesitance on his face. He's giving me an out. I bring him back into my arms, unwilling to let him go now that he's here.

"We really should," I agree, before I kiss him again. I feel his hands on my waist, caressing my lower back, pulling me closer to him.

I only want to be closer.

There might be people on the stairs, still trickling away from the party, but I don't know. Maybe tomorrow, over brunch, some friends will sit and gossip about the soccer star and the Elliot daughter making out. Will catalogue any known connections between us, and will draw their own conclusions.

I cup his face with my hands, in terrible danger of never caring what they think of me.

I'd like to make my own story, thank you.