No Second Chances [ON HOLD]

Chapter 3: Office Hours

I blink away the memory and clear my throat. "Why are you here, Jamie?"

"I wanted to see you."

I shake my head. Not good enough. "Why? Why now?"

"It's your office hours," he answers in that bland British way, as if his answer couldn't be more natural. He points to a picture of Tabitha and Jae on her side of the space. "Your friend with the purple hair told me where to find you, after you scurried away."

I cross my arms in front of my chest as he ambles toward me. "No, I mean why are you here, Jamie? Why are you at Wallingford?"

"I wanted to seeee youuu." He draws out his words this time, mirroring the extra emphasis I'd put on mine.

OK captain obvious. Is he mocking me?

He keeps shifting closer. Close enough that I can smell his scent. I recognize his aftershave—a bittersweet mix of sandalwood and sage.

The brain's olfactory bulb is located adjacent to the amygdala and hippocampus. Our memories and emotions are hopelessly entwined with certain smells. One whiff, and I'm reliving another moment I'd long buried. Back in the early days when our relationship was still new, and I had to fight a battle with my brain all day long to stay focused at work. I made a rule that we weren't allowed to communicate with each other between the hours of 9:00 a.m. and 6:00 pm. No exceptions. A firm boundary. But Jamie never met a boundary he didn't try to cross. He stopped by my lab unannounced one day at lunchtime. Somehow he sweet-talked his way past the security checkpoint in the lobby. "I'm abducting you," he told me blithely. "Come along. Even double doctors have to eat."

I couldn't resist, of course. I let him drag me from my desk, but we never made it out to lunch. We passed a supply closet in the corridor, and he pulled me inside without warning. I remember the vertigo from the sudden change of position, followed by the pitch black darkness when the closet door clicked closed. I can still feel the whoosh of heat from head to toe as I realized I was trapped. Trapped in a closet, drowning in the scent of sandalwood and sage, with my shoulder blades pressed against the inside of the closet door...

I shake myself, pulling my mind back to the present. My pale skin has betrayed me with a tell-tale flush of red. Jamie sees it, I can tell. The smile leaves his lips. His eyes darken and his brow dips as he takes another step in my direction. Too close. I backpedal, but my current office is barely deeper than that old supply closet. My back hits the rickety metal shelf behind me. It wobbles precariously, and Jamie's hand shoots around me to stabilize it before its contents can topple on my head.

His hand remains there, fingertips resting on the shelf by my left hip. "Let's try this again," he says in a low voice. "Hello, Cora. Nice to see you."

"Am I supposed to say it's nice to see you too?"

He's close enough to kiss me. He only needs to press forward and his body would crush me up against the bookshelf.

I should tell him to back off. But I don't.

The truth is, I've imagined this moment a thousand times. I've dreamed up all sorts of scenarios. More often than not, they begin with Jamie at my door, telling me he's back. He's sorry. He never should have left. He's tortured by regret... etc etc. Sometimes I make him grovel, but I eventually relent. I take him back after he's proven he stands before me a changed man.

That's a fantasy, I know. People grow older in real life, but they never change. Not him, and not me either. If he leaned in to kiss me, I would let him. As I always did. And he would break my heart all over again.

No, there are no second chances in real life. Only the same old mistakes we're forever destined to repeat.

"You changed your hair." Jamie touches it where it falls against my shoulder. "I almost didn't recognize you."