The Survivors: Point of Origin (book 2)

Human Contact, pt. 1

The doorman took me up to Cole’s floor and directed me to his door. I moved quickly, trying to keep to a human pace.

He was been standing behind his door in what I could sense was fervent anticipation. I knocked and, too quickly, he opened.

“I can’t believe it!” he exclaimed as he walked toward me. He threw his arms around my waist and lifted me off the ground.

When he put me down, I had a chance to look at him. His features were so friendly, his eyes as clear blue as an ocean, just as I had remembered them. Though, as before, I had forgotten how beautiful he was. His sandy blonde-brown hair was sweetly disheveled and his eyes were still as blue as sapphires. He was wearing a vintage Mighty Mouse t- shirt over knit pajama pants. This deconstructed version of him was candid and warm.

“I’m so glad you let me in,” I confessed as we stepped into his loft apartment.

“Why would I not?” he asked. He ran a hand through his hair and shook it out of his eyes nervously as we stood there. I’d missed the mannerism.

“Because,” I said vaguely, not wanting to relive the details — or the emotions — of the night I’d walked out on him in London.

“History’s dead, kid. You’re here now. That’s what matters,” he smiled. “Oh my gosh, where are my manners? Sit down! Can I get you anything to drink? I’m having coffee, but I can make almost anything. I’m handy,” he laughed, his smile like a sweet reprieve.

“No, I’m good. Thank you, though,” I said politely and followed him into the main room. It was very masculine, with thick charcoals and rich espresso wood blanched over the concrete floors and steel fixtures, but it had all the touches of thoughtful design, right down to the spray of three vases of varying heights set off-center on his coffee table in front of which I sat. I quickly deduced he either hired a designer or had help from his mother, whom he had always talked about with great admiration.

“I have to apologize for my appearance,” he said as we sat on his couch. “I would have looked more presentable if I knew you were coming. How long have you been in New York?”

“About an hour,” I said.

“You came to me first?” he asked, his voice cracking. His mind instantly swam back to familiar images of the Sadie-and-Cole Happily- Ever-After sort they’d been in Tupelo and again in London. Clearly, it was a mistake to have admitted this. Here I was giving him the wrong idea less than two minutes after arriving.

“Oh, um, yeah,” I stuttered. That was the best I had?

“What are you doing in town?” he asked.

“Visiting you?” I said. It was a question, sort of. “That’s...unexpected,” he said. Don’t get too excited, he said to himself. “I was on my way to Europe, so I thought I’d make a stopover here,”

I lied. I panicked, realizing only then just how weird it was that I had flown across the continent to see him like this, unannounced.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” he said calmly. Stay cool. Stay cool. Stay cool! he commanded himself mentally.

“Is it?” I asked. “I don’t know. I’ve not been very thoughtful of you so far,” I said. “I need to apologize.”

He waited for me to go on.

“I was out of line in London. I was even out of line in Tupelo when I acted the way I did. It’s not fair to you when I’m so unpredictable and...flighty,” I said. I didn’t like to think of myself that way, but it was pretty accurate.