CHAPTER 7
Hours later I’m still staring at Evan’s text. It angers me. I can’t help it. He doesn’t even know me. I don’t even know me.
I set the cell down and scan the city. From my balcony view, buildings rise in ragged shapes against the night sky. There’s a flurry of movement on nearby streets. Yellow taxis and black sedans stream past in electric colors of red and white. But my enclave is quiet, except for faint honking horns, the rumble of an airplane making its descent to O’Hare, and a throbbing hum from that city that never recedes.
That is until Evan’s voice illuminates the night. It’s in the distance, but I pick out his low timbre. It causes an unexplainable rumble in my own body, and I lean forward to search for him. He appears from behind a bunching of trees with Mrs. Venti. Evan has one arm wrapped around a brown bag of groceries. With the other hand he wheels a metal cart. She waddles beside him recounting all her aches and pains as they veer along the sidewalk.
Judging by his clothes, he was out for a run. On other occasions I’d seen him return to the building a sweaty mess. He must have seen her and stopped to help. In typical Mrs. Venti fashion, she’s sporting her nightclothes. A flowered muumuu and her infamous baby blue foam slippers. A scarf wraps her tight purple curls. The edges of the shoes are dirty from long-distance journeys around the city.
From my perch, I observe him assisting her up the stairs and inside. He wrangles the wire cart up five marble steps and into the corridor. With my slider door open there’s an echo of noise from inside the building’s hallway. In my mind’s eye, the images fall into time with the sounds. He’ll guide her up the stairs to her apartment on the second floor and help put away the food. I’ve seen him do it before. One night when he left the door open, I glanced in to find Evan picking canned goods from a grocery bag and organizing everything in her pantry.
He can be nice when he wants, which I suspect is more often than he admits. For some reason, he plays it conceited when I’m around, almost like he knows it will repel me.
My cell buzzes. There’s a text from Aggie. When I swipe through there’s one photo attached—a selfie of her and Adam, very cozy against the backdrop of the tiki bar. Their fingers pinch neon yellow frozen drinks.
I bring my knees to my chest and steady the cell on them. I stare at the photo. She’s doing what she set out to. Watching her live without fear, without regret, triggers something inside me. There’s one emotion I can identify: jealousy. Not in the catty way but a longing to be released from always needing control. Of working through every scenario and every consequence, which ends any possibilities of experiencing anything. I live my personal life after perpetually scared, and I hate it. I do have a reason, but I refuse to allow my mind to drift there.
I abandon my serene view, head for my bedroom, and change into my running gear. Soon I’m out the door, jogging east toward the lake. Some of the nervous habits I have, like a jittery leg or a tapping foot, occupy my mind temporarily, but running frees my mind of negative thoughts for the longest amount of time. It’s my best defense against depression.
My parents told me I ran before. I accepted this without question, and I can guess why. In high school I probably wanted to escape them. They might have controlled everything else in my life but not this. In my running shoes, I never had a plan. I ran anywhere I wanted.
Tonight I run ten miles, dividing my time between steady strides and sprinting bursts. To prepare for my upcoming marathon, I’ll need to log a long run this weekend, but not tonight. This amount is enough to shake off the stress of the week and relax my mind. I stop at my special spot in Lincoln Park with the city view before returning home.
After peeling off my clothes, I step into the shower and reach for the hot water. As soon as I touch the 1960s handle it falls to the porcelain tub. I hop back, bare feet dancing, to avoid a broken toe as it and all the metal pieces anchoring it to the wall crash to the floor. A smaller piece rolls down the drain, a flaky trail of rust shadows its demise.
I sigh and pick up the handle. If it’s not the water, it’s the heater, and if it’s not the heater, it’s the icemaker. There’s nothing in this apartment that hasn’t broken and nothing Evan hasn’t failed to fix. I’m ticked for dealing with this, yet again. I tighten my grip on the knob.
Unwilling to suffer through a freezing shower, I step out and tug on my silk robe. At the mirror, I tie my hair in a messy topknot and wash off my face. I step into a pair of flip-flops before marching down the stairs to the first floor. At Evan’s door I knock with aggression, determined to have it out with him. This is getting ridiculous. I swear he has no idea what he’s doing.
Evan doesn’t answer his door; he yells, “It’s open.”
I step inside and find him behind the kitchen island. He’s wearing an apron and grasping a gleaming knife. He’s chopping greens on a butcher block. Italian opera plays in the background. My eyes pop wide at the unexpected scene.
“You,” he says.
“Me,” I say.
Was he expecting someone? A date? My annoyance flips. I glance around searching for her, but we’re alone. Regardless, a surge of regret for appearing without forethought pools in my gut. That little annoying voice scolds me for not considering every possible outcome, specifically this one.
His gaze settles on my robe and roams my legs. I pinch the fabric closed at the chest, realizing I’m underdressed.
He cocks his head in question.
“This place is falling apart.” I lift my palm. The starburst-shaped handle gleams, except for the dusting of rust on the edges.
“So you show up in a robe?”
I marched down here on an elevated wave of frustration but now that I’m here, half naked, I see this was a mistake. This is what happens when I don’t think things through. Disaster. I shift where I stand. To his credit, he reels in his perusing gaze.
“I would have come up to fix it.” He wipes his hands on his apron and steps around the butcher block. He’s barefooted and wearing worn jeans with rips, revealing his strong knees.
He approaches and reaches out. Our fingers touch for a millisecond when I drop the cold knob into his open hand. The skin in that spot tingles. I cross my hand to my opposite arm and rub from wrist to elbow to quell the sensation, only to find my palm slick with cold sweat. I shrink, shoulders rolling inward. My gaze flicks away, finding nothing in particular and then back to his face when I sense him studying me. Is that a ghosting smile? I knit my brows.
Any bravado I had the other night while we were texting is long gone. Face to face, eye to eye, and our bodies parallel is different. There’s no way to hide behind technology. This is the real me. There’s an immediate need to deflect my awkwardness, so I blurt the first thing that comes to mind.
“You’re cooking now? It’s after eleven.”
“That’s what I do. Cook late and break into pretty girls’ apartments to ruin their grandmothers’ towels.”
“They aren’t my grandmother’s.” I forgo his compliment and zero in on the defensive. I regret it as soon as I do.
“Then your taste sucks worse than I thought.” He smirks.
My jaw tightens. We’re dealing with two issues. One, even though I know he’s kidding, he’s still a little bit of an ass. And two, I always take him too seriously. If we could meet in the middle we might... be what? Friends?
“Can you fix it?”
“I can, or you can use my shower and I can fix it tomorrow.”
My breath stills, and I automatically step back.
“I mean, only because I’m in the middle of cooking and it’s late, and you seem like you need a shower right now.”
There it is again. That challenge to do something I wouldn’t normally. I glance down and survey myself, assessing the damage, my stink levels, and also to hide my uneasy expression. There’s no chance of using Aggie’s shower tonight. She’s out, and even if she was home, she’d be entertaining Adam. Instead of running away like I want to, I refocus and allow the courage I want to own blaze inside until the words erupt from my lips in an unexpected rush.
“Just tell me where your shower is.”
This causes him to flinch in the tiniest way. It’s barely perceivable, but I notice his surprise. The same way I notice the twitch of a smile forming on the edge of his lip. I’m waiting for it to appear in a full toothy grin, along with some smart-ass comment.
“Alone,” I interject. My arms slide across my stomach.
“I wouldn’t think of inviting myself.” He raises his palms.
He returns to cooking. “Use the master bath. It’s cleaner.” With the end of the wooden spoon he points me in the direction of his bedroom without additional commentary, for which I’m thankful.
I should be in a rush to get in and out but with the music to carry me on, I stray through the apartment, taking time to browse the photos and decor. I’ve never been in here. There’s a second bedroom, which I can’t see into because the door’s closed. If anything, I’m jealous of all the space. Square footage comes at a premium in downtown Chicago. I could afford more than my little place, but I’m saving to purchase Ozzy’s home.
The photos hanging in the hallway are varied. Evan appears well traveled. There are images of him hiking in Peru, snorkeling in clear teal waters, another of him skiing on high snowy peaks, and another of him hugging a baby elephant? So he’s into sports, likes to travel, and takes cute photos with baby animals? I roll my lips, withholding a smile.
But those aren’t the photos I linger in front of. The most interesting one is of him tanned, shirtless, and building a home for what looks like Habitat. He’s, well, he’s very in shape. Very. That unwanted tingle returns, so I scoot to the next photo.
This is where my pulse startles. This photo is of a younger Evan and a girl—a very pretty blonde with wide green eyes. A small diamond sparkles on the side of her nose. Seeing them together with his armed hooked over her shoulder hurts a little, and I have no clue why. Despite the unexplainable ache, I stare at them for a long while. A loud clank from the kitchen causes me to jolt. Not wanting to be caught showing too much interest, I move on.
I find Evan’s room far better kept than expected, considering his rough appearance. I’m unsure I’ve ever seen him clean-shaven or wearing something other than holey jeans and threadbare T-shirts. Which I’ll admit to myself look fantastic on him, but still. The apartment interior doesn’t jibe with his outward appearance.
“Brought you this.”
I swivel to his voice. He’s holding out a towel.
“Thanks.” I take it, noting it’s the kind that belongs in a nice hotel, and it’s much softer than anything I own. I realize I’m holding it to my cheek when he hasn’t budged. I’m waiting for him to say something else, but instead he nods with a bit of his own jittery where-do-I-put-my-hands awkwardness.
Though I find it cute, I’m not sure why he’s so nervous. In the year I’ve known him, he’s never acted like this. He’s always been so confident. Hasn’t he wanted me to shower at his place for weeks?