I click on the website for Up Next, hoping that it will remind me of my new dream—to work there full-time. I read a few articles posted online, including a gripping piece on new trends in wearable technology. That could be me next.

Not wearing technology, per se.

But writing a gripping piece for Up Next.

It’s a dream job, and I can’t let one kiss derail my attempts to land it.

When I’m done, I fire off emails to other editors I know, sending in clips, checking on work, and pitching potential stories. If Up Next doesn’t pan out, I need to be prepared. No one writes back yet, since it’s not even dawn, but at four thirty a new email rolls in.

The name makes me tense.

The message makes me tenser.

To: Sabrina G

From: Kermit LF

Sabrina, I think it would be in your best interest if we set a time to talk.

My stomach dives painfully. I wonder if I can be eaten alive by worry. Maybe it is possible.

I write back, asking when he’s free. That ought to buy me some time. That’s what I need right now. I shove Kermit out of my mind when he doesn’t reply right away.

As the sun begins to rise, I read my article one more time.

I’ll be ready to turn this in once I have Kevin’s feedback, and after I meet Flynn for my final fact-check.

I have to fact-check in person. There is no other reason for me to see him, especially not the memory of that kiss I can’t get out of my mind.

* * *

We are nearly done.

This time he chose another one of my favorite places. We stroll along the Central Park Mall, one of the many beautiful places in this park that’s home to countless beautiful places. The walkway runs through the middle of the green land, with huge beds of flowers south of us and a gorgeous bridge north of us. I can imagine that years ago on this path, carriages filled with glittering men and women, perhaps heading to masquerades, clip-clopped across these stones.

We walk and we talk, as has become our custom, while I check the final details for the piece.

“My T’s are crossed and my I’s are dotted.” I turn off the recorder and a wave of sadness wallops me out of nowhere. Like I’m standing on the shore, and a tsunami clobbers me without warning.

This is the last time I can devise a reason to see him. We might run in the same circles, we might even wind up talking more regularly if the job comes through, but this is the end of the line for us.

For whatever we’ve been.

For Angel and Duke.

For this pretend-not-pretend brief little New York love affair. A lump rises in my throat, and I try mightily to swallow it down. But it lodges there, and I hate that a dumb tear forms in the corner of my eye. I glance toward the trees, towering canopies hanging over the walkway, and blink away the thoughts of how much I want this to continue.