“I won’t.” She leaned in for a kiss.
“Farrah.” The fierceness in his voice startled her. “I mean it. No matter what happens, never forget how much I love you.” Blake’s eyes darkened with emotion. “I am totally, completely, one hundred percent in love with you. I always will be.”
A lump formed in Farrah’s throat. “I know,” she said softly. “I’m totally, completely, one hundred percent in love with you too.” She examined his face, searching for answers to a question she didn’t know. “Are you sure everything’s ok? Besides the stress over the bar.”
Blake laced his fingers through hers with his free hand and squeezed like he was holding on for dear life. “We don’t have a lot of time left.”
No, they didn’t. They had eight weeks.
Eight weeks, fifty-four days, and one thousand ninety-six hours before they had to reenter reality.
But they didn’t have to do it now.
“We have plenty.” Farrah returned his squeeze. “We have tonight.”
Blake and Farrah kissed again, a deep, searching, passionate kiss that gave her everything her romantic side wanted.
Farrah lost herself in the embrace, letting it sweep aside her worries and the little voice inside telling her that this kiss, loving and tender though it may be, was also the type of kiss you gave someone right before you said goodbye.
Chapter Thirty
Two weeks later
Blake signaled for his check. The End Zone was his refuge these days. No one in FEA knew about this place, which meant he could wallow in self-pity in peace.
The bartender brought the bill. It wasn’t Mina, who left Shanghai months ago. She sent him a short text before she left, and that was that.
Honestly, their short-lived fling seemed like it happened a lifetime ago.
Blake tossed back the rest of his whiskey and scribbled his signature. On the wall, the clock ticked toward six. The group had six-thirty dinner reservations at some hot new restaurant Olivia picked out. Farrah texted him the invite. He didn’t reply.
“See you tomorrow,” the bartender said.
Blake nodded. He shouldered his way through the happy hour crowd and stepped outside. Spring had arrived in Shanghai, and the city burst with color and sunshine. Given Blake’s mood, it may as well be gray and storming.
Two weeks.
Two weeks of avoiding Farrah and making excuses about why he couldn’t hang out.
>
Two weeks of not seeing her, touching her, hearing her laugh.
Two weeks of hell.
Blake had to tell her about Cleo. He’d told himself to wait until after her birthday, but every time he tried to get the words out, they stuck in his throat like splintered glass, cutting him open from the inside until he couldn’t speak at all.
He tapped his metro card on the reader, so lost in his thoughts he barely registered the rush hour traffic streaming around him. Office workers, families, and students crowded into the station, their chatter so loud it sometimes drowned out the P.A. announcements.
A little girl, around four or five years old, ran past Blake toward the platform. His stomach plunged when he saw the train pulling into the station. He started to run after her when her panicked father caught up and scooped her up in his arms. The girl laughed and threw her arms around her father’s neck, oblivious to how close she came to danger.
Blake exhaled and followed them onto the train. The relief lasted two seconds before images of all the terrible things that could happen to a child rushed in—kidnappings, bullying, road accidents. Things no parent could control.
His shoulders tensed. More people squeezed onto the train before the doors closed, packing them in like sardines in a can.
Sweat broke out on his forehead.
Blake wasn’t ready for any of this. Not to go back to the dorm, not to tell Farrah the truth, and certainly not to be a freaking father. He was 22, for chrissakes! Cleo was 20. They had no clue what they were doing.