CHAPTER 11
Outside my building, I lean into the railing and remove my heels. I moan with the pleasure of allowing my toes to stretch. There’s a painful price to wearing new shoes, and that price seems higher the prettier and higher the heel. Barefooted, I scale the stairs and step into the vestibule.
I stop to check my mail and shuffle through the stack. Junk. Junk. Junk. I pause on a cream envelope. My fingers tremble when they touch the return address. It’s from Maryland. The beautiful cursive lettering belongs to my mother. They’ve found me. My pulse sprints.
Yes, my parents knew I returned to Chicago. They were against it. So adamant we haven’t talked since I moved. They’ve texted, but I always ignore them. I don’t want to say I’ve been hiding, but I’m not broadcasting my exact location. Doing so might entice them to visit, something I’m not ready for. Whenever it happens, I want it to occur on my terms. Not like this. Not with another demand on how I should live my life.
I flip the note to open it but pause before ripping the back flap. Instead of allowing them to needle me, I drop the unopened letter into the trash bin with the junk mail. Ignoring them and their disappointment is easier than dealing, especially now that I’m feeling something.
Being lost in my mind for so long, these new somethings surprise me. It’s happiness and laughter with Aggie, flustered and annoyed with Evan, or affection and horniness with Evan, but most of all it’s real hope. And that one’s mine alone, with no help from anyone. Or maybe it’s because of those shared experiences with others that I can experience hope. Whatever it is I want to push toward those positive emotions and away from the others. I want that high-on-life passion I experienced this morning while teasing Evan, and I want it all the time in every facet of my life.
I know it won’t happen overnight, but it’s a spark of a flame I want to burn so bright no darkness from before remains. Even though it shouldn’t, this search for newness heightens my interest in Evan. I experience the most when I’m with him, positive or negative. And I confess, I want more of it.
In this scenario I do what any overachiever would. After I settle in at home, I take out a stack of blank index cards for my new project. I open my computer, find a browser, and type how to make my crush notice me.
I roll my eyes when the first result in the search engine is for Teen Beat Magazine. But hey, I learned all this before. I just don’t remember it. I only need a refresher on the basics, right?
I take notes on the index cards, but the more I read, the more contradictions I discover in each article. Get to know him but play it chill. Be persistent but don’t be brazen. Make a good impression but text him cutesy things? Play hard to get but flirt, flirt, flirt. An article geared toward adults suggests to ignore them, be calculated, smell nice, stalk them online, and pray?
I drop my face into my palms, frustrated.
Twelve articles later I stumble upon something I could do: be friends. I can do that. I think. My pulse accelerates. I lean back in my chair and chew on my fingernail while staring at the computer screen. My only real friends are Aggie, Lou, and Ozzy. I have no idea why Aggs and Lou hang out with me. They don’t see the real me. No one does, not even Ozzy.
Baby steps. This is what my therapist preached. Do what you can and work from there. I’m searching for an article on making friends when I hear Evan’s voice outside my door.
I jump to my feet, causing my chair to screech the wood floor. I tiptoe for the front door. Squinting and peering through my peephole, I find Evan in the hallway. He’s speaking to Mr. Gusterson. Something about a cruise? I can’t be sure. It’s what he says next that has me flying to my room and changing into my running gear. I hadn’t planned on exercising tonight, but this may be my shot. The faster I dress, the less time I have to talk myself out of this.
From my bedroom window I spot Evan warming up outside of our building. He’s stretching when I stumble outside. I halt when he glances up from his hamstring lunge. I have no clue how to act. This morning I was flirty, but now I need to step it back a notch to friendly.
In college, the second time around, I remained a recluse. And I can’t call on my experience with Lou and Aggie. She wouldn’t leave me alone. And Lou? He only talks to me because of Aggie.
“Hey.” Evan grins. Is he still thinking about what I said this morning? I keep my face plain, trying not to think about it. Though I was excited originally, the more I replayed our encounter in my mind, the more I regretted it. Perhaps it’s the whispers reeling me in. I cannot let them win.
“Where are you headed?” I ask and move to his side, sinking into a quad lunge.
“North on the Lakefront, you?”
“Same.” At least, now it is.
“So you came down here because you’d like to join me?” He smirks and moves to a side squat. I can’t help but study the way his corded muscles move beneath his shorts, his shirt, and around his neck. I swallow.
“Nah, but you should join me.” I stand and take off running, feeling a sense of achievement for having the last word. His footfalls follow and grow louder. I curb my growing smile when he catches me and falls into pace.
“I thought you might hide from me.”
“Why would I do that?” I ask, but I know why. Under normal circumstances I would have shrunk away, but with Evan it’s different.
“You know... the other night didn’t end as planned.”
“No, no, you were right. We should just be friends.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible.”
I give him a curt look, only to find him amused. His toothy smile gleams even at night. He was expecting me to freak out, so I give it right back. “Come to think of it, I might not even want you as a friend. Maybe we should see where this goes before giving it a label.”
“I love it when you flirt with me.” This time he darts away before I can respond, though I catch the sparkle in his eyes before he leaves. He enjoys our lighthearted game too. I catch up and we fall into a long stride. Under the glow of city streetlamps, our feet thump, thump, thump, hitting the concrete in perfect unison. Silvery breaths flow in and out of my mouth in the brisk temperatures, and my nose burns, turning pink. My body heats beneath my clothing. Fall is setting in.
“This is my favorite time in the city. Everything’s quiet. Empty streets. No cars. No people. Just me. My head clears,” he says.
“Me too, but for a different reason. I like peeking into houses when the lights are on.”
“So you’re a peeping Tom?”
“I’m not looking to see people, just checking our their places.”
“Must be a real estate agent thing.”
“It’s a I’m-dreaming-about-buying-my-own-place thing.” I dart down a dark alley and Evan follows. We emerge on Astor Street. Tall trees thick with green leaves are turning gold. The breeze bends the branches. Some leaves twirl in the air and sprinkle the ground near our feet. I stop at a small cottage—darkened, broken, abandoned, and nestled between tall Victorian mansions and stately brownstones. I gesture to the white slat board home encircled in a peeling picket fence when Evan joins my side. He’s giving me a curious look.
“This is the one,” I say.
“The one most likely to be haunted?”
“No, this is the one I want to buy.”
“Out of all the beautiful homes on this street, why this one?”
He appears interested, but I don’t have an answer that makes sense. It has great bones, and it’ll be adorable when renovated. I consider it a diamond in the rough. But compared to the other homes on the street, it’s the smallest and also the gloomiest. Typically a developer would swoop in, buy it, and knock it down to build a mansion beside the others before flipping it. Only a nutcase like me would believe it’s worth saving.
“Not sure. I’ve always been drawn to it.”
He studies me with curiosity. Not wanting to look like a lunatic, I explain, “I’m buying it with my next commission. I run past it almost every night.”
Without a hint of a breeze, the front gate swings open on its own with a whiny creak. My heart stops beating, and I glance at Evan with wide eyes and an open mouth. He might be right. Maybe this house is haunted.
I believe it until I peer down and find his toe wedged against the hinges of the gate. He’s played a trick on me and opened it himself. When he realizes he’s been caught, he tosses his head back and laughs. I smack him on the shoulder, but the sound of his happiness warms me from the inside until I give in and giggle too.
When the moment eases, I step into the small overgrown yard. He follows, inspecting the details.
“This place is a dump.” He latches his hands on his hips.
“I know, I know. I’m not supposed to be emotionally attached. Every piece of property is about the deal, but it’s too late. I love this place. When I renovate it, it’ll be perfect.”
“Is it even for sale?” He looks around, seeming to search for a sign.
“I’ve been talking to the owner for months, and he’s considering my offer.”
Evan steps behind me. His lips touch my ear. Tingles spread from the contact over my neck. It’s all I can do not to close my eyes before he whispers, “Did you tell him you don’t wear panties under your skirt?”
“No.” I protest with a giggle and twist to face him. His devilish smile baits me. My pulse flutters. I step back even though I want to step forward into his arms.
I continue, “Ozzy is ninety years old and lives in a nursing home. He’s sentimental about the house. He and his wife lived here from the day they were married.”
“So how’d you do it?”
“I visit him.”
“And...” he wheedles.
I roll my eyes. “I take him chocolates.”
“Such a manipulator.”
“I think Ozzy’s the one who’s manipulated me. He’s pretty charming.”
“So I have competition?”
“You’re not even my friend yet.” I grin and dart around him, heading to the street. Evan’s words must have slipped before he considered them, because he’s made it clear nothing would come of us. Maybe he’s having a change of heart?
He joins my side. We’re silent and running. After another mile on the Lakefront path, we arrive at my favorite spot. The other week I was here with Aggie, drunk on champagne and celebrating her breakup. With its secluded location, I admit I don’t always feel safe, but I attribute that to my past. With what happened I may never be at ease. Though tonight, with Evan by my side, I’m secure.
With my hands on my hips and my chest rising and falling, I behold the city and its glimmering shapes and chaotic energy.
“Worn out already?” he jabs.
“Please, I could run circles around you. It’s just every time I come here I have to stop.”
He joins my side. “I stop here too. Best view of the city.”
We linger for a few moments before we jog over a pedestrian bridge that crosses over Lakeshore Drive and into Lincoln Park. During the day the park teams with soccer leagues, city dwellers lounging over picnics, and dogs playing catch with their owners. Tonight it’s empty and quiet.
“You know,” Evan’s voice is even despite our hurried pace, “this was an old cemetery in the 1800s. I read they didn’t move all the bodies before they made it a park.”
“If you’re trying to scare me, it’s working.” I let out a nervous laugh.
“I’m a Chicago history buff, that’s all. I bet if you dig around that old house of yours, you’ll find bones.” He makes wobbly-wooing sounds and jiggles his arms with waving fingers.
“Don’t you dare ruin that house for me.” I turn serious. “It always felt spooky when I ran through here and now I know why.”
“I kind of hate the fact that you run at night by yourself.”
“Oh don’t get all I’m-a-weak-girl-and-you’re-a-strong-man crap.”
“I would never, even though you are.”
For that I give him a punch in the arm.
“Oh, no you didn’t.” Evan changes trajectory, darting in my direction. He chases me off the path and into a soccer field. I yelp and dash away, dodging to escape. I’m fast but he’s faster. After a few close calls and playful grabbing, clothes tugging, and worming away, he catches me in his arms, swinging us until we tumble to the ground. Falling on top of him, I knock the wind out him with an umph.
Chest to chest and legs entwined on the chilled grass, we’re laughing again. Through silvery air, I make out his face in the dim light of a flickering streetlamp. He’s handsome, rugged, sexy, flirtatious, and I’m reminded of our kiss. I was desperate, his lips were wild on mine, and it was far too brief.
“Like I said, weak,” he reminds.
I’m small in his arms, another something I shouldn’t be thinking. I want to roll over and feel the weight of his body pressed over mine. There’s a long pause. I focus on his lips, full and wet. Yes, I want to kiss him, but I refuse the possibility of a repeat rejection. I’m forgoing the information in the articles I read online and instead taking Ozzy’s words of wisdom—playing hard to get.
Evan swipes a loose tendril of my hair and tucks it behind my ear. I imagine curling into his touch the way I want to.
“Just promise you’ll let me join you if you decide to run late,” he says.
Though I would love to make that promise, I know better. He’s only being nice, and I want something from him that may never happen. I break away. Standing with my hands on my hips, I peer down at him sprawled on the grass.
“What’s wrong?” He sits up on his elbows.
“Race you back.” I incite a diversion, fueling the competitive nature between us, and sprint away. With him needing to leap from the ground, I have a huge head start. I fly through the park, down the mansion-and-tree-lined streets, through the business district of the Gold Coast, and into River North.
Evan’s on my heels for those few miles, but I can tell he’s holding back. He does until we arrive at our street. That’s when he sails past and tags the railing of our building’s stoop.
He grabs my arm, spinning me until he locks me in an embrace, his hands splaying across my back. We’re face to face again, breathing heavily. My heartbeat rams in my chest from running and being near him. It may be my wild imagination but we seem to crackle with chemistry. The magnetic air forces us closer. I swipe my tongue over my lips, recalling the last time they touched his.
Our gazes lock for another long moment before he whispers, “I win.”
“You cheated. I’ll need a rematch.”
“Friends don’t cheat.”
“You’re not my friend—yet.” I give him teasing push to add an arm’s length of space. I climb the stoop, leaving him behind.
“What will you call me then?”
I turn and cock my head before considering. The perfect nickname appears in my mind immediately. “I think I’ll call you SpongeBob.”