Then I say goodbye, grab my phone from my pocket and dial Kristen as fast as I possibly can. But my fingers are shaky and I miss a number. So I try again. I miss another number. One more try and still my fingers keep slipping off the dialpad. I remind myself to slow down, to calm down, to stop being eaten alive by impulses. I don’t have to grab hard at what I want, and then run like hell from what scares me. I can take a moment, take a breath.

The call goes through this time. Kristen answers on the second ring.

“Hey. It’s Trey. How are you?”

“I’m good,” she says with a small laugh. “Thanks for asking.”

“So,” I begin, as I head north on Lexington. But I don’t even know if I should be heading north. She could be anywhere in the city. “Do you know where Harley is? She went to some,” I pause, fighting every instinct to spit out the next words with disgust, and instead I manage to be calm, “Some event. She went to some event.”

“Yeah. I know where she is. But if you’re going to fuck her up more, I’m not going to tell you. You did a number on her, Trey.”

I nod, absorbing the blow, deserving it. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“You need to tell her that, Trey,” she says and I can picture Kristen, hands on her hips, sharp-eyed stare through those red cat’s eye glasses, all intense and serious.

“I will.”

“And she is not in a good place. Her mother worked her over yesterday and said awful things, and then you walked out and didn’t even give her a chance, and she’s a mess, but she doesn’t even realize it because she’s trying to be all tough and badass.”

“Shit,” I say, feeling horrible for adding to her misery yesterday. “I knew it was bad with her mom. But that bad?”

“Like you wouldn’t even believe,” Kristen says, punctuating each word, as if she can emphasize the awfulness more that way. “So you need to promise me if I tell you where she is that you’re not going to ruin things for her.”

“I won’t.”

“And I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for her. Because I tried to stop her. I tried to keep her from going, but she’s spiraling bad. So if you can be the one to save her, then do it. But if you’re going to go show up and make her feel like shit, then I will fucking break your knees.”

I stop in my tracks, back into a doorway of an office building closed for the night. “Kristen, you are one scary bitch and I would never cross you, and that is not why I want to know where she is. I want to apologize. I want to grovel. I want to tell her I want her back. That I want her. Always.”

“Well then, as Carrie’s best friend said in Sex and the City, Go get our girl. She’s at the Parker Meridien. Ballroom level.”

I punch a fist in the air. “I owe you big time.”

“If you save her, I owe you.”

The Parker Meridien is a swank hotel on Fifty-Sixth Street near Central Park. It’s stylish and cool, with one of those sleek glass entryways tucked into a gray brick building, the kind that’s understated, that says if you need to know we’re here, you don’t deserve to know who we are.

But inside, the lobby is overwhelming with towering white columns and slick marble floors. I’d stand out if this weren’t the type of hotel that attracted all kinds – actors, rock stars and businessmen, so I walk past dressed-down dudes like me, in boots and jeans, as well as the tuxed-up and bow-tied guys and the women in slinky dresses on their arms.

A metal sign by the escalator tells me there are several ballrooms, so I decide to start on the third floor. I ride up the escalator, mentally talking back to my nerves that are operating on overdrive. I don’t want to fuck this up. But I know I have to rescue her before she falls too far away from herself. Her mom might have kicked and beaten her while she was down, but I delivered a punishing blow and now I need to undo it.

Stepping off the escalator on the second floor, I notice a dude in the bar reading Bridget Jones’ Diary. Weird choice for a guy, but he seems to be the happiest fella in the world, lost in a book. Fine, whatever.

I head up another flight.

Soon I find the ballroom on the third floor, and sounds filter out. Waiters serving drinks, glasses being clinked, small talk being exchanged.

I stop at the doors and my heart rises to my throat, then lodges there. I stare at the sea of people, talking, toasting, laughing. They’re milling about and chatting, so dinner hasn’t started yet.

I survey the massive room, scanning for her, wishing I had infrared glasses that would zero in on her instantly. But then, it’s not that hard to find the girl you’re in love with because she’s often the only one you see. There she is. Near the stage, a closed-mouth smile on her beautiful face, that dress nestled against her body like it was made for her. Her arm is tucked into the crook of her date’s elbow. I press my fingers hard, hard, hard against my temple to remind myself to think about anything but this red-hot jealousy.

I step into the hallway and flatten myself against the wall as if no one can see me that way. Which is stupid. But still, I need these racing feelings to die down so I can figure out what to do. I don’t even have a game plan. What kind of dumbass am I to show up at a formal event without even an idea of what to do?

But hiding here sure as hell won’t help me get the girl back.

I flash back on the last week with her, the nights we spent, the things we shared, the stories we told. They fill my body with strength and fortitude.

I turn around, peer into the ballroom, and assess the options. I spot a door leading into the kitchen. Then take note of how close it is from where Harley’s standing with the little dude by her side.

I walk into the ballroom, and a woman in a black dress is now on stage, clearing her throat, speaking into a microphone. “Thank you so much for coming,” she says as I thread through the crowds in Harley’s direction, hoping, praying, I can whisper in her ear, grab a quiet moment. “We are so grateful for all of you, and we hope you are having a wonderful time. Before we sit down to eat, we want to extend a heartfelt thank you to one of our most generous supporters, Mr. Stewart.”

Everyone claps, and then the short guy with Harley takes a bow and waves. Harley plants a kiss on his cheek that makes my stomach churn. I grab hold of a chair so I don’t topple over.

“And now I’d love to invite Mr. Stewart to the stage to say a few words,” the woman says, and Harley lets go of his arm, squeezes his hand, and watches him walk to the stage.

I am withering as I witness her work, but yet this is the moment. This is my golden fucking opportunity and it’s not going to come around again. I seize it, moving quickly to where she stands.

As I near her, I’m sure everyone can hear my heart beating at this frantic pace, like it’s riding on a slingshot to the moon, and its safe passage hinges on the next ten seconds of my life.

I reach her, tap her shoulder, and whisper her name.

She turns to me, shock in her eyes for a nanosecond that quickly morphs into a cool, plastic mask. Distance, she’s keeping her distance.

“Can I talk to you?” I whisper.

She shakes her head.

That won’t do. That won’t fucking do at all. I didn’t come all the way in here for this. I came for her and I’m not leaving without her.

“I am deeply honored to see all of you here tonight. To know that you have come out to help the plight of orphaned elephants as well,” Mr. Stewart begins from the stage. The lights shine brightly on him, and I hope to hell they blind him to the audience and to what I’m about to do.

As he keeps speaking, I eye the door to the kitchen, then the stage, then her. I can do this. I have to do this.

I inch closer, lean in, and whisper in her ear. “I’m so so sorry for what I said, and I’m so fucking in love with you, and I can’t stand the thought of losing you, Harley. Please talk to me.”